Rural Dreams

of my mind. More like

a sitting-room. Metre-long bar,

one pump. “I’ll have a pint

of that then, I suppose. Do you

have any jobs going at the moment?”

The tangerine-faced

landlady replies, “Only for

pole-dancers.”

Next thing I know I’m wrapped

in a long wig and fake tits

around a pole, clambering

ceilingwards to escape

the gropes of a dozen

hairy-nosed farmers.

The tangerine face calls out, “Now you know

how it feels to be a woman, love!”

 

Three a.m. Another pub.

The landlord, hairy-nosed

and Cornish, plonks down

a frothing jar

and erects an endless wall

of tulips-and-rugby-sprinkled prattle

with no windows of response

in front of me. “I’m sorry, mate,”

I halfway through my crisps interject,

“I don’t mean to be rude

but I was just after a quiet pint

on my own, really.”

He chortles, “Not round

here, my boy!

You buy a pint of the local brew,

you get a conversation with it,

that’s the tradition!”

and resumes waffling,

something about government subsidies

and otters.

“Alright, well, could I just have

a white wine instead then, please?”

Out slides the cork.

“Of course, my boy! This here

is our local wine,”

as he fills my glass, leans

over the bar

and thrusts his tongue down my throat.

 

Five a.m. A field.

A flock of crows

pinching all my seed.

“Fuck off!” I shout myself awake.

“What?” groans the girl

next to me. “Not you, darlin’,”

I explain. “The crows.”