I haven't been to that bar that they built
on the ground
of the ancient Indian burial mound.
Where everyone pays by card
so the chink of coins doesn't drown
out the sound
of the trendy experimental Jazz.
Where no one gets drunk and a banker's on hand
to lend you the price of a beer
handmade, by a monk, from organic hops
that shops wouldn't sell in this genuine earthenware jug.
Where up on the stage
in a cage,
behind suited musicians hand-picked for the day,
are authentic louts, with their teeth taken out,
Who leer the sort of scandalous obscenities you can tell your friends about.
Where everyone sits with their legs crossed,
because where the toilets once were
has been redeveloped into an espresso bar
that serves artisan bread
of graffiti there's poetry on the walls
written in black ink and block capitals.
But the sinks are still there, with movement sensors that dispense for free,
water from the dead sea.
Where the good people go
to wallow in the glow,
Of an abridged outsider culture.
I haven't been there, I wouldn't get in
past the bouncer from Shaolin
Who checks at the door, to be sure
your degree (2.1 or above) is from a reputable establishment.