Poem-A-Day: Day 599

Simple Minds

The night is something
and I’ve come home
to the same smells once again.
I forget the passage of time,
and I forget the day before.
The jabbing bedlam of the brain
as it paddles through amber waves,
and bock again, stout and lager caps,
all capping nights and clatter.
The sound is muffled and loud,
a screaming whisper on the ear
and the cloudy unstable movement
that manifests in gyroscopic perfection.
Things move passively
and the slapping grip
of thirty tons of whale blubber
send nothing more
than white pages skyward,
and a tiny pencil
with which to carry on.