The Krazyhouse is a kind of nightclub in Liverpool, with one floor dedicated to Metal, one to pop Rock and one to contemporary charting music – I think I hate the place; no, I hate the people that go there, with their desperate enjoyment. Maybe I’m just too miserable. Still, I get dragged there every other time I go to Liverpool with friends of mine.

We dare to twist from mockery;
our roundabout condemnation
of a beloved orator and dictator in Berlin
above Liverpool again;
and we integrate such parody within our celebration.

And our drinks go,
from strength to strength to strength
as their sparkling vanishes into the ceramics
and we are left with the burning, harrowing liquid
to haunt us across the bright night’s length.

And I lose myself with premeditation;
I indulge in an electable insanity
amongst a crowd of the obligatory insane
and the posers and the lonely,
just like me; perhaps lacking my vaunted vanity.

But we drink, and we laugh and we rock our heads
back and forth and back and as we must do;
as all young people of a certain character and calibre must do,
and I watch my peers glaze as they follow,
white streaks of flesh in the dark, without a thought of who

Those limbs belong to, and why
they have sought out this place, in the heart of cobblestone.
They drown in flesh and all too visible dreams and, I,
bury the misery and the outrage and the disgust
at each and every desperate character, trying not to be alone.

For that is all we see,
personifications of ill-judged, badly-formed
parodies of themselves – confident women and strapping boys
lost in the thundering of their hearts and the drenching
of their blood-vessels – alcohol as the only means of warmth.

And I shiver in my sobriety;
but I dance the only way I know,
feet twisting from left to right to left
and hair flying in the dishonest smoke
pumped into the air to complete the show.

And then I am alone, sat against a wall
whilst peers flock to the bar, for overpriced sparkle
and under-priced spirit; I think how fine it would be
to die in that moment, with a forced smile
piercing the air of a desperate debacle.

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