The roaches scuttle out from under
old chip packets, kebab wrappers.
One AM on a Sunday; mad as hot
and twice as hell.
I left my voice back at the bar,
hanging in a slur around a friend’s
strange mouth. My tongue cut loose
and danced against my teeth, slipped
up on liquor. I left it there.
And now the street is silent.
Outside an abandoned night spot
the carcass of the New Year dangles
from a silver ball. I wonder
for what crime he hung.
The count-down clock stopped one
to twelve flashes in dreary digital.
Guilty or not
time’s body swings.
39.0: JACKPOT!Guest poetry editor: Samuel Wagan Watson
Release date: 1 August 2012
Index of poems
Featured artist: Queenie Chan