PENKNIFE

through forests and fogs
through thickets and thin
i trek through the country
to get to the din
but when i get to the club
they don’t let me in
cos i take the wrong drug
and i don’t want to sing
for my supper or a beer
from a big bouncer thug
but i got to get around him
to get into the club
though i don’t know where to go
once i get inside the club

some get in to the club and sit down
and some go straight to the bar buy a round
and some take their coats off and some do not
and some move their feet as if the floor is hot
and those with their feelers on the girls don't stop
and their necks and their mouths and their eyes move a lot

on a soft dark sofa in the corner of the room
a drink and his man are buried in the gloom
nurse it, slurp it, swig it and sup
swill it, tilt it, down and up

he worked all week and no one likes that
so he drank all the beer in the fridge and fed the cat
the night fell down and the wind whipped up
in a nice new clean cut shirt he left the flat
lager in his arteries and sorrow on the brain
if his work makes him insane then he's losing at the game
dance drink chat shit feel less sane
dance drink chat shit feel ok

liv lif lou, be les sir.

i had to live the experience of going to the club many times before i realised that i hated going to the club. finally i think i am at the stage where i can find myself at the club and have fun at the club, by ignoring everybody at the club, and just clubbing with my big clubfist in the air, punching out the laser beams and swimming in the swelling ocean of human bodies.