" How's it gone ? "

"And so we meet again, my friend, two blank page problems staring across a pint or two, shall we discuss Politics, Economics, Religion, Philosophy or shall we shoot the s**t, whilst pissing in the wind and watch the weekend worm it's way into our bones, shall we toast the hunt master, Mescalito, Bacchus, bomb Shiva shanti, Buddha, Yesus, Marley, Scratch Perry, Seasick Steve,

should we, shall we, would we, will we,

Let the dance begin and end in tears, let the hills grow beards and, the trees burn their shadows, let the Berserker inside feed and bleed, let the Hashisheen free, to do what they do best, "

"I only asked, how's it gone, get tae f**k, ya f*****g bam,"

alone again, at the bar again, talking to my pint again !

My Alpha male, inner child would like to point out that I still got laid that night,

The Tart, The Friday, The End,

Reviews

[Eilis]

This is a bit like a comedy skit. The poet at the bar letting his poet thoughts out and finding himself misunderstood. Who’s the real bam, here? I think we all know the answer to that.

I read this first as some great craic, but then, because I just do it, I saw it also as something deeper. Like when we are poets, but no one gives a f**k about that out in the real world so we have to keep putting a lid on that part of ourselves out in public.

Maybe a few drinks or laughs in we feel safe to let something of it slip out, but there’s always someone there to put us in our place.

I see shadows of Kerouac in the monologue. Somehow he managed to find a few like-minded chums. Lucky for us there’s the vast pub of the internet where we can choose the patrons we sit beside. And finally have all the conversations we’ve been waiting to have.

So, whatever the bam-calling bam here had to say, I guess it was for naught in the end. If we are to believe the poet’s story, his night ended well enough. And why wouldn’t we believe him, he’s sincere enough to put himself out there. So as Shakespeare said—all’s well that ends well. Haha.

Very cool poem convo, Gram.

[gram linski]

glad you enjoyed, aye there's no many folks want to talk about poetry on a Friday in the pub and as for work, f**k me, haha, Kerouac is high praise indeed, anything to do with Uncle Jack is usually subliminal, yon f****r has been wandering round my head for decades, thanks as always for reading and bringing your unique insightful thoughts

[Ian Chris]

I enjoyed your reading your poem "How's it gone". I like the idea of either discussing something intellectual or having a drink and maybe something more delightful.
All the best,
Ian Chris

[gram linski]

Thanks Ian Chris, glad you enjoyed it

[John Alexander McFadyen]

This sounds abit like any Friday, Saturday or Sunday in any bar in Glasgow. Love the inner conversational nature of this piece.

[Onlyme]

God, I have got to love your stuff Gram you sure are direct and straight like a snooker cue. I could actually picture this across any pub that is left standing and open in Britain today.

[gram linski]

Wow, if you are liking my s**t, then you are a bit fucked, again true conversation

[Onlyme]

Lol yupe iam me Dawn fucked up my middle name but iam honest and open and true to me.

[Onlyme]

your honest and dont talk bullshit.

[gram linski]

if you read "A Ramble thru the vines," you would probably disagree