day in day out

Slumped at the bar with my elbows
slurping at the sticky beermats
I winked both eyes at the barman
expecting service
when she snared me, like a fly in the soup
her face contorted in front of mine
like a pantomime kaladescope
shifting between beauty and beast
but never resting long enough on either
for me to get a grip
I'd chosen this haven, after being chased
by lipstick shadows and leopard skin bodices
rattling their plastic ringlets
trying to hemm me to their bossoms...
But, here I was easy prey...bleeding tequilla
with salted lips, clutching to the lemon slices
for comfort....she got me...she got me in her claws
and pulled before her vice like lips
into the french abyss, me clutching for air
among her folds of velvet.
The tequilla allowed me atempt some answers
of protesations but it was too late
pushed into a seven seater taxi and taken
east to the exotics...
I never expected to find myself awoken
next morning naked from the watch down
constricted in middle age,
somebodys mother weighing me into the sweaty
bed as I searched for reason, answers, escape routes.
I released a hand and then a leg before
I lost the will to weariness, all my energy hopefully
spent in panic and not from picnicking the night before.
I rose again later (thank the lord) to find the weight had
lifted replaced by hope she had been a sprightlier lass
only to have the door squeak open
and a mug of tea come round the corner
held by someones mum.
I lived to tell the tale in the end
a taxi home and a lesson learned,
never stay idle as a barfly
especially when the welly boot spiders are about.

You said,
When I asked
What did I do.
Behind the door
Playing with those
Tin matchbox cars
Making my own fun.

I think back on that now,
Content that I knew what
I was doing
Because I still hide behind that
Door.

Hair in a bun, enclosed in a hat,
glitter, sequins, danger red lipstick,
eyeshadow smiles hidden behind horn rimmed glasses
perched on a napoleans nose
high above mid morning stuble
as he strides past
handbag in tow
trailing elbows and winks behind
a hurricane of colour all purple and pink
muttering
'fuck 'em, fuck the lot of them'.

Spinning in the wind
triangles of colour spread accross the air
beholding the highway
visible from my window
between the curtain and the wall
as I lie hidden behind the glass
in a haven far from the storms outside.

I crumble.
Like Carrot cake
under a spoon,
everytime she
catches me,
Look away.

Black bog turf of Ireland
Hug me close
And clothe me in rolling blankets
Of thicket and fairy ring,
Bind me with thick tongue
And calloused hand filled
With deep regret and hope.
A soft violence dear to me,
Now returning.

High,
Aloft in the hills
They watch for intruders
On a land in which
They themselves are strangers,

Washing lines spin
On the wind like
Tops from their childhood,
Striking fear now
As it glints steel in their peripheral,

Empty roads, ditches
Bustle with harsh potential
As they pass
Stalking their every step,
Nightime stumblings
Promising Molotov distasters,

Aloft in the hills
They watch for intruders
On a land in which
They themselves are strangers,

Every eye they meet shields
A stabbing anger
Something they didn’t sign up to.
19, unemployed,
all they had was health and an ability
to hold their own in the streets,
natural progression from the movies to the jungles.
This isn’t holywood,
As hidden prostate in a childs sandpit
They wait for trouble
When they least expect it.

Freckles in the morning,
wrinkle on her nose
and greet me smiling
as I tickle her toes.
‘Hello toes’, I say.
As her freckles
wrinkle from her nose
to her toes,
underneath those
warm bedclothes.

Frosted glass
greets my hand
as it explores,
stopping it dead
with a chill.

It creeps back
into my sleeve
and waits for summertime.
When it’s safe
to explore
again.

My eyes are shut
Like an air tight door
On a rusty mothership
Orbiting earth
One last time.

But, I can see shapes
Calling out to me
Like drowning souls
Cold in the arctic ocean
My ears are plugged closed
Like an aquarium container
holding the last humpback whale
able to mate.

But, I can hear the window blind
Tapping on the glass
Like a dimpled drummer boy
On his way to battle.
My feet are curled up
Like the eyelashes on a girl
I saw in a magazine.
Still posing for the camera

But, I can feel the icy touch
Of the arctic submerging
Me in dreams.

Emotionally numb.
I stare back at their faces,
anticipating
a flicker of recognition
I can't give
cause I'm dogtired sober
and their just drunk
and I refuse to find
anything or anyone funny
at 2:30am
on a Sunday morning
standing behind
the bar.