Six a.m. A pub in the countryside
of my mind. More like
a sitting-room. Metre-long bar,
one pump. “I’ll have a pint
of that then, I suppose. Do you
have any jobs going at the moment?”
The tangerine-faced
landlady replies, “Only for
pole-dancers.”
Next thing I know I’m wrapped
in a long wig and fake tits
around a pole, clambering
ceilingwards to escape
the gropes of a dozen
hairy-nosed farmers.
The tangerine face calls out, “Now you know
how it feels to be a woman, love!”
Three a.m. Another pub.
The landlord, hairy-nosed
and Cornish, plonks down
a frothing jar
and erects an endless wall
of tulips-and-rugby-sprinkled prattle
with no windows of response
in front of me. “I’m sorry, mate,”
I halfway through my crisps interject,
“I don’t mean to be rude
but I was just after a quiet pint
on my own, really.”
He chortles, “Not round
here, my boy!
You buy a pint of the local brew,
you get a conversation with it,
that’s the tradition!”
and resumes waffling,
something about government subsidies
and otters.
“Alright, well, could I just have
a white wine instead then, please?”
Out slides the cork.
“Of course, my boy! This here
is our local wine,”
as he fills my glass, leans
over the bar
and thrusts his tongue down my throat.
Five a.m. A field.
A flock of crows
pinching all my seed.
“Fuck off!” I shout myself awake.
“What?” groans the girl
next to me. “Not you, darlin’,”
I explain. “The crows.”
