Boots in a flat and flakes of orange paint,
warm lager and a friend that slit his hand.
February midnight the mercury broiled ninety,
whilst Brookes and boy-friend made it in the sand.

All drink was Abbot’s and I drank it, then,
back to the back of the block, rather castle-
shaped, on a lied lease; candles, no carpet, but
at twenty a week: gas, water, a dunny; only hassle
was paying for it (or yourself, new master which
slashed the back of a hand that snatched
at this dumb and roly-poly nice nineteener, you used
for eighteen months). Soon I matched
such clowning, Making It For March was interrupted:
in a distressed minute I took the front-door key,
whose owner laughed, chased; I chucked it back,
as hapless residents staring down Dalgety
waited a brawl twixt two loons: wild-eye
dasher, half-dressed groover. Naught occurred.
Why? Concerns were interruptions, joking, more
with a pun than viciousness, take my word;
’cause if idiot up-tight dames might shuttle you,
day patient bin-wards, we’d whisper ‘Tut, that’s rough.’
And bless you a quiet hometown-even, fucking,
I hope with those boots (large, impractical) off!

Almost experience! Even I supposed, joined:
in April sick of proxying an excuse,
skolled one third Johnnie Walker neat, another
night of use and making use for use.