Poem: Beers and kebabs

Kebab

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

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