Mirthful Guidance (1 of 12)

She spat her pornstar vowels at him, the sound of a thousand tea spoons
being dropped down urine splattered concrete steps.
He remained conscious and let her broth of bile form in a pool at his feet,
he could clear all this up later.
Leaving by a side door (there’s always a side door), the street held globules of sweet
n sour pork balls and a the essence of disappointed gambler.
There was time to seek peeks into kitchens adorned with men in aprons
that plotted the course of courses, watching them throw
food out the front, marlboro butts out the back.

Slide down pavements, take a left to the future, hurry like you need to be somewhere
even if you have all day left to sit at tables, give up chairs to the infirm.
Time in abundance can drown a man in what feels like an hour (but is nearer a minute)
lunchtime drinking slows the descent to the basement floor.
Head says tonic, hands say tequila, mouth points to nordic cider that can break you in three.
Green bottle refracts the bar girl’s breasts-enlarged at their ends, alien cliche verdant.

Bubble, bubble, bubble, gobble apples down arid neck, no time for acting like a ponce,
swirling, savouring, sniffing a glass of mental juice like the wankers from the top table.
Assign yourself the role of daytime boozer, take these responsibilities as seriously as your
(recently rescinded) wedding vows. Make it clear that you are not in for your lunch with some
cunt from accounts, you are here to drink, to look for the fag machine, huddle over a sponsored ash tray in a bleak garden ‘area’, to drink again and only leave when you are rid of the disease that sat you at this bar, on this day, with plenty of precious time.

There’s a taxi in the rain, skimming its way along a one way street.
He stands on a neglected corner, hands by his side, bruising
pound coins with fingers with no glass to occupy their weight.
There should be a place to go on these days, a retreat for the fucked and maligned
with beds that can be shared with matronly types who only want to stroke your hair,
apply mythic balms to rancid temples.
A corner for the men that could be braver.