New To Town
There's clinking glass and wine on tap,
I'm new to town and I'm drinking alone.
This bar is full of beautiful women-
over half of them attached to some man
and the rest; laughably unattainable.
I've been playing with the jukebox in the corner,
picking at the cold fries surrrounding
a carcass of chicken; all the food in here
is the exact same shade of beige;
only ketchup and a smooth black stout bringing
real colour to the proceedings.
I've been spending half my time outside
in the half-lit beer garden,
standing beneath the thong-shaped tarpaulin
that hangs as an excuse for a shelter.
My eyes are a little red, but that's nothing new-
nothing a few sleepless work nights
won't do to you;
I smoke wearily in the rain
but I know I will sleep well, and full, tonight.
You see, the air feels clear here,
the people are good here;
I can wak to the coastline
to remind myself it isn't all concrete
and violence in the street;
I know that I am drunk tonight
but I feel that here, eventually,
I won't have to take to a chemical retreat
to find peace, to find sleep, to espace war on the screen;
to remind myself that I don't have to stand small
beneath the bigger names and bigger signs;
to remind myself that I cannot save the world
if I am so ******* in knots
that I can never unwind.
The tables are numbered, long, and communal here.
Men smile with all of their teeth
and clothes always hang better over confident frames;
I feel drunk on their confidence, an ocean spray
that salts my skin and thickens my hair-
a solution made in the depths of fluid and air.
Despite being on my fourth stout,
my leg is still jigging uncontrollably
beaneath the table
and so I roll another cigarette;
fix my eyes shortly to the screen
to watch the sports news roll by.
As I smoke once more
and listen to the rain hit the tarp
and a train roll in the distance,
I remember how far I've come,
how far I threw the dice
and gambled on this, a better life.
A life by the sea in full bars
of beauitful people;
on the outside and looking in
on a scene full of pretension,
but shelves of whiskey and gin.
Earlier in the night, I walked down from my new place
and talked to the strangers in their workplace positions;
I stopped and asked for directions
as if I was someone who stopped people
and asked them for directions...
Now it's night,
I'm caught in the headlights;
in the traffic light shooters;
rainbow cocktails, more sweetener than *****;
but it all feels new,
too new
and I'm left with a tongue too big for my mouth,
I'm left with a head-full of doubt
and a gut-full of stout.
Still, the air is clear here,
the people are good here
and I can walk to the coastline
to remind myself that it isn't all about
going out for fresh air
and smoking cigarettes;
that it isn't about finding a state of happiness,
like Atlas; holding up the sky
in the fear it will fall upon us.
I can remind myself
that there is no race to be run,
there is no prize to be won;
I stopped being competitive
once I realised how pointless it was
to separate yourself from others.
There's clinking glass and wine on tap.
I'm new to town and, at least for tonight,
I'm drinking alone.
But there's a difference between
solitude and isolation
and in the company of these brand new streets,
I think I finally feel at home.
Has already been reviewed from this point and will make amendments later on. But here's a trial version of my latest poem. I hope you get the gist.
