Hotel. Birmingham. 19.8.17. 03:17.am
Birmingham sleeps,
its illuminated
building works,
a shadow jungle
to trap the drunk
and wary.
Lost in the plastic
and sodium
labyrinth;
infernal circles
traced in brick
dust, he calls
“Kieran”
“Adam”
“Paul”
an inebriate incantation,
and no Lesser Key.
A tsunami of slurred
Anglo-Saxon oaths
issue and echo
as he drops
his polystyrene
tray of chips.
Surveying his loss
he walks away,
then turning to take
a run up he kicks
his chips into a wide
carbohydrate arc,
shouting “Rooooneeey”
and acting out
his World Cup
fantasies; escaping
his Inferno
on Paradise Circus.
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