Humid heat
makes a malodorous cauldron
of the city.

Window open – no air-con
in this hotel. Twenty quid a night,
room with a view: a brick wall
I could reach out and touch.

Mattress stained with the scent
of other people’s sex,
walls yellowed with fag stink.
Air freshener hangs
stale in dirty curtains.

A steady drip… drip…
from broken guttering to a pool
of cheap disinfectant.
Barely a disguise
for blocked drains’ effluvium.
Skinny cats fight all night
over bins’ rancid feast.

I can’t stay here.
I’ll go out, get stinking drunk,
lose myself.

Back-street bars
suck in, belch out,
breathing pungent clientele
like great rotten-toothed beasts.

Scruff walks by, pushes into me
to prove lack of fear or feel skin on skin –
this proximity makes me sick.
He stinks of reefer and cider.

I descend into a club called Miasma.
Bouncers Stale Beer,
Fag Smoke and Vomit
step up to greet me.
Fetid Sweat discos on the dance-floor.

Floating in a whisky cloud,
the city seems aromatic
compared with my thoughts.
Time disappears
into smoke-machine oceans,
shot-through with flashing lights.
My senses dissolve
in electronic vibrations.
Room Spin.

Kicked out of Miasma
for adding to the puke,
I stagger through dawn streets,
greasy spoons waking up
to the smell of all day breakfast.

Suit walks by, crosses over to avoid
the reeking, spew-streaked mess that is me –
this solitude makes me sick.
He smells of expensive aftershave.

Can’t find my hotel.
Try to find someone to ask.
This city doesn’t give a toss.
Just keeps on simmering.

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