THE NIGHT ECONOMY

He sprays cologne on yesterday's clean shirt.
Another three squirts. Another can't hurt.
Downstairs the punters are bustling in.
The lads are oiled. It'll be packed by ten.
He fingers fibre through his hair and rubs
the scruffy clumps to peaks and tufts. He scrubs
up well, he does. Turning out the hall light,
he fantasizes the fanny tonight.

2 p.m. The bottle bin's crash echoes
in the deserted yard. The last drunk goes
singing out the back gate. He sparks a fag.
Spits at the wall. She looked like a right slag.
A cool breeze stirs. One more shift in the bank.
He imagines her tits spilled beer and wanks.

THE NIGHT ECONOMY

3 a.m. The striplight winks
a saucy eye at the chef turning hot dogs
on the hot plate. He shuffles onions
with a spatula. It's just me
and two other guys drifted in
from drinking. A television in the corner tells
in hushed voices, gunfights overseas.
The world never sleeps. Coffee. Teeth
filled with grease and ketchup,
bread and onions spilling down his chin.
He is three sheets. From here streets
take a taxi over the river
Flights are rising out of the water 
coming down.
A lump of mucky sugar plops. A barge horn
blows the door ajar. A bell rings.
The lads are getting bolshy with each other.
I fix my face
in a teaspoon the wrong way round.
Nothing doing. The lads leave off.
It's just me and the chef. He is frying eggs.

MASTURBATING AT THE GRAVE OF SYLVIA PLATH

It's something to fill the hours
this poetry stuff
at the grave of Sylvia Plath -
notebook in one hand,
a bottle of fizz in the other
or is that Jim Morrison?
or was that a can of Tennent's Super?

Eventually it gets hard
in your lap. It is damp.
Soon you will have to unbutton
and get it done.
No-one looking.
It is Keith Moon on that gravestone.
You are a teenager again,
a right proud arse on you,
red as a baboon.

THE BENDS

for PS

First, you get really, startlingly tired.
You should find some other food source.

Weight loss. I simply didn't dream.
The thing I missed most was the fizz.

I usually drink a lot of water and juice
to help me deal with life.

After three drinks you lose control.
After four drinks you lose count.

I believed I had a broken record
in my head. A very mild, yellow hue.

It all depends on what a biopsy says.
I get a tingling sensation over my body.

I left the country for a year.
I had a bad temper. My gambling increased.

TASTING NOTES

for JF and DA

CAMPOS DE DULCINEA

Classical and fruity Tempranillo from

the land of D. Quixote. offers cherry

aroma mixed with Spanish character.

its youth invites to drink with friends.

accompanied by red meat. pasta. risotto

or some Spanish tapas.

Tempranillo clasico. afrutado y

aterciopelado de la tierra de Don

Quijote ofrece aroma a cerezas

mezelado con temperamento espanol

en el vaso. A hase de su caracter joven.

el vino anima a tomarto con amigos.

Aconsejado para carne asada. pasta.

risotto o tapas.

TRUE STORY

My friend works with alcoholics

and the alcoholics

calculate their drinking in bottles.

My father tells me I drink too much.

I opened a bottle of wine,

in my suburban estate,

for a Scandinavian family from the city.

My father drank every night of the week.

Whiskey. Rum and Coke. A Daiquiri.

My father never told me I drink too much.

A bottle of Lightning. Bells.

                                                                                       

TASTING NOTES

CHABLIS 2009

Fresh and pure, this vibrant
Chablis has aromas of green
apples and blanched nuts,

with a taut yet softly rounded
mouthfeel. Such a refined, 
food-friendly style is typical

of this northern French
wine region, famous for its
fresh climate and limestone

clay soils. The Union
des Viticulteurs de Chablis
is a respected producer

from the region and winemaker
Bertrand Cherel has produced
an outstanding wine from 

the local Chardonnay vines 
in a highly rated vintage.
Enjoy it with a platter

of fresh seafood or cod
in beurre blanc sauce.

WEEKEND

These are just blokes drinking on a Friday afternoon

after getting off work early after working like pigs

at something they’re pig sick of. This is where they let

rockets off to the moon, where the moon glows

in fruit machine flashes and flashes of tempers burst

like fireworks bursting, obliterating the stars.

The stars are all over the pavement. The pavement

is strewn with celestial beings and extra-terrestrials.

Angels and extra-terrestrials are singing, singing

alleluias from every street corner. A busker is singing

in excelcis deo on every street corner in town.

The shout goes up and is hoisted aloft and carried

through town like a varsity rugby captain 

hoisted atop his teammate’s shoulders and shouted

round bars like a saucy joke. Their shoulders are round

where they’re worn like a threadworn blazer or jeans

in the knees and crotch. They’ve been on their knees

all week and year, a decade of prayer. Praying the work

keeps on coming after the weekend. Until then their crotch

itches at denim and nylon skirts. Stiff nylon electricity.

BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS

Morning is cracked like an egg: bust-yolk/
thick head. Coming up marmalade
spread over crisp brown toast and pancakes
drowning in honey. I am deaf
to alarms bleating time to get up and lost
on a wave of syrup thick booze.
This is my breakfast of champions
for winners. I raise the can like a trophy
and catch sun-rays in a gold-plated mouth.