This is something I began working on a few weeks ago...
Mates
My Girlfriend thought I was cheating,
When I told her I was meeting,
Donna and stella,
for the evening.
Not Quite.
A few pints,
a lot of banter,
and a passion for grease.
My belly clucks for the pulp of processed meat,
blushing red at whiskey's cheek,
drowning in larger,
we sink deep,
into verbal cesspool's,
where rule's cease,
and profanities rain.
I love seeing my mates.
Cusses fly in unrestricted airspace.
Energy,
breeds energy,
voices become raised,
stories are relayed,
amplified and distorted.
Glasses are raised,
to us,
as friends,
comrades,
mates.
We don't meet merely for the sake,
of partaking,
in alcohol,
booze takes second place,.
Public houses,
as opposed to houses,
provide a neutral space,
for us to congregate.
We don't meet merely to provide,
wingmen,
for when,
we attempt to fly alongside the birds.
These days,
if anything,
it's an escape from the avian race.
As life moves on and we all approach thirty,
like a train,
pulling into a station,
ready to unload a load of commuters,
reluctantly heeding to work in a job they hate,
our meetings as mates,
are few and far between.
This only makes the cake taste that little bit sweeter.
Cherries of news like,
Benny telling he's getting married,
Richard's missus is expecting,
and Gary's got a mortgage,
serve only to pepper the ingredients,
for what is already,
the bakers best kept recipe
Even when I had no news to report,
or,
when Rich was still signing on,
none it mattered.
For that short space of time,
when we meet,
career progression,
success with women,
money in the bank,
just become,
minor crumbs of information,
deriving from slices,
belonging to the cake.
Perceived negative side effects,
such as,
intake of fat saturated take away,
hangovers the following day,
are a small price to pay.
Away from my mates,
I feel England frowns,
everytime I open my mouth.
Concerned I might,
rupture the delicate eggshell skeleton of political correctness,
without ever assessing,
my integrity,
or intentions.
Prosecution judge and jury all rolled into one,
poised to condemn every word,
on the verge,
of slipping off my tongue.
Maintaining a snipers eye on my p's and q's,
was mandatory,
in my upbringing,
along with,
the importance and encouragement,
to step back
and laugh at life,
once in a while.
The communal sharing of stories,
told through beers with my peers,
is a nod to the culture of my forefathers,
who lacked the ability,
to read and write.
They immortalised their legacies,
through music and folk tales,
recited in boozerz,
swimming in ale, guiness and spirits.
Anytime a beer tap pumps liquid kisses into a pint glass their spirits live on.
I doubt my Grandpa would approve,
of the amount of booze,
I consume,
of an evening,
and I'm sure he would have something to say,
about the badge of lad culture I wear,
sold through football,
as well as,
the sise of a,
modern player's wage,
and as for gastro pubs,
we best leave that there,
however,
sitting in a pub,
with my mates,
laughing
being loud,
but not over the top,
regardless,
of whether or not,
this is no longer considered acceptable,
I'm sure he'd fight my corner,
And understand,
the necessity,
and love,
of seeing my mates.
