A Flat.

Those leaden legs and the grasping of

The dregs.

They’ll be standing in the cold till hopes

Grow old.

“You got a gaff mate?”

God - I really hate that word...gaff.

Time to relax.

You’ve got an address.

That frantic hour has passed.

Enjoy that menthol fag in peace.

You’ve got a place to take your mess.

Now the gauntlet of the buzzer

Where a man is truly stamped

That question - “is it ground or top?

- you should know, it’s your mate’s girlfriend’s brother!”

“Hah! It’s nextdoor”

There’s no feeling like it

That arse on a seat feeling.

Perched on the edge of a moth-eaten two seater

You’re ready to break through that flimsy glass ceiling.

Plastic bags everywhere and none of them shopping

This is it.

The fuel for not stopping

“Might as well just finish it

Might as well call that number

This is going to be a good one man

I’ve got a feeling

How high is that fucking glass ceiling!?”

Empty stomachs and dead phones abound

This is the stuff that dreams are made of.

When there’s beauty in so little

Distant friends become best

Surroundings couldn’t matter less.

“How was your night mate?

Aye, it was good.

You see that massive line after for food?

Nah.”

The conversation has reached its height

Now booze takes over, he’s on top

It happens when the pills don’t stop.

Even sex is behind

An acceptance of the flop.

A currency more sturdy than the pound

Investments made, in cunts that are sound

“A wee tan of yer bucky pal?

Aye awrite.”

And it’s passed around...

Cigarettes are snacks

They fill in where booze and drugs can’t

“Any snouts?”

You’ve got a 20 deck of marlboro lights

It’s an open invite to all future nights.

When light’s the enemy (unless it’s a clipper)

Curtains are a man’s best friend.

Though whether you call them spot

Or take them for a walk

That will depend…

10am has magnificently been and magnificently went

On buckfast, your weekly food budget spent.

That realisation time works independently of your phone

Thank God for Uber.

Find a charger.

Time for home.

There’s no silence like it

It’s what Sundays are made for.

The brunches and lunches pass like smoke from a spliff

“Good night bud? Where do you live?

Aye mate, Just off the edge of that sheer cliff.”

Now this is your door, isn’t it?

Struggle the key in the lock

So much less forgiving than a baggie

Blink

Throw your body on the bed

Forgive me?