Indecent Whiskey

We sit outside, to avoid the rough hands
and rougher eyes of the regulars –
and Guinness tastes foul, here,
so I drink whiskey and raise my glass
to dead men in foreign lands.

And the wind blows hard,
intermittently across the bowling green,
which squats behind the Hare
& the Hound in a labyrinthine place
which never heard the songs of bards

Or the fingertips of wordsmiths
as a condemnation of apathetic,
mean-spirited occupation –
and, on the adjacent road,
rolls a box-truck’s bailiff.

And we are labelled as students –
through my lengthened hair and
stubble, and Ask The Dust;
which will not leave my hand –
On his part, I suppose, mere prudence

To assume that I am still such a thing
but I am, we are, uninterested
in the football raffle he spouts
and drools around like a Suicide Girl’s
affectionate, but bitter-sweet sting.

And the whiskey is bad,
and the mixture is strong; stronger
than I would have preferred but
it grows on me and I continue
to slip it past my rotten teeth;
It is the best I’ve ever had,

as it is the most recent –
and who would not live their life,
with such flickering mannerisms,
if they could choose their life’s
moments, those purely indecent.

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