Some poems come back to haunt me - how come they are the ones you find when you least want them?
I just spent an evening of maudlin self pity
with a bottle of vodka and litre of coke
and the evening I wasted has taught me
a lot about me, about life, about love - it's a joke.
I started the evening with a sense of achievement
I'd cleaned the whole house and lit a nice fire
I'd cooked me a dinner, a very nice dinner
and ate it alone by my very nice fire.
Then I poured me a small one and sipped it quite slowly
I felt quite relaxed as I sat by my fire,
then I poured me another, why not have another?
There was only me there, just me and my fire.
Then I searched my computer for an image I wanted
and discovered an image I hoped I'd forgotten
the person I loved who made me complete
but alas she is gone and I'm sitting alone
with my vodka and coke and my life is a joke.
My love doesn't love me and I am alone
and I'm maudlin and drunk and for all my desire
there only is me and my drink and the fire.