Scribblings

The boredom of a middle-class dinner party

The Boredom of a middle-class dinner party

Is a trap.

A puzzle for the mind.

It would be a disastrous

Faux pas,

To go full daydream,

To embrace the inner Walter Mitty,

As showing respect to one's guests

Is the holiest order of the table.

That is why no one can say anything interesting.

There is an enforced dull decorum

Everywhere.

No bar fights,

No drug deals,

No flirting,

No dirty jokes.

The beginnings of fiction

Are completely absent.

You want to take up smoking

Just to escape

Outside into Film Noir.

So you must skate

The well-mannered edge

Of the precipice of politeness.

Nod, smile,

Serving coffee.

Oh, yes

(Laugh! Why are we laughing ?)

Coffee.

At least there is movement

As I put down the cups.

The sweet bitterness

waking me up.

"I need a cigarette," I say

To Barry beside me.

Barry Baron of

Some-place-I-didn't-catch,

Cousin of Babs.

"I didn't know you smoked"

He says as though

I have a preheated

Crack pipe ready for me.

"I don't, you're right, I don't."

C'est la vie.

I veer away

From French cinema,

From private detectives,

Back into

Drib and drab

Clean aired Colour.