Perforated Love at the BFI after work

I have hate.

Staring at the Thames, I lack detail
- See a mere ritual of business in purposeful waves
Scapegoat for poets.
Theme identified!

“San Miguel on Visa?”
So I never looked good at the right time
And never fucked a dirty whore
Or screwed a normal one senseless.
“Sorry mate – no change”
Idiot tramps.

South Bank clatters and scratches concrete.
River Bass no longer just fish – but too in music manifest!
Gatherers out in force to find fuck-buddies it seems.

Yet I’m suited.

Pebbles of Late summer-clouds chaperone
Water’s path inevitable – hither east.

My inevitability though?
Have I too a sail to be wind-led, do I
Spite surrounding bodies seemingly?
Oar itself would suffice
- Single even;
One side clawed; alternate; made
To bring from the stricken path away,
Would suit.
I’d love to lose; having tried.

“Flyer in your face sir?”
On San Miguel’s name, I swear revenge to deface the transgressor.
Haven’t read the advert, though will scribble thoughts on back.
- Think someone wants to be cultural.
So then do I assume too attire, beard and specs?
“Interesting point” on subject laureate – for speaking’s sake?

Though, I like it now to be ignored;
Receding hair seems just the trick.
But remember youth? Arrogance cocooned in ambition,
Foreskin of life - gone;
Now sensitivity glows it’s fresh-faced piglet.

Sans Miguel the composer, words are at loss.
End.
“Another one please!”