A Sunday poem

We haven't had one for a while. Have we? I'm losing track.....

She spoke of my binge-drinking
As if it were a bad thing.

So much better, I tried to tell her,
Than drinking all the time.
Rather like sex: if you do it every night,
It gets boring, but
Going crazy one weekend a month....

She wasn't convinced.


So much less dangerous, I tried to tell her,
Than my binge-thinking,
Those times when
My head is so seething-full
Of anger and despair and strange invention
I cannot work or sleep or love or
Do anything, except offend people
With the stray thoughts
Slopping out of my mouth.

She stopped calling.


She spoke of my binge-drinking.
That was the last time we spoke.
And her leaving provoked another binge
Of thinking and drinking.