There were no women in the bar at all.
Sunday evening too. It made me pause there
on the threshold looking in. And the vibes!
Set, restless, rigid, dark looks into beer.
But I, the Jolly Green Giant, nicknamed
for a laugh by some of the inmates here,
for stepping over chairs and tables, down
again, as if they were old country stiles,
thought I might have a bit of cred left me by.
Entered, bought beer, and sat back at the side.
Explosion of hate and violence. Man down.
Head kicked once or twice, then harder still:
body jerked following the boot gone in.
"He's had enough!" I'm on my feet, though why?
"You want some?!"
"Not particularly. No."
What the fuck you want to say that, now? Ugh!
Oh, the wall was passing. I slid down. Woke.
Someone threw a chair, casually between
The Minotaur and I, kindly gesture,
running interference as I scrabbled
up and fled, through crack of door into night.
It shook me up so good, as you'd expect.
I'd always talked my way from everything.
Sometimes you must be counted with the dead.
Though they let you off cheap with a bad head.
...................................
Written in decasyllabics...
YOU ARE READING
Bare Shouldered
Poetry"The difference of high Sensations with and without knowledge appears to me this - in the latter case we are falling continually ten thousand fathoms deep and being blown up again without wings and with all [the] horror of a bare shouldered Creature...
