things move around

The air-raid sirens aren’t much use tonight,
so, from a dustcloud,
is limping an unorthodox alarm,
like a wrestler with a broken arm:
livelong and lustloud
content yourself with atavistic shite

I run for cover but encounter you
next to some oldbore,
in a bar I never thought you’d find,
(where the air is chill and ill-defined,
as in a coldstore),
resembling jaundiced simians in the zoo.

I’ll be plodding home all too aware
that it was my fault
and that you had fun in spite of my
crapulous and petulant goodbye;
but it’s a piebald
pillow of guilt that’s waiting for me there.