Mr Bleaney (pre-visited)

Mr Bleaney bagged the latex jumpsuit
And stashed the hold-all in the usual hedge.
Pushing open the guesthouse door his stoop
returned. He tripped slightly on the wedge

then made a meal of the stairs to his hired
box. Light lazily consumed the curtains
as he lay in his pants still mildly wired,
stiff as the afternoon, grim but certain

of one thing – the weekend. What a weekend!
Wherever he went pretty girls would fawn:
Bleaney’s here, Bleaney’s here - you can depend
on him for a right good laugh. Up till dawn

On Saturday snorting coke off arse cheeks
with three of Duran Duran. Jolly times
indeed. He coughed for what seemed like a week,
lit a fag, and inspected his nails for grime.

Evening was approaching, afternoon
ready to throw in the towel - any
moment now. Outside a nonchalant moon
clocked in as the shadows began their many

Smokey chores, first on the upright chair
then the wardrobe, and then the fusty bed.
Back to the Bodies tomorrow, he stared
at his feet and wondered if when he was dead

Anyone would ever know how he’d lived;
whether the penny would drop soap opera
style, two vague acquaintances shocked mid
coffee break (what the same Bleaney? Never!)

Or whether some cynic would exhale
in this room after him, all thinning hair
and conjure him up as a cautionary tale
to routine. Thing was, Bleaney didn’t care.