Night Club by John D Robinson



The stranger was drunk and
pissed-off with something
that had nothing to do with
me and he pulled out a blade;
he looked at me and I
could tell that even he didn’t
know what he was going to
do next;
I looked at the knife in his
hand, his eyes followed and
he gazed at his knife-holding
hand as if in surprise and as
he dropped the blade to the
floor, 3 heavy-weight
security guards pounded
him into the ground;
I heard his cries, his pleas
beneath the mass of
suited muscle and then
silence, no movement;
the 3 doormen moved away
from the motionless
knife-wielding customer
and stood guard whilst the
police and paramedics were called
and behind me the music
grew louder and the dance-
floor over-flowed with
drunken speeding stoned
sweating vulnerable
predatory bodies and
somewhere amongst it all
my girlfriend
waited for me to return
from the bathroom.

C_UsersJohnPicturesJohn-D-RJohn D Robinson was born in 63 in the UK; his poems have appeared widely in the small press and online literary journals including; Rusty Truck; Red Fez; Hobo Camp Review; Rats Ass Review; Down In The Dirt; Yellow Mama; Outsider Poetry; Chicago Record; Horror Sleaze and Trash; BoySlut; In Between Hangovers; He is a contributing poet to the 2016, 48th Street Press Broadside Series.

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