Day Two Hundred and Thirty One: Untitled #2

punk is dead

The punks on the left
neat spiky hair
in the jet black east wing
wallow in despair
to the left over remnants
of the dancing
on the centre-right floor
getting on down to the populist
rock n roll dance floor fillers
pumping from the speakers
at volumes loud enough to
shake the studs from
their immaculately tailored
leather attire

They are simply just too laissez faire
to allow themselves
enjoyment of the “commercial” things
even though that’s what
night clubs are for

Week after week they return
politics in tow
but this is not parliament

The punks to the left
ragged and jaggy haired
in their red star corner
have filled a table with
empty plastic cups
and just enough alcohol
to discard punk rock politics
taking to the night
regardless of context
finally raising a smile
to the speaker of the house
a DJ by any other name

Gone are their good intentions
moving in slow motion
under the flickering house lights
along to the sounds that everyone else knows
and despite their well kept
anti-commercial appearances
they do too.

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Day Two Hundred and Twenty Six: Three Sheets to the Wind

Blurry

Three Sheets to the Wind

Slurring and stuttering
we do the slow waltz home
after spending the evening crucifying sobriety;
a blasphemous remnant of a long night
dancing with the demon drink.

4am taxi cab queue banter:
“Shooooo…how long ye bin waitin’ for thish black hack?”
“Eh, boot an ‘our pal -hic- Sh-sh-shomthin’ like ‘at.”
One familiar conversation
repeated ad nausea [sic]
on the route home.

Chips.
A mountain of chips.
Complete with a cliff face of sea salt
vinegar
and a condiment of your choice
(tomato sauce, if you ask me).
Women in heels forgot their feet
and left them on a dozen dance floors.
Crying in doorways with stiletto growing pains,
in the arms of a swaying boyfriend
who’s whispering sweet somethings
into a headful of drunken nothings
begging to go home.
We stagger onward
as if on shaking Earth,
wooden trident in one hand
polystyrene box in the other,
in the rain,
putting Poseidon to rights.

Day Ninety Eight: Central Station Dance

Days begin and end in this terminus,
Under a neon sign that’s shuffling times,
(Whifflet – 14:16, Edinburgh – 14:18, Paisley Canal – 14:38)
People are bounced between the metal benches,
Swapping furtive glances in the shops and bars.

Through the centre of the commuter dance floor,
A young woman drops a malteaser
and it rolls in between the steps.

This place is many things to many people –
Commuters are dejected by it,
Children are mesmerized by it,
Teenagers congregate in it,
And others are simply passing through.

A station is a place that most people are only ever passing through.

Holidays start and finish underneath its glass atrium
but to many people it’s a lonely place.
Getting from A to B on their own,
leaving loved ones for a new home,
Ear phones in, ready to go,
Insular and isolated with frowns all lined up
in a row.

By its very nature, people only ever depart from this place.

In the thronging crowd I sit and spectate
As others sway in a secluded way,
Reclusive and isolated, dancing to the same tune
with a strange synergy between each other.

Loneliness fills this place.
Loved ones part from one another,
People travel to work alone
(ignoring each other in steel tubes),
and the staff here are lonelier than anyone else,
because they see it happen
and it moves them no more.

The chocolate ball rolls on,
lost and so far from home.
No one watches after it, and no one sees it go,
rolling out the door, alone.