I'd been off coffee for two years,
Then I sank some Turkish in Soho.
It hit me like a depth-charge,
I couldn't sit still.
So I slipped anchor and drifted
the streets of New Troy,
swooning at the girls wailing
in their crooked Greek.
I docked at Trocadero
and hit the punch bag machine.
Smashed two hundred crosses into it;
straight knock-outs, both hands, each time.
A guy had washed up there drunk,
A vicious slash across his face,
red as a Turner sunset.
Like a dead ship in a storm he
Pitched and rolled, until
the bouncers threw him overboard
for bleeding on the slots.
Snuffing out my stern light,
I followed in his wake,
searching for rum and cigarettes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.