Night Sketches

By Richard Carl Mather

Over Lytham St Annes,

Liverpool and Leeds,

Manchester too,

there's a full moon

in white light suspended

and all tonight’s stars

are out, wannabe stars

on dirty side-streets

in designer gear,

in dirty black cabs

on dirty black roads.

Drive too fast brother

and you don’t see

a cat’s green eyes

rub past the dustbins;

or a fox ethereal

in light electric,

sniffing a chicken bone.

High on pleasure

of the sensuous kind,

they go on, each

to his favourite haunt.

On stage in bars

with amps and guitars

the boys set up.

They are tonight’s band.

From table to table

girls are birds, they

chirrup, take off

and land, now they’re

off again. A voice cries,

“Not right now mate,

I’m going for a fag”.

“One, two, three, four”:

a fuck-off glare set

to three rude chords

and the atmosphere

goes pop, like an

overloaded fuse,

and the city’s blood

is up, pumping

furiously through

her mainlines as the bass

and drums lock in.

And yes, the midnight

pool-cue warriors

are out on patrol

looking to beat

their rivals, and yes,

there’s scrapping in the streets,

and spitting in the bushes,

and the Safeway window

is broken in a rout,

and a policeman

is called a dick,

and yes, it’s true

the commotion

at the Casbah

is all down to the band

being too pissed to play,

but when everyone’s

had a drink or two,

and the moon is full,

what occurs at night

looks more natural

that it would in the day.