Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Drunk - Hone Tuwhare

- Hone Tuwhare

When they hustled him out
at closing time he had
forty cents clutched in
his hand for another drink

Rain stabbed the streets
with long slivers of light
He picked his way
gingerly treading the golden
non-existent stairs
to the fried-fish shop

Whirling pin-points
of coloured lights confused
him: and when people appeared
to converge on him he swerved
to avoid them and collided
with a post

He sensed a sea of receding
faces picked himself up
and promptly emptied his guts
on the footpath fervently calling
for his bleeding mate Christ
who was nowhere to be seen

Later wearing a stiff mask
of indifference
he pissed himself in the bus

At work the next morning
he moved with effort in the hollow
silence of a self-built tomb:
unaware of the trapped mortal
crouching there

1 comment:

  1. Hone Tuwhare has to be the most honest poet we've ever had. I love his work, the way it pulls no punches, uses the image in your mind to put a message not on the paper :-)