Dogs howling out under the blood moon,

what a night to be alive!

To hear their baying,

to wonder why?

Was it because of the fight? There must have been a fight. I was walking up the road, towards home, when ahead of me I saw two men squaring up to each other. A man in a red sweater was gesticulating at a bald man in a football jersey. They stood just off the footpath, on the road at a T junction.

I was too far away to actually hear them, but it seemed quite heated. Neither of them seemed to notice or care about the traffic queued up behind them. First in line was a creamy fourdoor with its right indicator blinking. It was as if the driver had decided he had happened upon something worth stalling for a second to see where it would lead.

It was a dead end. The two turned from one another: football jersey had returned to the footpath; red sweater, behind the creamy fourdoor and in front of a camper van swivelled around and shouted the last word on the matter. I lost sight of the jersey and slowed down to allow adequate distance between me and jumper, who was crossing to my side of the road, going the same direction as I. He was returning to the pub; he spoke with a large older man before going in.

As I passed the pub, a call came out to me by name. Two blonde women across the road, both stunning (one more stunning than the other). I knew the one who knew me. We chatted across the tarmac; I declined an invite to the club they were going to. I stuttered an excuse about having college; this was because I had been smoking hash and was not in the mind to be changing plans (smoking more hash). It occurred to me they probably had a more in depth understanding of what I had witnessed than the man in the creamy fourdoor. I decided to make my life easier and not ask them what had happened.

About forty minutes later I was walking back down the road, towards hash, when ahead I saw the friend of the woman who knew me. She was getting into a little threedoor with a spoiler. The car was parked about a foot and a half away from the footpath. Cars coming from behind on the road were indicating and driving around it. I stole a look at the driver as I walked by; I saw a small man who had built a body for himself so that he could crawl around on all fours at speed.

About seven hours later I was walking up the road, towards home, when on the footpath below me I saw;

And after when at home in bed I lie

If you were to ask me why dogs cry

In horror surely, I’d reply,

canines bared at the sky.

The information must circulate

from dog to dog ’round the dinner plate:

“Did ya not hear about the shouts?

The filthy things come out their mouths

The situation into tissues blossomed red

When sun cracked, the street cleaners fed

On a crumbtrail to the door of the pub (red)

and tissues and cans and bottles, their daily bread.

From the north Atlantic to the shores of the Med

Young drunk people bash each other on the side of the head.”