“another one,” I smack with my vowels
the balding head of the leprechaun of a bartender
the clown with his false smile and polished baritone
of friendliness, he pours me my Guinness;
he’s a… well, you know the type, a youngish fellow
who when no one’s looking turns away from the bar
and reads Spinoza’s “Ethics,” out of that naive belief
that there’s something philosophy can teach us,
or more likely, just to impress the glances of arts students
who come here Tuesdays for half-price drinks

I mull over the black coldness of the glass,
the shapely smell of french fries gurgles around
and for sure there is talking in our midst
but who would notice words;
the Heat have won (buzzer-beater), and the only man who cared
just went to the bathroom
and all is merry
it’s life to be lived
with no obligations to us, who live it
and a smattering of thinking, only allowed behind the bar

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[I do hope this will not turn out to be prophetic 🙂 – b_p]

[update: sadly, it did; still, two more to go]

[update #2: yay! it’s not over yet though]

[update #3: Wembley awaits]

To perception, it is no more than a winged knife

Lost among frivolous figurines, shapes

A semblance of divine order from one square to the next

Thought manifest in muscles, coordinate movement

Materializes in physicality of forcefields

 .

Unique in its repeatability, murmur which to the ardent ear is concealed

Scream of rapturous vengeance descending

In a parabola to unsuspecting greenness

To synaesthetic climax;

 .

Uprooted from its pristine beginnings

Virginal simplicity craved by the inexperienced

Taken beyond a mere category of contest

Rhythm so pronounced it disfigures melodic

Thumping of your feet

 .

Yet the spectacle ordinarily fails

Inflated to the dimensions of tragedy, unhinged

From its unpretentious context

To stupor of mes que un club.

That really is not mes que un slogan.