Silas Thorne's Journal

...on to the Strip, and the feeling of not feeling
drifting between tables, jostling
towards barstools and an empty wallet
decibelled to drunkenness by skull-thrums,
hammered awake, deaf and mindblown by the forge.

until Dawn's ugly face pokes holes in your paper windows,
a night creature, you scream at golden shafts
running away to the darkness of sealed-tight curtains
or to be a robot presence at the till.

and then to gather your friends for Thursday
a 'great night out' you say
cajoling and enticing, citing
new reasons to vomit and feel good.

© Silas Thorne