The Drunks (July '14 redraft)

They start to appear, blobs of moss

on rock. Then you realise

you’ve passed them so many times

and wonder who else sees them.

Fresh bruises, cuts, florid skin

splash colour on the London drab.

You sense hierarchy: old guard

decorated lividly, guttural.

Lower ranks hang on every growl

and new recruits - still in mufti -

could be Salvationists

but for those cans gripped like rifles.

Unnerved by the one

who stares just too long,

you wrestle with your ugliness
and maybe your call-up.