Tag: beer

Country Pub

Before this evening's
swell of punters fill
empty wooden tables

we solemn few near-sober
slow pint daytime drinkers
take our lost afternoon
over equal measures

of flat beer and crisps
as that occasional hour hand
slogs around to grind out time

in this low muttering pub -
until intuition . . .

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Piano Men

The unannounced pianist
was a pummeler -
less Jools Holland
more jewel robber
We politely relocated
from The Griffin's bar roar
and found ourselves in
a Rocketman party
at another restaurant
five minutes south
where women wore glitter
and sang loud homage
to Elton John's flickers
of flares of . . .

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Closing Times

Now - be forever consigned
to coughed-up-banter nights
at your threadbare old boys' club -
propped behind spewed pints
of pump-drawn gut-brown beer

Your bent still good arm lifts
three quids worth of bowel-stripper
Last orders
and so a knocking back of pints . . .

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One More

That first pint of Guinness sunk
far too easily as fat drunks sang
love songs and spawled their hate
from behind tips and taps of beer

here in my old man's drinking club
attended by us - some retired saints
and some less retiring grey sinners
with our . . .

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#GreeneKingPubs

These pulling places are rammed
by limp cocks and hard-to-hear voices

by forty-year-old bent coppers
and pitch-hoarse salesmen

feasting on glimpses of wagged butts
and - if lucky - being eye-felt back

as unsteady rounds are re-summoned -
until each wooden table holds it own

glass . . .

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Hampstead Heath

We scurried across NW3
but not the low-laid Heath
of bricked-ish village-ness
of idealised introversion -
with loquacious City views

No - We took the buff support
of metre-high teak bars
before the flow of beer taps -
erect like those glass towers
stood in that visible . . .

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Comforts

A pint on a Monday - at lunchtime?
Things must be bad - Michael -
And so they are - but I only offer lies
above salted crumbs on my table -
small pieces - but shiftable boulders
to summer's soon-invigorated ants -
able to heft such burdens of others'
relative insignificance - of leftovers -
But . . .

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Dry

Bugger off to those soda syphons
claiming in January sainthood -
un-settlers of our sense of right
with their smug month-long cast
of sober teases off whipped rods -
with their dry false flies as bait -
those anglers now spreading
their dull-witted winter diseases
of no more indulgences -
drowning . . .

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