Janus In A Dinner Jacket

Janus In A Dinner Jacket

As the crowd counted down, I stood
at the urinal, with my head
pressed against cold tiles, while moments
before, sweaty hand full of tit
and mouth full of tongue and fingers
ensnared by knicker elastic,
I had hoped to greet the coming
year by coming myself, balls deep
in my manager’s better half.

I walked back to the bar and found
my beer glass with a cigarette
butt and an errant blue streamer
floating in its frothy dregs. Time
continued to strut its funky
stuff as the Mission Belles belted
out Auld Lang Syne to a glam rock
beat and I watched the drummer’s boobs
bounce beneath her sequined tank top.

Janus in a dinner jacket
and dicky bow propelled me through
a portal into the solstice
starlit street, where my breath streamed like
mentholated smoke beneath stars
that failed to resemble a host
of mythical beasts. His curses
drove me homewards, as my career
burned less brightly than fallen Troy.

I awoke with my face and dick
both equally stiff: with blue balls
and bluer bruises, with the taste
of beer on my tongue and fanny
under my fingernails. New Year
dawned after dinner time: after
a bacon sandwich, black coffee
and a belch on the brink of Death’s
foul border. Better out than in.