I have had a small slow patch but there are some poems growing again.

Down the front at Flogging Molly

I heard it called the bear pit once,
this place where everyone smells of Lynx
and heaving and sweat that isn't yours
runs down your back and thighs.

The mohawks are falling and soon
blue dye will be trickling down faces
of people whose ears might as well be leaking
from the unbridled passion of banjos.