His thin feminine neck, Adidas-collared
Becomes rigid with growing unease
Tripping to the counter
He raises an uncertain coiffured eyebrow to Bertrand
Bertrand's hair, like his own
Is dyed black, cut short, and gelled to the front
There's ecstasy in his track pants
Track pants never worn doing any sport
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 Taberet machine cleans, then many more
Pinning in his hearing like grotesque mutated ghosts
Of DJ rave mixes odds living 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, "you think they sell Evian here?"
One huge man, working filth still covering his t-shirt
Unseen by the two ravers
Silently slides off his barstool like a shark that senses feed
"You're a long way from home, raver boy"