Curtains exposing, as the day was exploding
Sending blinding lights through his brain
Trying to make sense, of the awful mess
He found himself in yet again
Nothing he could do, as one drink became a few
He gradually began to drown
History repeating, regurgitating, retreating
He couldn't keep anything down
He rested his head, in a cheap motel bed
Wishing he was back at home
Blood shot and bleary, and oh so weary
He scrabbled for the telephone
Filthy and yellow, he was a lily livered fella
After a night on the tiles
The urgency of addiction, habit or affliction
Hypnotising hallucinating smiles
A quiff of gin, a glass of whine
Required to restart his senses
Ordering more, a knock at the door
Completes the circle of excesses
I love it when a poet takes a prompt and builds a complete story. The phone as yellow and weary as the subject. Well done