Postcard from the Ledge

            Turn on, tune in, the brain drops out

        Sitting on the settee, no longer have the power to frown

          I am a caged animal drugged up on Ingredient X and 7 Up

   A panel judge factors in on how the adverts break me down and then raise me up

        With double barrelled names, a single barrelled taxi is rung

Also ordered a pizza, I wonder who will get here first?

    No longer any short, sharp knocks upon the 3rd flat door

  Even the noisy neighbour can’t find it in himself to make any more noise

       Can’t blame the perpetual swimming in the virus on anyone else

                                              – no more, no more-

12 shots make Tequila the only present tense

             Practice makes perfect begins to make perfect sense

     Creeping quiet enters the empty, echo chamber

  A ‘Click’ tells me I’ve turned off my final programme reminder

As the fading channel on screen resembles something akin to a digital farewell

          Unbelievably second to last thing that goes through the mind:

         god-damn; what was Joan Collins’ last husband’s name?

                   No, no, that ain’t no cider black seeping into the Radio Times

  I may be wracked with the weight of all existence

But there’s no way I’d spill my last pint

So what is left? a legacy? a lesson to learn? what will I Ieave behind?

No cryptic tricks, no heavy expectations for those left at life’s finishing line

  No need for any running around, or to question me now I’m down and truly out

            Go back, look carefully in the flat, probably somewhere on the floor

                And you’ll find what you probably don’t really want to find:

                     A suicide note sellotaped to the back of the remote control


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