The Gatecrasher

He shows up at the party in a pair of dark glasses
 His grandfather wore in the war
 Saying nothing to no-one, just drinks as if that's
 What God gave him his ugly mouth for
 And he doesn't make passes at the girls in the corner
 In their Bolshevik glasses and black
 When they giggle a little and look at him funny
 The gatecrasher only looks back
 He takes in the faces, never quite placing them
 Squinting his short-sighted eyes
 And each one reminds him of someone he's known
 Or someone he faintly dislikes
 And he can't understand the naive curiosity
 Forcing two strangers to talk
 When language is always and everywhere language
 And people are like cheese and chalk
 So he lifts himself out of his squatting position
 And gets up for something to eat
 But the ham is too pink and the turkey is cardboard
 And the plate is as floppy as meat
 So he fills up his glass with a bottle of vodka
 Snatched from some new arrivals who stare
 As he tips back his head like a man seized with laughter
 And spits the drink into the fire
 And he looks so appealing with eyes like a bloodhound
 And hair like the 'Quatre Cent Coups'
 With the holes in his trousers designed to arouse us
 He looks like he'd know what to do
 On the rims of his eyes there's a trace of infection
 Or maybe the mark of a tear
 And is it mascara or is it bacteria, there where the white, where the white disappears?
 And which of those girls isn't scared of him
 And which of us isn't the same
 And maybe that's why, of the four of them
 No one remembers the gatecrasher's name
 Absentmindedly licking the tip of a finger
 He's just used for scratching his ear
 He wrinkles his nose at the taste of the wax
 Which, like him, is acidic and sour
 And just for a second something comes back to him
 Something so real and remote
 That he tips back his vodka to blank out the thought
 And he grins as it scorches his throat
 Maybe he thought of his mother, how she kicked out his father
 When he'd pushed her around once too much
 And how he'd pretended to sleep as she hugged him
 And how he'd been calmed by her touch
 Or he's sad with nostalgia for a little Italian
 He met in a bar in Milan
 While they swept up the glass on Piazza Fontana
 He knew she'd be thinking of him
 She'd be thinking of him
 Or he wonders why Hitler liked lemon verbena
 And whether he loved Eva Braun
 Or maybe he thinks of his cheap bed and breakfast
 On the far side of town