This Latitude Sucks

He glanced at his watch

Soon he’d be in bed

But his thoughts wandered

Wended south

Like a migratory instinct

Driven to the warmth

To where he’d soon be

Going out instead

Of going home

Only his feet were glad

They’d stood for enough

The Strategist

The week had been long, busy with bureaucracy and emotionally draining.  Phone calls had been made and the due diligence had been done, ticked off, filed and left to gather its own dust.

 Fraser had finally escaped from the humdrum monotonous buzz of the daily grind.  He’d done lunches, been for coffees, smiled at clients and braved the snarling jams at rush hour.  He skipped tea, threw on his hat at its jauntiest angle and made his way pubwards. 

 The weekend beckoned with sleek, glossy hair, fake tan and miles of mascara.  He was ready to charm and was already imagining that tinkling giggle and adoring smile. 

 He opened the door, doffing his hat and spun it on the bar as he ordered up a bottle of the finest red wine.  He looked around and his smirk began to fade.  Bald heads, beer bellies.  The fruit machine clamoured and Pink Floyd were fifteen minutes into a solo on the jukebox.  He drained his glass in disappointment but declined to leave.  He knew this.  He’d been here before.  It was a man monsoon in the middle of a female famine.  But he would get by.  Either things would pick up soon or he’d steal someone’s girlfriend.

 He withdrew from the pack, let them howl together and lick each other’s wounds.  He became aloof; stood apart knowing this would engender curiosity.  Let the rest take the scraps; the barked camaraderie.

 And soon?  The plan worked so I put my pen back in my pocket.

Old Skool

Couple of B Boys

Startin’ with da top rock

in their two grand trainers

mooths aghast

as auld boy in a pullover

helicopters

let me hear you say

Freeze!

Handstand in brogues

spinning on a tweed trilby

puffed out, points

“Pernod wee man!”

And now all the youth

are swilling aniseed

Red Red Wine

It’s only grapes.

Grapes and European feet

and the inside of a barrel

with the dust of a cellar.

I’ll take two bottles.

NIght Hawk

A day of moping

of milling

of endless cups of tea

with cigarettes

the thumb blistered with flicking buttons

bleary eyed channel hopping

that climaxes its boredom

with an episode

of Scooby Doo

Columbo for the kids

with a tell-tale ending

of unmasking

and meddling

so the staleness gets wiped

or rather exchanged

for the humid

human bodies and alcohol

with cigarettes

in a mixture of ennui

and shouting pretenders

fake hearty laughter

nods and salutes

and sweaty coins

forfeited for warming

liquid comfort

tossed back with smiles

A Becks, a Tennents,

a Motorola

it’s just a new place

to feel alone.

My Hero

He was listing like a sinking battleship, trying to look normal as he walked diagonally home.  He stopped, but not all at once.  Only one leg stopped.  The other one kept going then struggled to get back making him lean even further.  He was fumbling in his pockets, bent double, trying to find a cigarette.  Then in and out of every pocket.  Hips; inside; shirt; back; jacket all the while shrugging like a Parisian mime artist.  Then he saw me.  Glimpsed, then squinting, pulls up his trousers and walks semi-towards me.  He’s right next to me before he can get his mouth to work.

“You alright buddy?”

“Aye mate.”

“You alright?”

“Aye.”

“I’m…” he sniggers, “I’m a wee bit,” and he does that action, lifting an imaginary glass to his lips, then laughs, “Aye. A wee bit drunk.”

“Really?”

He winks, points at me as he waltzes backwards.

“Heh!  You’re alright buddy.” and he shakes my hand.  Then he remembers the cigarette, stares at it as if it’s surprised him.

“Want a light?” I say with lighter in hand.  He puts the cigarette behind his ear, hands on his hips, puzzled, then slaps my shoulder. “I was just gonna ask you that.  Are you a vaircloy, a calaiv, a clairvoyant?”

I hold the light out to him as he sucks at his cigarette like a straw.  It’s half lit before he says: “You’re alright big man.”  He waves, walks a dozen steps then turns round.  Hands in the air, cigarette in mouth he attempts to bow, staggers then walks away, sideways.

And instead of jumping off that bridge I went home.

It’s true that helping someone else helps you.

Fish Out of Water

They all rushed in before me

as I ambled

Thinking I was early

then SHABOOM!

noise and humidity

beer and stupidity

instead of a quiet night

The seats every one of them taken

as I lingered

leaning on a door jamb

eyes agog

blatant femininity

creates an affinity

instead of lonely times

They’re at the bar in droves

as I hovered

looking for a lager

wallet out

stark spontaneity

mix with the gaiety

instead of hanging back

They all left before me

as I mumbled

thinking I was charming

then ding ding

drink up your alcohol

home time for one and all

instead of a shared bed