Through the Beer Glass Darkly


The watercolour folk know reams
Of football, cars and Facebook memes,
And immigrants and Freudian dreams,
But “Who the hell’s Gnarls Barkley?”
As through my porthole, thickly blurred,
I watch in silence, drinking words,
Until their voices can’t be heard
Through the beer glass darkly.
While in the snug the sporting blokes,
Play dominoes with racist jokes.
“You’ve got to laugh.” “A rum and coke?”
“Remember J. R. Hartley?”
And doughy barmaids, orange blonde,
Discuss the d.j.’s dextrous tongue,
“From Burnley?” “Aye, I could be wrong.”
Through the beer glass darkly.
Beyond the windowed doors, the crash
Of Doreen’s karaoke bash.
By ten she’ll give you head for cash,
“With lips all rouge an’ sparkly.”
In dulcet tones the jukebox drones,
Split only by the mobile phones.
I’m watching whilst the world atones
Through the beer glass darkly.


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