It all happens in thoughtless, wine fuelled action. The bridge is closing, I can’t see for shit. Trawlers line the quay. Way back when I thought I was someone I’d drink bottles of wine there. I’d cry if I wasn’t so intent. Inside’s like melting tar. Some trendy passes by with a lit apple insignia. I neck wine and hiss. The railing feels hot, wind buffers like it gives a damn. Inside the jacket I’m sweating. Pooling used water against a crying fit of determined flesh.
Relax. I’m not trying to kill myself. But I’m waiting. Waiting on something to change. The bridge is symbolic. Everything is symbolic if you think about it long enough. The drunk blues haven’t hit. All thoughts are out of reach. I’m in the present. Someone tells their girlfriend that they can’t hide from love. If I wasn’t laughing so hard I’d be laughing real hard. My dick is full of spent vino, I flip it out and get to spraying. The love dove calls me a scum bag.
“I’ll piss on your sac!” I shout.
He doesn’t retort. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so funny. Wine gets weightless. I hit bottle two. Fuck the haters.