Did Charles B smell of inky sweat
& stale booze – of rolled odours?
That oil from his skin? It could’ve
greased a ship’s slipway [or fried
a sly heart attack brunch for us] –
& his scarred cheeks spat poems
between his knocking-back shots
& did he ever wash? Did he loose
his cock out on a street to shock?
Do I know you? – a paying heckler
was dispatched – again & again &
words were left again [beer helps]
as Hank [to his friends] swigged a
fat-neck Michelob & oozed grins/
This is what killed Dylan Thomas –
his column’s by-line spoke – oily
fish spit out their oily prey [he was
born to this] Castro’s twin in verse
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 says Go now –
before those commuters
turn up to sip more bullshit
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 greatness
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
from unequal paid down rounds
And then that hundred-yard stagger
off to your desolate place –
a much less enticing thought
than just one more pour of best
A background outdoor chat
leaves you stood stock still
Now shuffle once more
with your pocket of shrapnel –
to be put in that jar in your hall
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 tall sworn tales as props
as we tell of outrageous behaviours
and my empty pint glass quietly asks
for just one more before dinner calls
from the house that is no more home