I had too much to drink and dream last night.
I went to a different supermarket
And got some different wine, easy and light
On both the palate and the old wallet.
While writing a sonnet, I saw with shock
And awe that I’d drunk a third, already.
While playing guitar along with a flock
Of Byrds, another third. Now unsteady,
The evening blurred, the final third. My word,
How hard it is to critique poetry
When you’re pissed as a newt. Nothing occurred
To me last night of value - I’m sorry.
And then an oft-recurring dream recurred,
So for a good eight hours from bed I never stirred.
Sun 7 Jan 2007
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