Will Vigar

A Writer of Sorts

Hotel. Birmingham 19.8.17 (03:17am: I Am Insomnia’s Bitch)

Wayne_Rooney_144855croppedSitting by the threadbare curtains, looking over

the illuminated building works, from the fourth

floor, waiting for something interesting

to happen. Birmingham sleeps,

 

but a drunken Mancunian does not. Calling

for Kieran and Adam and Paul, he walks

in circles, unable to find his way;

lost against a maze of plastic barriers

 

and ropes blocking his path. I think

of Dante, the statue of Satan in a nearby

gallery, the private hell of Kieran’s friend

and the ultimate indignity, causing

 

a tsunami of slurred Anglo-Saxon oaths

to bounce around the floodlit site .

He has dropped his polystyrene tray

of chips. He stoops, surveying the loss

 

then walks away, turning to take a run up and kicks

his chips into a wide carbohydrate arc, shouting

“Roooooneeeeeyy” and acting out his World Cup

Fantasies; escaping his Inferno on Paradise Circus.

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This entry was posted on August 19, 2017 by in Poem, poem of the day, Poetry, Will Vigar and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , .
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