Pressing no. 47

Party, 2008
Party, 2008

Vice Like Hangover

and when I wake my gut burns and twists. My temples pound out a syncopated rhythm and my pupils filter the world through sadness and grey. My ears are ringing loud enough that I can’t hear my friend snoring behind me, just feel the hot and boozy breath huffing between my shoulder blades. I shudder.

Another day, and I wake again feeling better. Sunlight leaks through the seams in the blind. The Sunday morning sensations of guilt and unease are absent, instead manifest by a head on the pillow beside me. The realisation that we weren’t drunk enough to fuck bursts from my lizard-brain with electric relief.

and somewhere else I lurch up and away, pulling on last night’s rumpled shirt before almost washing my face in a basin filled with vomit. Too much, for my eyes, this house has a heavy vibe. Dark thoughts and an ugly mood drive me into Abney Park. History is starting to fuck with me. I pore over tombstones and think about being forgotten. It scares the shit out of me. I start thinking about
________this is hard.______This is really hard. I realise I only have words, and that isn’t consolation today, and I also realise how ridiculous this all is.

and I wake again, and again, and again, and again in an off-kilter North London bedroom, often chilly and mostly alone, these days. Still sunlight bounces off of the face of a pocket watch and spits onto the ceiling, forcing space into a life that feels cramped.

© Matthew Sheret, 2008

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