Peter Clements
When You're Drunk, I

It's like little flecks of dust that spew from old radio speakers like 
propaganda posters on a windy day. Like 
the way you persist to stir coffee with your left hand 
but sip with the right; the incessant preaching  
which arises after the rum 
hits your irises -- everything you do always has to be so 
goddamn damaging. 
O God, I hate it when you're drunk in the afternoon.  
When the Sun melts cashew nuts; slapping your salty fist 
back, forth; froth of the sea forming on your wet bottom lip.  
Again, fasting 
on syruppy spirits - eyes dilating into piss-hole abyss-holes;  
your eyes are so  
goddamn damaging.  
The radio decided to turn itself on  
yesterday - among a smoke-filled black and white bedroom;  
it was a pure colourless, like a grotty 
vaccuum bag had been-- 
Emptied; vomit-strewn dust-flecks across our carpet. The tassles 
were flaccid; curling up at the sight of light, O God,  
I hate it when I'm drunk in the afternoon 
and the sun hits my irises and all I can do is piss;  
head against the wall, back shaking, piss trickling down my trouser 
leg again, again and 
I am drawing you a picture on a brick wall 
with my piss. It'll remind me of you, when next door's 
dog sniffs at it when it needs a break to release its bladder. 
O God, we were rabid. But goddamn you were so damaging 
and I seemed to thrive on it - slowly, slowly 
forming a crust on your lips, like the cashews did.  
It's all incomplete and all obsolete 
and obtuse and acurate for a split second when the radio 
spits and splutters our worst favourite tune. 
The dust dictates the mood in the air as the  
salt settles on our lips, and we lay our eyes on each others' 
chests, again, and flick our salty fists to our lips, 
once more.