Sailors die at sea, and the blood you’re spitting now is a waste and a shame and a promise kept. You cling fast to the mast, screaming into the gale, praying like a thief to stay afloat. And each surge is the last one and the worst one and always followed by a mate.
It’s some sort of vigil; your head in the toilet bowl, bare knees seized up on cold tiles and your guts dribbling down your chin. A time for reflection when your reflection mingles with soggy pizza crust and waste and wine. And brandy - you don’t even drink brandy, but there it is, slopping in the soup and calling you a liar.
Waves keep crashing. Your little boat rocks and kicks like a fucked-up mule at a house party, it can’t take much more of this. You hang onto the toilet like a leaving lover and promise and splutter and wonder if the neighbours can hear. You wonder if you’re too old for costume parties. Another surge. You think yep no more costume parties.