I find myself in Cricklewood

I find myself in Cricklewood, laughing
And leering, guiltily, at the expectorating chaos that lies beneath.
I drink a brown pint and attempt nonchalance
Whilst this explosively brilliant, violent twat
And a woman whose stoic couldn’t-be-fucked is as old and magnificent as the tomb of Tutankhamun
Make merry hell in search of conflict resolution
Which suggests there was originally a solution
Which brings out the cynic in me
But
I am a bit pissed, and what is brilliant about this morceau of local colour is
Beaten down by beer and the swirling, dying froth of self doubt
I know I am the self-same twat who stalks the bar, brow-knotted
And raging at the lack of words that he knows others do not lack
And THUMPing the door, and pacing outside, and THUMPing the door,
And coming back in and THUMPing the bar, and she’s saying
BE A MAN about it, can’t you BE A MAN but of course he can’t
And I can’t
And that’s when I found myself laughing
I found Cricklewood
I found laughing
I found myself
I found fucking shite
I found fucking shite in Cricklewood
And I found laughing at fucking shite brought out the Cricklewood in myself