Love Those Frankenstein Guys
from The Men Pomes
© Gerry Potter, 2011

Thickset
Home to a mumble,
Incoherent under booze and slap-dash
They'll buy you a pint and don't want one back.
You're their oldest friend, long as the night is young,
So many stories made of imbecile dribblings,
Full of eloquent apology,
No-one's more sorry.
Shaped by urgency not remembered,
Often wonder whose head they're wearing.

Ever seen a face home to a beating and a smile?

Pulled apart by life,
Held together by their own stitching,

Songs, a kick and punch of melody.
Bruised,
Melancholy blued,
Battered and sometimes left for dead.
Been dads,
More than one kid,
A bride in every pint, a story in every port.

Out of control,

There's no punctuation in beer.
Some of them doctors,

Some of them queer.
Can't remember their last hard on,

Forgetting forgotten.

The times I've spent with them.
Good times.

Those Frankenstein guys
Have no idea they've been made.
The only way was a dead end.
That the bottle would be a natural home,
A châteaux
Cut off from the beast of reality,
Living lives where White Lightening often strikes twice.

I've watched them cry into their beer,
Very real tears,
Sobbing about opportunities missed or cocked up.
Seen them thrown out of pubs for being too destroyed.

I love their wisdom and finality.
Shivering fragility.

Chest rattle after every joke,
And belief in a god who has long forsaken them.

They belong drunk.

The night would not be the same,
They're its realities.
Hallucinating dancers illuminating the street,
Accompanied by show tunes long forgotten.
Lumbering home,
Limbs not theirs,
Jig of life and dearth.

Wing and prayer hopeful bed will cushion their fall.

Spending a fortune and lifetime dead to the world.