A loud drunk sat on a stool,

A loud drunk sat on a stool,

Tufty hair and uncultured stubble

Peaking from his nostrils, sprouting on his chin,

Barely able to look himself in the eye

Addressing the bar as if he was

An orator, a Shakespearian actor

Delivering a monologue

Without researching the role

Missing the nuance of meaning

Spouting nonsense with authority

He deserved the group of Americans at the table in the corner

To stand their ground

So much vitriol about peace

How does that work?

Firing his bullets, free-range,

When did it become righteous to cast aspersions

Without amendment

Alcohol can make us all aspire

To be kingmakers

It reduces some to rubble.

I thought I might write something about him

But caught myself playing his game

Spitting feathers before they were plucked

I would need to be a writer

Fully formed

Properly published, with people willing to pay,

Be like Ginsberg or Bukowski

Snap at the hand that feeds me,

When I don’t even submit any work.

How cowardly am I?

Not a bloody writer at all

Hardly even a poet

A weekend warrior

Drunk on connectivity

No better than a member of a medieval

Reenactment society

Living the dream in an iron-age campsite

Whilst hosting a facetime conference

On the sustainability of arable land

In a rural environment rich

In rare earth minerals.

I would hide behind a slew of phrases

Like a barroom orator

Without the courage of my conviction

Just like all the other sofa driven

Poets who are too misunderstood

To be published

Feathers taste bloody awful as I spit them out

I told him to watch his mouth

There were Americans present

He was causing offence

A Texan said he was “packing” and it was okay

He was just waiting for a break in the floor show

To perform a quickdraw

Leave the building smokin’

To climb up on his horse and exit stage left

‘This is just a one-horse town anyway.’

He didn’t need to smile

To disprove the theory

The barroom Blitzer was expounding,

Americans can do irony

But only if a soapbox

Has been occupied by an Anglo-clown

Delivering horseshit homilies

To a pub full of little Englanders

Drinking in his words

Gulping them down like fine wine

Curated by Churchill

Savouring the vintage

Almost as old as their jokes

And a mature Cheddar.

It sounds absurd

But for some in the bar, he was no clown

He was an influencer

Whatever that might be.