New Year’s poems.
The first was written and sparsely punctuated after a few celebratory beverages at 4.45am on the first of January 2017 and the second was written approximately eight hours later after very little sleep and going to work but discovering it wasn’t busy enough for me to be needed, so I made my way back to my notebook.
This morning is twenty-one-seven
I hoped that we might be in Devon
I’m sorry it’s late
But it’s not twenty-one-eight
And it’s ten years ’til twenty-two-seven
Poetry written when drunk,
Is like trying to Febreze a skunk,
‘It’s okay’, you think,
But really it stinks,
And it’s quite difficult to finish.