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Array
(
[sid] => 166417
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => one drunken night
[time] => 2011-05-28 17:09:42
[hometext] => please excuse the grammer. I'm method writing
[bodytext] => He sits on the dance floor step a drunken wreck hardly seen as if in a dream the music booms, the lights ignite a magic spell on those who dwell apart from he.. His beer, placed precariously under the banister. The froth settled does he have the mettle to continue this lonely soak? of course, he's that type of bloke. He stands out like a drunken dad amongst the lads perversion is not his intent though there's plenty of skirt, too old to flirt finger nails full of dirt he sits, in a place he once sat before it's no chore. Alone. Where they met. Another time, another day, a day he can't forget he needs to let go for the answer is no he can't turn back time he just sits in the grime but all is different there's no smoke in which to choke and the music's (not very good in a brown sticky way -one word) the young look down on him what's he doing here? At least that's his hidden fear of their thought's no response of note he acts like he doesn't really care a fight? It would seem right but he slips into the night He leaves, avoiding taxi's he needs to walk and talk to himself. He deliberately walks through an area of intent where crime occurs as a matter of course two men race through the multi-storey car park they are both frantic, one half naked, anger tangible, stark so he says something... one of the strangers approaches him will there be a fight? Is it a sin the assailant's companion pushes and defuses the assailant diverted at speed, like a pool ball both go on towards a greater row so, he carries on walking and talking, to himself. feigning stealth. Like drunken people do when they are so drunk, not full of cheer thinking nothing is really there, or here and nobody can see them yeah right! So he takes a right there's a right carry on at this terraced street the two white boys have picked a fight with a black resident curtains twitch, then all come out, thinking racism the cause. Maybe it usually is, but not this time for they know his name and they are angry bottles whizz down the street from a recycle bin all hell breaks loose. One whizzes past his chin he laughs He enjoys the drama, living a moment as a war correspondent he tells everybody exactly what is happening- Badly, and is told where to go, and how to get there. he moves on, describing the cursing and swearing. On to the approach to Avenham park dark, very very dark but here, he can talk to god so on he plods he meets the bridge over the river, it is lit the sound of water, tranquil he marches. Typical Brit where angels fear to tread but along the tree lined avenue the old tram road he can talk to god. And he does he looks at the stars, between the trees which are rustling politely in the breeze and he questions. Then falls over a broken branch the answer hits him on the head or is it gravity instead? Anyway. He gets up all repeated a few times and eventually he decides god doesn't exist or, maybe he's just ***** (word for drunk, get the jist?) either way, he knows everything because right now, it all makes sense he rips into a barb wire fence anyway, one or two fabric tears later he floats home finds his key eventually then he leads it on a dance around the keyhole until it catches in a stall then a turn. Then in mirror confirms, marks on chin he gets undressed, somewhere then gets into bed nuff said next morning his darling asks “ Good night, Last Night?” “yeah. All right”. “Can't remember much!”. [comments] => 2 [counter] => 232 [topic] => 43 [informant] => poeticjestix [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 10 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => oops )
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