Easy Like Sunday Morning

I throw myself out of a taxi, just in time for my insides to throw themselves out onto the pavement. I sit marinating in the sun beside the viscous pile of sick for what feels like days, paralysed in my own stupor.

Eventually I regroup enough to stagger behind a building and piss out some poisons, and then wander homeward bound by foot.

Guilty.

I’m a tourist, I’m a wreck, I’m a vomit-green transparency, lighting up a cigarette.

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