The Man Called Andan Poem by Gabriel SimpsonLaw

He’s by the fight scared bar slouching loosely on a stool
Wearing suede burgundy creepers and exuberating cool
He owns a pack of cigarettes, a matchbook and a beer
And he smells a lot like he’s been doing time – only here

His shoes are the colour of an abattoir floor
His face the texture of a cheap church candle
He exhales, a lugubrious halo of violet smoke
And he whispers;

He whispers “Andan” and looks at me so I guess it's his handle

I say “What? ”
So he says it again just a little louder
“Andan” - Just like that, but with a crooked half smile

“Los meurtos andan”

Didn’t even stay for a shot