Jupiter Outside my Window

two forty-five in the goddamn morning. I’m sitting with an empty mug; 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. now my mouth tastes like the bottom of a hamster hutch, and sleep’s run off with some cheap whore. the caffeine is still rattling around in my veins, pinning 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 the glass. and there they were, the bands, the stripes, that little red spot, 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. six hours of suits, corporate lies, and coffee that tastes like battery acid. I stare at the fridge door and think about cracking a few of those deadly super-strength tinnies from the Co-op, letting the foam slide down to dull the edges. shut the brain off. kill the bed-trap. get some sort of 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.