The Sad Sabbath
Ian Copestick
Whoever was it who invented the Sabbath ?
And I don’t mean Ozzy
They’ve been responsible for ruining
One seventh of my life
I know that it’s nowhere near
As bad as it used to be
But still, they’re a pain
In the arse.
The sheer melancholia
And drabness sinks into
Your bones, leaving you
Depressed and uneasy
No matter what you do.
Of course I remember
When they were a hell of
A lot worse.
When the shops and the pubs
All used to close.
And between 3’O’Clock
And 7 on a Sunday, you
Couldn’t get a drink
For love nor money.
This was a nightmare
At any time, but if you had
Been on a weekend
Long bender and you
Didn’t wake up until
Say, ten to three
Aaaaarrrrgggghhhh !!!
I remember running to
The shop, every step
Agony, stopping to gag
About every five yards.
Then !
The shop is in view
You think that you’ve
Made it !
But as you enter
The place you notice
That the alcohol aisle
Has ” Wet Floor ” signs
At each end.
The shop is still open
But until 7’O’Clock
The only thing that you
Can’t buy is a drink.
As I say, it’s not as bad
Nowadays. At least
You can buy a drink,
But still the overwhelming
Feelings of sadness has
Always ruined
Sundays for me
Another Day Gone
Half dead hungover
Nicotine stained fingers
Dirty, brown/yellow
Look like my soul feels
Stumbling down the street
Hating everything I see
Drown stuck on my face
Along with stubble, dirty, greasy skin
Light a cigarette
Start to cough, nearly puke
Queueing for a cash machine
” Come on, come on, for fucks sake
Stupid fucking prick. ” I mutter to
Myself, or to the person in front.
I fumble with my card
Put it in the wrong way
Finally manage to sort it out.
Worrying slightly about my
Lack of funds.
” Fuck it ! “
Into the nearest supermarket
The cheapest whiskey
£11:99
Dirty look off the cashier
“Filthy drunk “
I can see it in her eyes
Or is it just my paranoia ?
Either way, I stare her down.
Take my change and out to the street.
Cold, grey, misty morning
Waiting for the bus
To take me back
To a darkened bedroom
Drunkenness and daytime T.V.
Sanctuary.
Ian Lewis Copestick is a 46 year old writer ( I prefer that term to poet ) from Stoke on Trent, England. I spend most of my life sitting, thinking then sometimes writing. I have been published in Anti Heroin Chic, the Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry, Synchronized Chaos, the Rye Whiskey Review, Medusa’s Kitchen and Horror, Sleaze, Trash.