Hangover Status

Wasted minutes,
wasting away in a room
awaiting to be wasted
by a bottle of waste
re-used by a race wasting
all they have had
and all they will ever own.

Sold, or bargained property
to sell their sobriety
for a night of wasted memories.

Stumbling over inebriated
sentences and observations making no sense
in a state of sickness.

Brown beer bottles drained
down the hatch of a bomb shelter
stomach containing it all inside
until its capacity is blown wide open.

A spoiled meal of mess in a urinal
mounted on the wall where waste is thrown
up and out,
down a circular set of drains
clogged with chunks of digested pizza.

Sent text messages spelled obnoxiously
wrong, numbers
confused with words
mixed in a screen of gibberish.

Sleep deprived in a dive of a club
trying to stay awake, slowly
moving to bed so far away.

Speed dialed taxi,
arriving home to pass
out in the clothes worn out
on a night where the hangover
is a status aching before breakfast.