Posh Poetry

Posh Poetry How was I to know, the invitation to a poetry reading was a posh affair? Thought it was the usual thing with sausage rolls and warm red wine. Felt as the poor relation to the royalty of poetry, sensed I was ignored, no one looks at any one who has made a tailoring error. I had a couple of poems on a folded sheet in my beloved jean´s jacket, just in case I was asked to read a poem or so – pure vanity-. Had two glasses of wine before the séance started but only two, three my inferior complex awakens and I tell people to piss off. Just before the show ended and an actor had read poetry of a famous dead poet, I was asked to read… I did, but was met with griping voices. The poem was about rich, pretentious bastards who thought poetry was a parlour game, the organizer cut me short. Later in the bar, the actor thanked me for my reading thought it daring telling my truth about this kind of recital. More drinks, later that evening I had to find a taxi for the actor and I had to go back to find the posh accent he had lost in the bar. He was as working lass as I, but had gone to acting school and had the face of a lord, or the way we think a lord should look like. The poor actor was never invited back, he swore in the bar, nor was I for that matter, but we can live with that.