By Thomas Caterer

Charlie boy, he walks out of the club
a big lad, danced not quite majestically
but joyfully bounced as erratic limbs
floundered and flailed

A smirking man in the smoking area
smiles cruelly in his direction
a cutting remark on good lad Charlie’s body
or dance moves or something
elicits mirth from the surrounding sycophants

Charlie smiles warmly and approaches Smirker
puts an arm on his shoulder, Smirker’s surprised
‘listen son, it’s no good is it eh? This mean-spirited lark?
You’re missing out on a chance to grow, there’s a tonne of
spiritual work ahead for you eh? But you gotta give it up, to be so
mean of spirit, it won’t help you or anyone, son’

Charlie goes back in for bass and beer
and to dance freely, unburdened; Zen raving
Smirker feels a chill roll down his spine
his face burns red, ‘faggot’ he spits
the sheep snigger