There was something admirable in his capacity for
self-destruction
No illusions to the extent of damage he done to himself on a
daily basis
His liquid and walkers crisp diet obliterating his innards
The inside was reflected outward through the bone, flesh,
blood and skin
The pale grey complexion
Riddled with sores
Melting into his dying hair
His blackened teeth
And
Browning gums
The cracks in his hand where red
Almost glowing with slow infection
Dirt firmly planted under his finger nails
Lager son
As he tapped the blood red T
The man was a ghost
Floating through whatever public house could stand his
stench
From early doors to closing time
His lager and whiskey chase
Grouse with a bit o’ water
The throat could barely make a sound
Due to the lack of company he kept
It had little use for conversation
Reduced
To a gaping passage for alcohol to flow down
I have become death
Gladly selling the ailing man
His profitable
Suicide
For three twenty a pint
Lager please barman
He sits head in hands
From a distance you wonder if he’s actually dead
So still
Like an old statue left for time and moss
We work round him
So used to the decay
We only care when we notice the smell
His catheter had burst
Pish and bodily fluid pouring out a plastic tube attached to
his leg
The fluid dripped
And slowly crept across the floor
Tiny streams in each of the gaps in the floorboard
He sits head in hands
Disgrace and despair
So we phoned him a taxi and shuffled him out
A broken man
Pitiful
But an inconvenience
But he’ll be back
Or maybe he won’t
And I’ll wonder if he found a new bar to haunt
Or maybe
That was the last
Lager I served him
And the last taxi I shuffled him into
Somewhere
Only known to the taxi driver and ferryman
Lying in his bed
Old
Alone
And cold
With only his perished liver for warmth.
