Like Clockwork

'Come in, come in', I’m firmly ushered
Inwards like an old decrepit mother;
My shoes and coat remain firmly attached
In case a quick escape is needed to be hatched.
Music splutters from an outmoded laptop -
'I love this one, turn it up -'
As empty cans are trampled under feet
I try to be discreet
But long, lecherous fingers grab my sleeve
And spin me face to face with wretched breath,
Teeth stained with red wine bark my death
In the direction of the kitchen
Where I’m quickly guided in.

The fridge hums distractedly to itself
As I contemplate my health
And what effect this glass will have on it;
A person stumbles in to vomit in the sink
So I cast my eyes downwards to my drink
And think
But drink it all the same.

Through the crowded corridor I elbow past
And see outside all the chequered shirts spilled out onto the street,
Hugging the empty night with bottles of four percent
With nothing more than an empty intent
To fill the early hours with stereotypes -
Short skirts and stripes
That grew up watching Hollywood
And don’t know any better than they could;
Long hair and lipstick looks me squarely in the face:
'Can I borrow a light?'
Not tonight.
I don’t smoke tonight.

Bodies limp and sprawled over sofas and the floor
Betray numb recycled chemicals that I choose to ignore
But knock half the party unconscious;
Prufrock’s standing in the corner
Rolling dice that always come up odd;
My smile at him is greeted with a nod
That comes from a different body than the one he’s using,
Tantamount to proving
That perhaps I should be somewhere else as well -
Thought admittedly it’s pretty hard to tell.

Mr Bleaney bangs the floor from his hired box upstairs
But has nothing to declare
As loud voices shout back at him,
Destined to begin again.
'Have you seen where Tom went?'
I just about keep in first person present tense,
A pretence that strains itself
When in conversation with a man
Who’d sooner drown himself in aftershave
Than behave as if he had something between his ears;
I patronise him in middle class tones
Before distancing myself from his repetitive cologne.

The bathroom door convinces that its hinges are broken,
Whilst in disaffected winces and cringes I am spoken to
With a sympathetic shake of the head
And words that would have been better spoke unsaid.
'Can you believe what they’re doing in there?'
I finish with my glass and lay it flat on the table,
A position not so stable,
Beyond the point of frigid courtesy
As I watch the glass roll slowly off the edge
And tumble to the floor with a lifeless thud
Because it’s carpet
And carpet absorbs, absorbs, absorbs
Soaks it all up until it can take no more
And unleashes a torrent unlike any other
That will swarm and swirl and smother
All the better parts of us.

Two men sit at my feet and stare at a television,
More animated in computer games
Than in any given moment in their own realities,
No call for banalities or trivialities,
Just pixels on a screen and a difficulty setting of novice.
The melodic sound of a window being relieved of its frame
Distracts me from their banal game
And the appropriate scream soon follows
Through the wood-framed window, newly hollow.

Time to leave.

In the hallway two kids are going at it against the wall -
Though what 'it' is I’m not quite sure -
Their hands violating and exploring what it is to be young
While slippery tongues make friends and promises
That will never be kept;
Eyes are closed as if afraid to see their own actions,
Intent on a distracting momentary satisfaction
That I do not begrudge them
But wish it were something bigger.

Outside the ground is shaking to the rhythm of tomorrow,
An upbeat melancholy tinged with sorrow
And a hopeful clamour that the coming of the sun
Will usher in a new house to invade,
A new faith to be weighed against our better sins
And grin and take it on the chin
That all we are is broken clockwork
Hiding in shiny new parts that change colour every week
Overtly pristine but internally antique.

As I step away from the house and the people trying too hard to laugh -
'Listen to this, it’s hilarious -'
I catch myself mid-breath;
Clockwork, no matter what the age, will keep on running
Regardless of what we’re becoming on the outside;
Internally, we’re all the same:
Our feet will always dance in rain,
Our skin will always crave other people’s touch,
Our brain will perpetually think too much,
And our hearts...
Our hearts will forever pump the blood through our veins,
Always hungry, ready to be used again.