His thin feminine neck, Adidas collared
Becomes rigid with growing unease, tripping to the counter
He raises an uncertain coffured eyebrow to Bertran
Bertran's hair like his own is dyed black, cut short, gelled to the front
There's ectasy in his track pants, Track pants never worn doing any sports
He seems to sense every grim slitted eye studying his nasal ring
He wonders where the bottle shop part of the bar is
And looks confused at the yellowed posters of the red and black back to back premiership teams
A taber'e machine cleans then many more pinning in his hearing like grotesque mutated ghosts of
Dj, rave mixes, odds, moving techno beats, trapped beats somehow condemned to play in this horrid bar
To these slumping, motionless, resentful men
Transformed in his hearing into a silent warning of implied violence
Bertie he whispers do think the sell Evian here?
One huge man, working fill still covering his t-shirt
Unseen by the two ravers, silently slides of his barstool
Like a shark who senses feed "You're a long way from home raver boy."