Party Party

Choking up the remains
of last night's vindaloo,
the slimy lumps
catch against my throat
and acetate across a foam-rubber tongue.
I blow my nose and the evening's
fun and frolics eject
as frowsty pellets
clinging to the pavement.

A clammy hand on a sticky tumbler
of a glittering conversation;
lemon-slice advances
floating in the fragrant
foreplay of a g'n't.
Her carmin lips invited
but the vodka hit my mouthpiece
and a bottle-neck of insults
were driven at the blonde Sierra driver.

"Aaah, mellow, mellow", said my friend
who handed me a joint and a can of beer.
The, with hot tongues and glug-glug
of bitter beer we rued this patch
of little england and it's ivy-clung
suburban towers.
Someone turned the volume up
and shot the queen's peace
through with noise.
We crushed the garret's
lightweight aluminium neck
beneath our boots.
It blent with the ivy-patterned
shag-pile swamp.

It ended like the rest -
she left with someone else -
I called long distance
on avocado green.
The blue fish
breathed out bleach,
sucked in puke.