Wednesday, 2 November 2011

Die Freche Muse, a poem.

With a chill in the air, the ghosts roaming and the presence of ghouls, we put on our makeup and set off to Die Freche Muse.

Two stunning girls from a different decade, draped in pearls and velvet, not willing to fade,

Into the walls or out of sight, a room full of drinkers dancing into the night.

So I tip my bowler and straighten my pin, lower our morals for a night of sin.

We arrive at the Ritz on Kingsland Road, a warm public bar stuck in East End mode,

With a large landlady and larger drinkers, large gin and tonics and large whisky chasers,

the clientele were zombies and most were legless.

Dressed in Sunday Best, stilettos and lace, an air of the 20's, of glamour and grace,

Filled the room as I smoked my cigar, I dreamed of a day so distant and far,

A day when men wore top hats and carried canes, a day when white horses galloped through lanes,

The lanes of London shrouded in darkness, and old pub doors hiding drinkers and wasters.

I took my girl in hand and smoked her to the bone, took my mask off slowly so I didn't feel alone,

In this place called Dalston, east of the city, full of Cambridgshire types, trying to look pretty.

But they smell of daddy's money, even when dressed like a tramp, and the posh Indie boys, with wrists all camp.

We stuck together, we smoked together, we drank together and climbed the stairs together.

We listened to the French, and the poshest of posh fighting over a bench.

We danced together, smuggled in drink together, fought together and made up together.

We argued with the foreign taxi man, as he spoke exotic languages just because he can.

A suitcase full of knocked off booze, drinking in the toilet just to beat the queues,

Of East End wannabes talking with a ghetto slang, middle class ponces in middle class gangs.

But all suited and booted and rooted to our spot, we necked the wine, then we necked the lot.

We played the piano and we tripped the wires, we broke glasses twice and put out the fires.

And lived happily ever after, just like those fairy tales, when good beats evil, and the haunting men always fail.

We removed the masks and the curls and the lace, and woke up in Walthamstow in a different era, a different place.

So, as we danced, and we sang, and we argued and we ran, climbed the rickety old stairs to a different land.

We drank, and it flowed, and we smoked everything down to the bone.

And we awoke with a head full of dreams and booze.

Had we really been to Halloween Die Freche Muse?

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