hic homo, non ille, est malusIt is now eight in the evening; today
I have eaten half a crusty baguette
thickly smeared with duck and orange paté.
This was prepared by someone who still loves me, despite all.
Today I have drunk rather a lot of wine.
Perhaps I should try to write a book, one of those
moral yet practical tomes which seek
to turn others from the path to perdition.
Today, it would not be a book engendered
in the hard yet rosy climb-back after the descent,
but hammered out during the slide, copiously
larded with anecdotal evidence
of the ease with which you can fuck up lives,
a realisation which can come before you hit rock bottom.
Today I know there is no chance of success.
I am a little man, not known to be a poet
nor a philosopher nor an actor nor a journalist
nor a politician nor a gay icon nor a celluloid macho man.
Today, I am not an object of desire to culture-vultures.
Tomorrow, it will be too late to bother.
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