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."