One of the Beer Bar crowd was blind from birth.
We called him Jim. It might have been his name.
He carried a folded stick and hated dogs.
He said he'd rather barge about than trust
his life to a beast that liked to roll in crap;
besides, he said, he couldn't stand their smell.
He said it was a lie that sense of smell
or touch could be enhanced by blindness. Birth
denied him sight. It was a load of crap
to hint at hidden blessings. He said - Name
me ten blind millionaires! He put his trust
in guts and hated people more than dogs.
Detested, most of all, the cant that dogs
the life of the disabled. He could smell
hypocrisy at twenty yards. Why trust
the medics? They had botched a simple birth -
starved him of oxygen, then found a name
to hide behind. Professionals were crap.
One night he said - The devil wouldn't crap
in a dump like this. It's barely fit for dogs.
It's dirty, noisy, sweaty, male, to name
but four, and let's not kid ourselves, the smell
is like a public bog, an after-birth
of academia's labour. You can trust
a blind man's nose on this! Likewise, I'll trust
your judgement to escort me from this crap
to anywhere with women. (Here the birth
of an idea). Decent ones, no dogs,
don't palm me off on some old whore. I'd smell
her soon enough, before she'd said her name.
We took him to a night-club with a name
like Tramps or Trumps. They let us in, on trust.
In far too loud a voice, Jim said - the smell
of fresh young crumpet, better than the crap
we've left behind. Remember now, no dogs.
The white-eyed man gyrated, giving birth
to shapes without a name and scared the crap
from us. He'd placed his trust in faithless dogs.
The girlish smell of fear - his curse, from birth.
