At the Paranoia Poetry Club
At the Paranoia Poetry Club
They all give thanks
For the NHS and their
Cheap Prescription tranqs.
The recovering drunk,
The failed suicide
Both sit together
Side by side by side
Waiting for the mic
To pour into the air
Their personal tales
Of angst and despair.
I sat there, of, relatively,
Quiet contented mind
With no social ills
Or axes to grind,
Listened until I couldn’t
Take it anymore
And at the first opportunity
Escaped through the door
To eagerly drink
A cold pint of porter
The wonderful taste
Of real Liffey water.
My regular attendance
Really could I think
Drive me right back
To excessive drink.
I don’t know how many
Such clubs exist in this land
But I’m sure there’s a case
For having them all banned.
Paranoia Poetry Clubs
Can drive a body to despair
Just by the process of
Sitting and listening there.
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