Jupiter Outside My Window

2:45 in the goddamn morning, sitting with an empty coffee mug and the crumbs of a biscuit packet scattered like dead soldiers across Shayne and Martin’s kitchen table.

three of the bastards, maybe four — I lost count somewhere between the second refill and the third — and now my mouth tastes like the bottom of a hamster hutch and sleep’s run off with some cheap whore.

the coffee’s still going in my veins, holding me to this little wooden chair.

out the window, Jupiter hangs there, fat and bright, mocking me with that steady glow. how many poor suckers think it’s just another star? I did, once, till Pete dragged out his telescope one drunk night and shoved my eye against it — and there it was, the bands, the stripes, that little red dot: a storm bigger than the whole earth, tearing itself apart longer than anyone’s been alive to watch it.

centuries of rage.

makes my insomnia look like a nap.

big meeting tomorrow. suits and lies and coffee that tastes like battery acid. I stare at the fridge and think about cracking a few of those deadly super-strength tinnies from the co-op, letting the foam slide down and dull the edges. maybe then the bed won’t feel like a trap. maybe then I’ll sleep.

or maybe I’ll just sit here and watch Jupiter burn its hole in the dark, till the sun comes up and kicks me in the teeth again.

this goddamn life drags
like a hangover at noon —
the dark won’t give me back