I used to think you were just a mean drunk,

a man who at the end

of the long arduous night

would pop open a tin

of cheap

nasty liquor

and sink them in order,

cans one

through to eventual six

and then to whom resentment

at the world, the sign of the angry

Capitalist, the dead on sarcasm boiled

in rich memory

of having been shafted by the poor,

the meagre and the deprived…

in your greedy eyes,

in your hard-up soul

the bile rises, fuelled by injustice

and the need to kick out,

to tear someone down, to take down

the flavour of the day, the week,

ah Hell,

whom ever you really fancy, because

at the end of the day

the spoilt man

will always find a reason

to blow smoke

and take down those he feels

threatened by.

I used to think you were a mean drunk,

popping ale

in the dead of night,

now I know

its just that you like playing with loaded guns,

the feel of the weight

as it slides from one hand

to the next,

the weight shifting, turning over

as if you were masturbating something

that only held six bullets

and one in the chamber,

you take aim,

you fire,

you take aim,

you fire,

you become sloppy

and someone puts their finger

in the barrel, slowly

and unsuspecting, you fire

and the smoke that bellows, the carnage that follows

only leaves you blinded,

rage filled and lashing out;

I used to think you were a mean drunk

now I know you just can’t hold

your weapon

straight when the can talks back.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016