Beware the wine-sodden brain flailing on,

kidding itself in the darker hours,

paying homage to could-a-been.

Beware the anger trotted out,

dusted off and laid bare to reflections in a bloodshot eye,

to spring a self-laid trap.

Let there be a new start,

urged on by a body daily less vertical

and thoughts of eternity horizontal.

Stay away from old ground,

where every night is New Year’s Eve and nothing is resolved,

or risk seeing past comrades on distant hills,

their torch-dreams kindled by motion,

pausing less and less often to look back

at your immobile figure.

Standing still,

the grubby sticks of history are consumed quickly

in those parodies of hell,

the warmthless braziers of bitter reminiscence.

Forsake all wretchedness,

for you are not plundered.

Beneath your public rags lie priceless jewels,

secreted and perversely forgotten,

whose re-discovery waits on nakedness.

Choose not to wear sackcloth

and arise from your meal of ashes,

hungry for the flesh of the world

and the hard beauty of your diamond self.