The double-triple…

The double-triple…

The double-triple tipple-think it takes, To wake up and not just go mad. 

Not become thick to move with drink or more, Or prone. 

If there are substances that stop this, I do want some. 

If there's an easy way to sort 

This and every mess, 

I’d like some chocolate from the box… I'd like some novelty, 

Some bang and horns to blow, 

More ceasefire talks. 

It's just so tempting, 

To live in stupor, 

To live on sugar, 

Somewhere between the shandy 

And the lager top 

To block the tap 

Of information spraying out, 

And seeping down. 

It won’t shut off. 

And round and round now goes my mind, Trying to find a method to let me live and die When I so choose - and how, 

As Juliet laid down, 

Nervous and teenage, 

Waiting for her lover 

(Thom Yorke forever) 

Or for her liver 

To react, to burst, split and spill a lemonade lager All on the steps and plinth. 

No - 

Just that liquid 

Of stasis 

She drank, 

That I would drink, 

To die but with the power 

To come alive again, 

When I find a day that doesn't overwhelm

In the same way 

I tend to find it does, 

Existing at the pace 

We're forced to try to coast at. 

Forced to do the most 

Egregious coping, 

Shouting, wanking, parasocial itching, Groping all the things 

That keep us out of touch. 

Keep us alive, 

But for the Grace of Luck? 

But, if I speak too much, 

Or not enough, 

If I even stop to think, 

If distractions freeze or fail 

Or halt or crash or blink, 

I'm wired. 

I'm tired but 

up all night; 

I have to be, 

To soothe a frightened mind.