Saturday Night Bow

Poorly propped in the corner of the room,
His head, spinning the waltz, faults.
The thumping sounds liquify his ears,
Fears allayed in clouds of vodka and rum
Succumbing quickly to their potent beauty -
Mutiny on the dance floor!

He stumbles to his feet, behind the eyes
The heat builds to a crescendo
And sends him crashing back to his chair.
Somehow, the innuendo of the situation evades him
And without a care in the world
He stares blindly at nothing,
Whilst his skull swims.

Odours of overworked bodies muddy the air.
Heads of blonde and brunette
Wildly flick their matted tips his way
But his gaze drifts, thoughts of her return,
Burning the back of his throat
Where the hate for her rumbles up,
Following the cheap whisky to his mouth;
He swallows the lumps back in disgust -
Fucking bitch.

Bass merges into inane turbulence
But the urgency of the night is on.
Checking his phone, unknown numbers laugh
At his desperate thoughts. His sight, cracked.
His mind lost under intoxicated sheets;
He peers our from underneath them
And that's when he suddenly sees them.
Who is that?

Across the room, not fifteen feet,
Through the gaps of cheap juvenile ravishment
(Like peering through greased branches caught
In a drain) he catches a glance.
A chance on their face suggests they're aware;
Perhaps the stare came the other way first?
He snaps his head back, but like rubber
His gaze bounces back through the bodies
To the other that is no longer there.

A panic sets in. Is it the gin
(Or the wine, or the rum, or the shots)
That brings a sweat to his brow?
Somehow he is worried, a hurried jump to his feet,
Staggering forward through the neon darkness.
Balance forms in his mind, but unconvinced legs
Send him crashing to the glutinous floor.
A haze of stars in his path,
Belly laughs above the cacophony confirm it;
He's down. 

His shirt drinks the dirt from the floor, drop by drop
The grime binds to his skin. Grim and groped
He slams his hands forward,
But drunk elbows bend unsympathetically
And he bows further into the filth.

Confusion sets in, the direction has been lost.
Up isn't up anymore (is it?)
Trapped by an avalanche of points and jeers
He sneers at his own state -
Fucking loser.
Resigning to fate, he does not move,
His flooded skull now full,
Sure enough, it expands
And he plummets into catatonic bliss.

But suddenly, he's up - lifted to his feet,
His chin no longer friends with the filth.
Arms clasped under his own, the unknown saviour
Nothing more than an opaque outline,
The flavour of their scent, a distant comfort
That closes in quick, the obvious discord
Masking the subtle questioning;
'Are you OK?' comes sarcastically.
He clumsily grasps at his liberator,
The baiters have gone and in one swift move
He intentionally pulls her to him.

Thoughts of 'the bitch' fade in an instant,
A distant reflection, only the acidic stain in his throat
His reminder.  Replaced with another,
This rescuer, this minder
Grasping him as if trying to stop glass

Tumbling down a staircase.

His intoxication, utter and complete;

Feet sway to a new beat

And without concern he leans in,

Stealing a kiss from the lips of his heroine.

It's odd.

Soft skin and cherry smiles do not greet him.

The sweet nectar of perfume - absent.

Slim hips and magnificent breasts

Do not push up against his chest.

Instead, his head greets the chisel of jaw and rock;

He looks up, not down, on his liberator.

The flavour is hard spice, spliced with oaky notes.

Arms that keep him afloat, not lacy

But blatantly solid, cut from stone;

They alone hold him aloft from the scene

Where he broke.

Oh fuck - it's a bloke.
Taxi. 

Copyright © 2014 by Simon Austin