A NIGHT AT THE CASA BLANCA

An evening sun lays down its head
upon the roofs of Liverpool;
in purple light it sinks to bed
through clouds of rhubarb fool.
The street is wide and cool,
the shining windows red.

I turn to rap upon the back
of Casa Blanca's door.
The bouncer opens it a crack
and then a little more;
his porcine pupils bore
my head: they're mean and black.

A ten pound note explores his palm.
'Come in, yer bastards, then!'
I flushing and Louise quite calm,
we enter once again
the packed malodorous den
and reach the bar exempt of harm.

The pints of lager gurgle fast,
a scalding icy flood,
and when the evening's binge has passed
it tastes like liquid mud
or slime of twice-chewed cud.
The night club throws us out at last.

Louise and I walk down the street
in clinging drunk embrace.
I vomit and I lose my feet;
she holds me, wipes my face.
We hail a cab and race:
it does not stop; hands touch, eyes meet.

Cremated night lets fall its ash
upon the dying town;
occluded sun reveals a rash
as grey as eiderdown
that sneaks its tight-lipped frown
above the gulls and wind-borne trash.