Deep within

the poet in me and the guy who sells chips

are always in conflict with each other.

Raining blows – real hard ones.

Sometimes the poet comes home

with a black eye,

 and curses

every motherfucker who buys chips

from the chip-guy.

On another day the chip-guy,

limps home with a swollen rear

thanking the minions

who say “Poetry is lame”.

But tonite , I will take them both out.

And the three of us

will hit the city’s shadiest bar.

We will fill our stomachs and bladders

with beer

and snake along the streets,

screaming songs so loud – that sleepy windows

will turn towards each other with concern.

We will bang every door ,

that’s shut and asleep –

slap every car who have rolled-up windows

and have called it a day.

Tonite, the poet will mean business

and the chip-guy shall sing the saddest song!