Saturday, and town buzzed like a pissed off hive

Too early to drink at such a pace, but how else are bad ideas spurned on by sensations between the thighs going to turn into guilt ridden conclusions? 

Anxiety prevents the lining

Just as well, cos no lining gets you flying

Then it’s a nose dive into 48 hours of half-arsed isolated redemption

The old rock n rolla’s talk of their one minute of fame way back when

then repeat, slurred, 15 times more

Happy birthday sachets and novelty dildos 

Balancing acts in high heels crossing greasy cobbled streets 

A couple more woo woo’s through cock shaped straws and this north-west town will soon be a Wild West rodeo

The brawlers pile in scouring, threatening

A tiny metronome in each ear, keeps their shoulders swaying, keeps them menacing and the rest of us trembling

Drink after drink soon softens the muscles, soon droops the eyes, soon slurs the speech

Then it’s time for a pick me up, to charge into the night, like a Roman soldier riding and wielding to the middle of the fight 

Selfies turn into self-destruction

Glances of the eye turn into giving them the eye 

“I’ll never cheat” turns into “different postcodes do not count”

“I probably shouldn’t” turns into mouthfuls of meat 

Social media licks its lips 

Everyone a paparazzi, everyone else wrong place, wrong time

A lot of slurred “I love you’s” 

A lot of fists swung

A lot of “don’t forget we’re all as one”

A lot of “are we fuck you fucking cunt”

Future romances discussed in the taxi rank

“I’ll suck your cock if you take me for a drink”

“Is there any chance I could an advance on that?”

The usually indisposed given a rare night of freedom

previously excited about a drink and a dance, now rushing home, panicked with an itch in their pants

In the takeaways the rings slide innocuously back onto the fingers. The I can’t keep doing this at the this age rings through the air, just below from where the fried chicken stench lingers 

In the shadows watching on, a poet laureate wannabe scribbles away 

With a notepad full of dynamite, he can’t wait to try it out.

Now all that’s left is to convince them…

honestly it’s not this town that I’m on about.

Published by Christopher Moore

Poems, short stories and gibberish. In no particular order.

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