The Friday Poem on 19/11/21
The poem ‘What the Doorman Says’ by Ben Wilkinson pulls no punches. The speaker — in twenty deadpan sentences — tells us all we need to know about his life, his experience, his world. He’s seen it all, and has a certain sort of wisdom to impart. The poem is dark, knowing, and and uses a hefty dose of good Anglo-Saxon language. This isn’t flowery metaphysical poetry but gritty and real, rooted in the ordinary and the domestic, and all the better for it.
What the Doorman Says
with a nod to C.R.
That he could kill for a smoke.
That the punters get older every year.
That really, he hardly ever has to lay a finger.
That even arterial blood washes right out.
That the fella with the dog sat at the furthest end of the bar
is, all told, a cunt.
That sometimes he dreams of jacking it all in, moving to Cornwall
to open a fish ‘n’ chip shop.
That booze, generally speaking, brings out the worst in everyone.
That his wife could be anywhere now.
That he’s been dry for five years, since she left, bar the one lapse.
That he’s seen it all before.
That you didn’t need to worry about a gang of blokes as much as
a serious hen party rocking up.
That letting punters choose the music from a jukebox with an
internet connection is a stupid idea.
That I should mind my own business.
That he could kill for a smoke.
That too many kids have knives on them nowadays.
That the punters get older every year.
That you learn a thing or two about life watching a grown man
fall down on his own vomit.
That he wouldn’t let his daughter near this place.
That a good strong cup of tea will do him nicely, ta.
That booze, generally speaking, brings out the worst.