I see the bilious yellow of your eyes and skin

In death and wonder –

Could this be the culprit?

This sorry, shrunken organ of pus and sorrow

That stinks of the vinegar of whiskey and regret

And is stained with the memory of a thousand

Nicotine stained pubs.

 

The clotted blood with the odour of shame

The aged creosote of park benches and the

Petroleum taste of super strength lager.

A far cry from the thrill of

Being served underage for the first time

And the hoppy amber liquid that

Slid down your throat with such luxury.

 

The memories, lost and found

Imprinted on the darkened skin

Like scars, jagged war wounds, hidden by

Shame and rancour.

That time you had a drink with George Best

(Well, didn’t everyone?)

On an endless loop of misplaced pride.

 

 

Always the life and soul, weren’t you John?

Like those times you drunk yourself

Into a coma

Pissing and shitting yourself like a

Newborn baby, yet always soiled with

The detritus of the hours before

And the sour convulsions of failure.

 

And like black crows circling for their prey

Your moods would ebb and rise

As the wind changed,

Bringing the cold English mist into

Your home and the tears of your children,

As they woke to see you stagger and fall

Leaving smithereens of contentment behind.

 

A thousand paracetamol to mask the pain

Of conscience before

Having that last one for the road.

A final nightcap in double measures

To blot out the years ahead and the

Itchy memories of drink-fuelled lust.

Like fragments of peeling paint, now dust.