Shakin’ vinegar drizzlers spatter the menu counter as he flicks for the want of wetness to his chips. Flippin’ me off with his feculent middle digit of vinegar, booze-blind, deaf they jest at the sinister curry mess shot down my shirt. 20 eyes spearing the curry orange spilled like the sign for Pi. A caper made by their dido silence; riotous, good news capitalized like Gospel. Poland streets been invaded by bruisers, real Mccoys, tweed boys on speed and Shawarama slagging off the pickled eggs. Pukka pies in a warp microwaved in maudlin walls with every gut coated ruby in red doner rage. Piss panted peddlers they’ll piddle themselves when I run’em 4 storeys for fear of MY name!
Meanest insults, saved for friends, offending to enemies when silence descends. The saltshakers tilted, tipped like a sand timer. Mixed with stella and whiskey in the blood, the fuse is lit, potent and malign so the rational slides. The news has spread. The fights happening inside. Be the ropes or be a ref or be off or say yes, just know, we’re in a ring. Other than a dealer’s old Mercedes there seems like no escape but the ferryman of Hades. But for a second, in drunk radiance, firecracker blows landing slowly like a moon rover, fists of battered fish and fresh piss bubbling in the neon of a drunken death wish, I’m content.
The parties begun.
Dawn peels from behind a tree-trapped balloon,
Helium and pink flush through a bowl in the sun.
And I can disappear in the brawl.