The Poetry Bus - driverless

No one's driving the bus this week - anarchy reigns! So what better poem than a memory of a nightclub where anarchy first became reality in my own little head anyway... This place was legendary, and was knocked down a few years back - I think the other passengers might be found on NanU's blog here

Henry’s

.

A dirty wall sweating and dark endless place

The rhythms the friendship the fire

The smoking in corners, the girl off her face

Toilet Mags handing rags to the choir

The puking in sinks, the spilling of drinks,

And dancing of limbs that were crazily light

The pulsing of shapes, the laughs, the mistakes

The typical mad Henry’s night

The mud on your back, lollipop in your hair

A kerb that you sat on outside it

Made friends with a whole world each friday night

An innocence that never died

And they knocked it, destroyed it, demolished it down

Full of drugs, full of song, such a low reputation

And the bouncers were thugs, and us all only mugs

Getting sucked in along the sensation

Of the music, the money, but twas only one P

Some nights and we went in pyjamas

It was dirty and rough, but we sure did fly free

‘mongst the beer, and the mud, and the dramas