Breaking Bottles

There was a wall once in my past
Not much of a wall
Three feet or so high in some places
With gaps and a collection of loose
Bricks that may have belonged to it
Or whatever it was part of years ago
An unloved factory or an old lonely cottage
Something of no use or value
But it was good for me and my bottles
After a few days I’d always have a big enough collection
To take to the wall
I would build my own row from the seeds of another
I loved to start with a Newcastle Brown Ale
Large and unwieldy it would tower menacingly
Over the smaller ones, its huge fat neck humming
With that sickening aroma
Next to this a Babycham
Small and petite - an excuse for a drink
But useful enough to hide in a bag or under a bed
The wine bottles were fun. Different colours
A strong red with sediment clinging to the
Inside of a purple glass cheek
A white with the dregs still swimming
Within a bruise-brown tumbler
Every now and then a rose
I would set that one aside to stand
In its own ironic perfumelessness
After that I would set out the family
Jack, Johnny and Gordon of course
Glen and his cousins were particular favourites
But the best I’d save to last
The classic coke
Those thickish curves – she was always the hardest to break
But I acquired accuracy from better snipers
Smash! Down goes the brown
Crash! Down goes the white
And afterwards that reassuring crunch
And a trail home of bloody footprints