At the Paranoia Poetry Club

They all give thanks

For the NHS and their

Cheap Prescription tranqs.

The recovering drunk,

The failed suicide 

Both sit together 

Side by side by side

Waiting for the mic

To pour into the air

Their personal tales 

Of angst and despair.

I sat there, of relatively,

Quiet contented mind

With no social ills

Or axes to grind,

Listened until I couldn’t 

Take it anymore

And at the first opportunity

Escaped through the door

To eagerly drink

A cold pint of porter

The wonderful taste 

Of real Liffey water.

My regular attendance

Really could I think

Drive me right back 

To excessive drink.

I don’t know how many 

Such clubs exist in this land

But I’m sure there’s a case 

For having them all banned.

Paranoia Poetry Clubs

Can drive a body to despair

Just by the process of

Sitting and listening there.