Poem: Beers and kebabs


Oh, Inglorious Miracle!

Born in an utterly unpretentious anti-natal ward
of screaming spitting smoking meat
and a temptation to continue drinking.

Sliding home,
silky grins all over faces,
delighted with the exploits
of a deliberately impromptu occasion.

The terms of engagement I adjusted to rather quickly:
Not swiftly enough to keep up,
or too rapid, perhaps.
Just contradictory,
as I jive, twisting, sticking.

On I go, once the smoke has risen
and fallen.

In time I feed my fatuous nature with the hot and the banal,
never fully submitting to the gratuitous mess of my endeavour,
I call an early end on my adventure and miss
with a looping throw into an overflowing bin.

I am better you see, than a kebab and a few beers.

Definitely better.
Although, wet with sweat and embarrassment at my own damp hand.

Definitely better, than that which I have scope to become.
I walk into the distance,
definitely better, now.


Kebab courtesy of 19 Numara Bos Cirrik II restaurant, Stoke Newington, London

Post your response to this piece below and I'll share the best

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s