Hangover Status
Wasted minutes,
wasting away in a room
waiting to be wasted
by a bottle of waste
re-used by a race wasting
all they have had,
all they will ever own.
Sold, or bargained property
to sell their sobriety
for a night of wasted memories.
Stumbling over inebriated
sentences and observations making no sense
in a state of sickness.
Brown beer bottles drained
down the hatch of a bomb shelter
stomach containing it all inside
until its capacity is blown wide open.
A spoiled meal of mess in a urinal
mounted on the wall where waste is thrown
up and out,
down a circular set of drains
clogged with chunks of digested pizza.
Sent text messages spelled obnoxiously
wrong, numbers
confused with words
mixed in a screen of gibberish.
Sleep deprived in a dive of a club
trying to stay awake, slowly
moving towards home
so far away.
Speed dialed taxi,
arriving home to pass
out in clothes worn out
on a night where the hangover
is a status aching before breakfast.