Beirupdate, waltz

This guy believes Roethke’s Waltz is about a Waltz and not a fight and when I tell him he’s gone wrong I go warm inside like I’ve been floored but then I realize this guy knows shit about poetry. J saves me with noise and alcohol so we split to a bar called Dictateur like some French fuck factory and I sit across from a mum who thinks I’m her age and a designer who definitely does not look like Zooey Deschanel and answers my questions by blowing smoke in my face. I douse the table in beer and scotch and absinthe before everyone bails to a club called fuck knows what where fags and dykes and chubs prance to eighties classics no one remembers. The last thing I feel is neat Bombay in a large glass and a single drag from a cheap cigarette that burns it down to the nub. Soon we hustle cups and balls for pong with espresso vodka and scotch chasers and despite refraining from a decider we leave to streets of nausea and go Mad. The site says sanity is overrated but before we arrive J shouts lalala at the cabman and throws me to the tarmac. We know that Mad is hundreds down the line so I stand uncontrolled in showers of sprinkler water shouting and jumping as though a god and I feel untouchable and so we fight. With jeers and laughs J eggs for others to come and swing and they do and we make peace between nations when a boxer dances from across the street to punch me in the stomach. The next day I eat sheep spleen in a sandwich and then brains that taste of nothingness and dissolve on the tongue like promises to a girl I once knew.