Half Past Ten on a Sunday Night by Fletch Fletcher

HALF PAST TEN ON A SUNDAY NIGHT

Half past ten on a Sunday night
He says, don’t read Bukowski
He’ll get under your skin.
I won’t, I say.
I don’t even know who Bukowski is
Until he pulls out a broken book.

If you can’t drink like a pro, he says
Fight with your fists, he says
Sleep with crazy women
And nail words to the page
Don’t read Bukowski.
I won’t, I say and check my phone.

Half past ten on a Sunday night
The pub is a holding pen for the hopeless
And he’s been my best friend for nearly an hour.
He shows me a pad splattered with scribble
And offers to read me some words
But then loses his balance
And ends up on the floor.

Outside, on the beer beaten streets
I check the kebab shop and see it empty.
The owner is slumped at the counter
Defeat written all over his shish-meat face
His empty-till eyes just begging me to come in
And save him from everything that’s bad in the world
But we both know it’s too late for any of that.

Half past ten on a Sunday night
Nobody gets out alive.

 .

Fletcher works as a cold call salesman by day, and run London Experimental Film Festival and write raw poetry by night.  He has been published in: Poetry Bus, E-List, Northern Lights. Fletcher write poetry that’s honest, written from the gut, nailed to the page.