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I stumble into my bedroom,
not sure if I’m a gymnast
or the house is flipping.

I hold my last lager.

The chair falls onto me,
my arse will ache tomorrow,
my brain will think it has an arse –

one being fucked anyway.
For now I feel giddy.

On the windowsill sits my little cactus,
dried like a prune since I last watered him.
Cacty looks all cosy in a yellow felt sleeve
around the pot.

I know Cacty’s thirsty
yet I have no water to hand.

Then I look at my lager.
Maybe today is the day to be better;
no more drinking – I would be good –
look after my possessions,

feed Cacty to grow big and strong

so he can be

just like his

loving father.

I tip my Hobgoblin on his head.
I watch the golden liquid trickle down.

Then fall onto bed and pass out.