Exercise thing we did in seminar morphed into a first draft of a poem. Yes, I'm really hungover.
The Montagues and the Capulets
with his bastard string section.
Give up movement,
I have no time for it.
Do you not sleep, crazy Russian?
Fling this on me:
beside the cold road;
dizzily jump the walls
until shrouds of glass
scratch my throat.
What kind of evil spectre plays this
ugly lurch now?
Soon, I’ll wander tremble-headed
down the stairs –
might lose their footing,
so stay safe. Learn to love pain.
11.15am – it's rather dark.