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[Feb. 19th, 2014|10:57 am] |
His thin feminine neck, Adidas collared, becomes rigid with growing unease.
Tripping to the counter, he raises an uncertain coiffured eyebrow to Bertrand.
Bertrand's hair like his own is dyed black, cut short, gelled to the front.
There is ecstasy in his track pants - track pants never worn doing any sport.
He seems to sense every grim slitted eye studying his nasal ring.
He wonders where the bottle shop part of the bar is.
And looks confused at the yellow posters of the red and black back to back premiership teams.
A Tabaret machine clings, then many more,
Pinging in his hearing like grotesque, mutated ghosts of DJ rave mixes, odds, living techno beats,
Trapped beats, somehow condemned to play in this horrid bar to these slumping, motionless resentful men,
Transformed in his hearing into a sirened warning of implied violence.
"Bertie" he whispers, "Do you think they sell Evian here?"
One huge man, working filth still covering his T-shirt
Unseen by the two ravers silently slides off his barstool like a shark that senses feed.
"You're a long from home, raver boy" |
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