Saturday Night, Sunday Morning

Taxi cab shimmer in
the street light glow
of a Saturday night,
spray painted people
like burnt hollow flames
licking at the curve
of a crumbling pavement,
with the language of languid sirens
hanging heavy in the air,
and the ticker tape sparkle of
shameless self-promotion,
promising
free entry before 12,
two for one drinks offers,
all your
hopes, dreams and fears
for just £1.99,
a distant murmur drifting
through the endless night,
in short sharpened flashes of
familiar faces,
a cast of stock characters
from a faded silver screen.

The small town hero
in full resplendent glory,

the jack-the-lad joker,
grinning like a fool,

the good time girl,
the middle-aged temptress,
the cackle of cauldron smoke
mixed with cheap wine and vodka,

and the post-modern crowd,
with their ironic drainpipe gestures,
and children’s plastic haircuts
stuck at wayward jaunty angles,

as far-away music, rattling neon-ready walls,
emits the concrete palpitation
of a giant pre-cordial thump,
you step inside and smile
at the nod of leather angels,
with necks wide as oak trees,
and arms like granite bollards,

and it is this moment, poised
on the edge of a knife,
see-sawing through slices
of thinly cut lime,
laughter and sorrow
both leaning against the bar,
buying round after round
of novelty tinged cocktails,
in which things could so easily
go from right to wrong.
But for now,
everyone’s having such a great time,
and tomorrow is still a trace
of an uncertain past,
so smile like you mean it,
tilt your head towards the pretty girl
that’s staring from the dance floor,
as Saturday swings slowly
into same old Sunday mornings,
because Dizzee loves it best
when you flex like that.