Public Houses

Depression straddles my limp body
Like a leering Fifth Year. Your tongue
Is mocking - sharp, like the razor you do not use.
Konrad's strumming arm whistles past
His pink tie-dye, and the
Glastonbury song fills my lungs and mouth.

This table is muddy, mucky brown.
The agonising whine of the fiddle
Soars higher, amid human yelps.
I push my sleeves down to
Cover my hands and
Contemplate getting foully and loudly
Drunk. I wonder idly
Why the man across from me looks so much
Like he is from inside a comic strip.

A modern Tom Jones gyrates loudly inside
The jukebox. That pissed bloke
Will return, he has left his Rizlas and lighter.
I would look better if I had
A withered arm and was sitting here,
Bored. I would have a proper reason to
Feel withered. Darren cannot walk or
Sit down properly: his trousers are too
Tight.

I dance to Ricky Martin. I get
Lost on the way back from the jazzy
Toilets. Big cats
Skirt round the edges of the parquet
Dance-floor. Panthers and lions. I
Wonder where I have left my handbag. I
Am told it is time to go.

The same things
Happen
Even though they are
Different

The same people are
Drunk
Even though they are
Different

I am going now.
I am not drunk.