Closing Time at the Dead End Pub

Laughter howled from the bowels of carpets
Stained, trodden to the bone, unsanitised….

The Landlord played prodigal son to
Infirmed and illegitimate infants.

Salavation Army tambourines trilled
Redemption against a deftly death score,
Lonely leitmotif asked who should I frame this evening?
A sea of cataract stars seemed open to invitation.

Pat returned from the bar
His leg trailed as a girder through sand.
Red eyes met mine in complicit communion

Even the rain is not brave enough to fall in this town
Remember that night we went fishing and it snowed in April

I returned my catch to their lake home,
Pat stoned their heads until papier-macabre.
He smirked that kind of smirk
Which only killers can do.
It’s written in stone.

Streets upon streets of granite slate,
‘Baron Munchausen Syndrome’
Medicates witheringly dull lives,
Fear is the phone ringing during soap-opera tales:
Not for Pat and his kind.

Pat’s gaze drank the window,
Coughed first sight of Christmas
Into tinselled coffins, decorated cell.

The world is full of bastards Rob.
You see they not only killed him
When they left my brother’s body
Astride our parents’ grave
Stabbed to fuck….they killed me

Even in the shallowest water
We can be out of our depth.
An intake of breath, heavier
Than Pat’s knuckles creased into the table.

Oh, how they begged me not to avenge
Revenge should be left to the courts
Fuck that Rob, on my parents’ grave……
On knees, bent and buckled they begged
Eileen already cried for forgiveness
For she knew, she cunting knew

Broken jukebox would have played Johnny Cash,
Pitney’s ‘A Town Without Pity’ -
“Why don’t they help us, try to help us.”
Vinyl veranda of song cement the foundations.

He gurgled you know, gurgled like a bastard baby
The blade felt good in my hands, but better in him
The police knew me and I just………

His voice trailed like a siren
Into the never-ending distance.
“Haven’t you all got a home to go to?”
The barmaid’s cleavage beckoned lost souls
Last orders, to hills only alive with the sound of mucus.

I kissed him on the cheek and was gone.
Turned my collar against the iced arrows,
Salt rain began to fall from heavenly skies.
It swept my quiff into the gutter.
Written by Strangeways_Rob
Author's Note
ERULGCT 190. True story, interspersed with bit of poetic licence. Known some truly bad folk, but rarely submit (on here anyway) for fear of sounding like a fantasist. More selective of my friends these days.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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