2/3 - The Dead Centre Of the Universe & other places

A collection of poems.

old fart

bottles stand in rows, like a shooting gallery
ceiling high they resemble church organ pipes
bars are churches, you attend to contemplate
or commune with friends and celebrate life
or like me, simply to make human contact
over a beer, another word for holy water

not that I ever attended church, though
I once attended midnight mass on a promise
a Christmas gift wrapped in Chelsea Girl underwear
I endured the drone of tinnitus dirge and voice
the suppressed excitement in my pants
threatened to explode in a blasphemous rage

I'm older now, less well maintained, on the slide
those urgent needs are not so urgent now, anyway
girls in Chelsea Girl underwear don't promise anymore
so I sit in the chiaroscuro light of Café De Spoek
the mirror behind the bar being all too honest
I'm an old fart doing an old fart thing

I sip my beer and dither, to talk or not to talk
interrupt someone's brooding depression
impose my genius wit on their dull existence
I could put their world to rights, council them
tell them where their life went wrong
alcoholic advice from an out of control life

the myriad brand labels on endless bottles
life is not long enough to appreciate such efforts
but I'm at a stage in life where experimenting kills
like s ex, it's appreciated but can the heart take it
adventure is another beer, it used to be smoke too
but death loiters with intent, a mugger in the shadows