The Club

This poem is dedicated to my most regular visitor, Peter Schreiner.

My poetry does not make any effort to rhyme, is not devoted to mathematical algorithms and contains no designed ciphers. Written rapidly, it reflects the expressive features of a moment. However, enwrapped is so much more. Conscientious readers have a lifetime to discover.

Regularly I visit my local Bowling Club to break the order of my life. Typing in the notepad of my iphone, I ponder whether to stay for a second beer or leave, as usual, after one.

Televisions high in all corners

Flickering quadrant sentinels

Beaming intolerable coherent jargon

Meaningless drivel; mass media spin

Monotonous tones stifling time

Rest bite from the gambler’s curse?

One more spinner is surely a winner?

Sentient ambivalence greets wizardry

Could faith conjure control?

 

The floor divides an invisible hive

A clique for each quadrant

Twelve circle tables, empty?

Pleasantly spaced; nicely scented

Ne’er all cliques present

Always one; sometimes more

Bar services coordinate disorder

Too much cheer for some?

Go home; lest you be told.

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