For the Lost

For the ones who stagger drunk,

Down dim lit alleyways, 3 in the morning,

Past graffiti-stained walls,

Through piss scented subways,

Those who blow smoke rings at the moon.

 

Those, blown from one disaster to the next,

Like yesterday’s news blown in the wind,

For the ones rocking back and forth,

Cold sweat running down their backs,

Head in hands, worried for their sanity.

 

For those crouching in shop doorways,

Asking for spare change,

From passing strangers,

Smoking cigarette ends off the concrete pavements,

Eating leftovers from supermarket bins.

 

For the addicted and the abused,

For those scoring pills and powders,

For those in the aftermath of the fight,

Bruised and grazed and believing the lies,

Circled by the redness of tearstained eyes.

 

For those hanging around dingy flats and broken homes,

With nowhere else to go,

For the dealers, for the whores,

For the things that brought you here,

Whether you were rich or whether you were poor.

 

For the losing, for the lost,

For battles fought at the greatest cost,

For the countless ways, you’d wave goodbye,

For the countless reasons a new-born cries,

You’re still worth the fight to survive.

Saturday (Explicit)

The nightclub toilets,

Are full of staggering heels,

Tight dresses, short skirts,

Fake tan and lashes,

Loud shouting women,

Fixing their makeup, and hair,

With as much care as possible,

After several shots of happy juice,

There’s a heady mix of perfume smells,

Sweat, and booze,

That hits you as soon as you open the door.

 

You stand in a queue of women desperate to pee,

You can hear every word of,

Gossiping about the dance floor incident,

Where some random cow threw lager,

Over Angela’s new dress, in her face, in her hair,

It was completely unprovoked says Sharon,

Bitch was trying to stir shit says Kerry,

She was trying to flirt with Ange’s fella says Laura,

This fucking dress is ruined says Angela,

Dry clean only too for fuck sake, fucking bitch, fucking slag,

-She mops herself up with toilet paper,

Wipes the mascara into a tidy smudge,

Plotting silent revenge.

 

Pissed up women are hell in a handbag,

For losing the plot on the sudden,

Stacy is crying her eyes out in a loo cubicle,

Kicking the door like a mad head,

Refusing to come out after an argument with Richard,

Cursing the tosser, for choosing tonight of all nights,

Next door,

Jane stands in a toilet cubicle with the door unlocked,

Half swung open,

Snorting a line of coke off the top of the toilet cistern.

 

Done, she folds the tenner note back into her purse,

Along with the credit card,

Sniffs and wipes her nose before shimmying her way,

Bold as brass past the toilet queue,

Back out to the banging tunes,

The flashing lights, the ultraviolet,

A crowd of fucked up happy fools,

All jabbing at the air with arms and hands,

Wiggling their asses,

Dancing up close and personal,

On a sticky dance floor.

 

This is Saturday Night,

Heaven for some. Hell, for others.