They laugh

And they drink

In this place that doesnt know

If its pub or cocktail bar

Lost souls 

Well on their way

To booziness

Bloatedness

Bad, fumbly sex

Definitely on their way 

To nowhere

This screwed up world

That leaves us grasping 

For bad jokes and bad beer

And forced overly loud laughs

Because our daily lives are killing our souls

Facebrick finishes

And metal chairs

Style parading on tiptoes

As the 397 goes past

In the Loughton Friday night

I’m sipping a cheap San Miguel

Waiting for Leon to come back

Accepting yet again

That loneliness is my natural state

That I was meant to walk through life

Observing from the edges

Staring into the distance

Noting the odd splash 

Of washed up liquored conversation

Feeling too much

Showing too little