Its a Saturday night and there’s no reason to go out.
I have everything I need.
I have beer in the fridge and French cigarettes in my pocket
and half can of beans in the cubed.
I have no reason to go out.
No friends to meet in that bar on the west-side of Pink Lane avenue,
filled with men, the shadows of their former self s, blended by the
dust of coal mines that have long gone, and like them the beer is cheap.
No, no, no its dangers out there on a Saturday night.
So take a seat and put your feet up, and we will talk about yesteryear,
when we all had techno coloured dreams and danced the night away
hie on 80s pop too loud for your mama’s ears to bier, now our shoes
are filled with concrete, standing by empty beds fall of lies.
No its dangers out there on a Saturday night.
Outside my window a snake eyes in a top hat crawls on its belly, with
cigarette dangling from finger tip claw, withers its way in and out
of empty window shop frames, eyes a preacher man standing on a create
full of broken dreams, with billboard in out-reached hand, shouts to the world
that god love’s them, as he try s with all his might to turn back a tide of
cigarette ends, plastic paper bags, blowing amongst the dust of old rags.
“God love’s you! He demands passion in his eyes, almost erupting into
anger as he competes in a losing battle against drunks with special
brew glued to hands, as they sleep on blue static light of an 80s techno
coloured nightmare.
Speaking in their own coded language that the rest of mankind don’t really
understand.
“God love’s you! He repeats in a howl, as he drowns in his own self
importance, but his voice soon vanishes as Snake Eyes raps his mouth
around his frame and devourers in one sitting, all to the applause of
drunking fan’s. Then they go back to the business of drinking themselves
to obliven, of broken promises to a boy they one’s knew.
Man its dangers out there on a Saturday night.
I see dogs in hats leading kittens on strings, I see stick men in jackets
to big for their despairing frames.
I see all the lonely and depressed in blood stained glasses marching as one,
just for a while, marching towards invisible castles to demand their due,
lighting barn-fires as the go.
Man its dangers out there on a Saturday night.
I eye a little girl, jumping Jack high, jumping down on beat
street corner, clicking her finger to the rhythm of street light.
Dancing pop cans follow her feet in the cool wind of sweet
night time.
She dances past big red neon signs advertising coca-cola
and McDonnell new and approved Big Mac, with moon shinning
down on her smiling face, as she hits the grove fantastic to Frank Sinatra
wannabes in back rooms, with sweat pouring from their brows,
falling down drunk on the excess of swing soul music as
Courtney Pine and the like play on to sun up.
The Jazz man plays the Jack of hearts in the lions den until
there is nothing left but the shirts of their backs, stirring into
whisky glasses.
Snake Eyes sees the little girl tip towing past my window from
outside.
I can almost touch with stretch out hand, but scared that she
will disappear into thin air, so I shout “Hey girl get along home
its dangers out there on a Saturday night”. Then she vanishes,
disappearing amongst a gathering mass of shadow.
So Snake Eyes looks towards me and groans.
Man its dangers out here on a Saturday night.
–END–
