Air heavy with

sweat and fumes and

cologne strong enough to

offend and force a step back;

limbs armed with

a glass shield

that parts the sea of

anonymous drunkards,

all and anon.

 

I move to

an artificial rhythm of bodies

not mine,

whilst Heraclean fools put on displays

of vacuous and primitive masculinity,

self-obsessed alpha males

vying for looks from

empty eyes of a certain kind;

and gentlemen lure ladies with

sweet words and subtle looks,

effortless hunters,

the incubi of modernity.

 

And girls with skin

on fire, glowing and unnatural,

garbed to suit indecent

intentions,

they water-board boys with

pheromones and vacant eyes, just

playground teasers,

idols of ethanol-laced

desires.

 

Yet true delights lie beyond wooden divides,

where taps pour

hollowed amber dreams,

pour golden fantasies from

bottles labelled by

the weavers of ill fate

and poverty and melancholy,

from bottles that clank like

Death’s rattle,

ominous to the miserable and

welcomed by the

world-weary.

 

I sift through vestiges of

the disconsolate sots,

who feel nothing but failure,

wasted hours burden them:

heavy in their guts,

on their hearts and through tired minds;

pity rides on retinal wavelengths

but drops to night’s broken glass

and I mop up

the forlorn remains.

 

Time ticks and the end heralds

relief with words and audible adventures into

minds of kindred spirits,

equals and betters of mine;

I can relax and raise

searching eyes to the

Dawn,

contented and fulfilled

by my return.

 

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