Huxley's Mill

Is this the dystopia which Huxley once feared?
This brave new club with the most dazzling discolights since 2001.
Yes, they are Stanley’s spacelights which sparkle upon the crammed dancefloor
As Captain Morgan’s shipmates tipple the decks dancing to The Cure.
Smirnoff’s for one pound fifty
Two Jagerbombs for two pounds sixty
You can negotiate a pint of Bulmers but it’ll cost you three pounds eighty shouts the Delboy from the bar.

This Shakespearean screamer masks the change from Robert Smith to My Dark Fantasy
As you etch a sketch the foreign fresher fondling the schoolgirl’s vest
When Stanley’s shadows catch his jaws closing in on the Sambuca tasting bait.
Next to the bloke who’s consumed something stronger than Maxwell’s house.
As you spot the football social pulling every Geordie, Mancunian and Scouse.

To the left, a volcanic brawl waiting to erupt, a brawl that’s so typical for Saturday night but so different in blood.
One’s red, one’s blue, one’s United, one’s not.
A shirt is torn, a punch is thrown, a kick in the head.
Whilst sitting on this speaker, you begin to question,
Question whether that schoolgirl bitten by the teeth of Jaws is Leadmill’s Lolita?
The blonde who prefers her Southern comfort and arranging parties is West Street’s Mrs Dalloway
Or if that flirtatious, brunette with the bob wearing the seductive, sparkling, bodycon is Kelham Island’s Jordan Baker?
Who fancied a drink elsewhere from Gatsby’s Division Street
Or if those….. fucking freshers, the Carnage children coloured in UV paint. Whether those are Freud’s discontentment?

In typical Sheffield fashion, the bolts of the mill come together when Jarvis questions, questions
What else is there to do but to dance and screw?
It really does leave the question of whether your faithful speaker, this wayfarer wearing, Hicks quoting, self-deprecating literature student, whether he’s…. Dostoevsky’s idiot?

Dead from the Neck Up

The Gala dauber has become oh so frequent on Friday nights
When she meets Marjorie in her M and S blouse and Black and Decker tights
With a Cosmopolitan and twenty Dunhill Lights.
Don’t forget the splash of Agent Provocateur!
A habit of yesteryear that lingers like the scent of stale Lucky Strike.

Opposite the precinct is the Labour Club,
Where the retired men drink their bitter and share their Golden Wonder on policies, politics, hatricks and horses.
On Tuesday, I heard it was Ruby Valentine down at Southwell
As the one in the corner whose face has dropped a thousand of our Mary’s graces listens on.

Number 59 – The Brighton Line
Announces the compere whilst the Cosmopolitan consumer screams ‘you effin swine.’
She prescribes her sorrow a Gordon’s tonic and lime.
Observes the Television where Michelle Fowler’s revelation has been replaced by  the Test Card F’s creepy clown,
Whilst she hopes and prays for a grasp of Viv Nicholson’s crown.

Edged in the corner, sipping and supping at The Famous Goose
Tonight, The Labour Club’s booked an Elvis impersonator!
Those old dears clamber from the bar for this Prestwich Presley.
Although, he still sits undisturbed with his Goose, tired eyes and that sharp sort of stubble.
When his gaze turns affectionate towards a booklet from St Paddy’s Chapel
Two verses of Amazing Grace and a smiling face by the name of Doreen.
‘Maybe I didn’t treat you as well as I should have’
Echoes from the stage
The fella in the corner decides to call it a day
Gazes upon the reflection of the full moon in the chippy’s window
Whilst his boots become wet from the prescient’s winter snow.
And he makes his way…. 

Thirty Three – Come in for you tea
Fifteen numbers marked by her rifle’s red dot
£5,000 jackpot in her purse
Another woman shouts, ‘fifty three, wasn’t it?’
White shirt, short skirt, red lipstick
Harpurhey’s Betty Page in C&A lingerie
Words become exchanged
Marjorie leaves to the fruit machines.

And well this Doctor that prescribes Gordon’s Tonic
She lights up one, last Dunhill and she makes her way….