posted in: Poems | 0


Mad Mal, suffering from PTSD,

recovering alcoholic, addicted

to Red Bull, the cheap sort, 35p.

Haven’t seen him for months. He objected

to me calling the police when he rang

letting me know he’d decided to top

himself and if he wasn’t free to hang

it all, silence the dreams, finally slop

out video loops that won’t wipe away

with deep breaths, press-ups or wellness workshops,

then what’s the bastard point? Them’s the breaks, Pal;

You work in counseling, the need never stops.

It’s like the weather; good days, bad days, move on,

Drink coffee. Go home. Haven’t seen him since.

Follow Jimmy Andrex:

Poet, performer, propelling pencils.

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