“It’s like dating a Trappist monk with laryngitis!”
You look away, obviously avoiding me
politeness aside, at least you don’t sunder me
in front of your betters, high ground ascertained.
We had such great times, discussing phenomena
never heard on the day-to-day news.
Too hard for the bar itself, censored to outside
where we could set off fireworks at will.
Crunching on hardcore, balancing the pints
not spitting out the nectar that left us dry
earning the right to a place to crash
lopsided generosity still overlooked
on purpose. Laughter, politics, tears all shared
punctuated by rollys at opportune times,
letting us think on what we’ve said
between forays to the bathroom, for an instant.
Information, on my part, found faulty,
sin of omission knocks the shed of bricks,
a barbed text seals the messenger’s doom
unbalanced persecution on my part.
Cold, freezing, numbing. Small price for a fag.
Huddled around lamps to assuage revolution.
Now nothing can awaken, a permeable mess
that earned its right to another drink.
[Irish Colloquialism: Rollys are hand-rolled cigarettes.]