A Toast to Dylan Thomas

There have been better places for a tale to start. This has no light, and has no art; it has no deeps, or musiclust and has no Cost displayed for characters to note and pay no heed. It has a poet lad in cups and a few archetypes you'll get to know. It starts off fast.
Then lets you go.
'I've put down thirty Guinness in a whip,' the two-armed man exclaims. He waves his cane.
The lad and the Irish twat go on. 'You're a funny one,' she drones against his backwards leer, driving back towards one ear.
He sighs, and starts, his forceful heart propels him: 'The force that through the green fuse drives the flower,
Drives my green age...' and he leans, not heavily, on the redheaded girl, and manages to paw her leftmost tit.
'Woke up on the strawcart. What's a strawcart, ask you?' The two-armed man was agitating, stirring batter. 'Had a prick like concrete, then.'
'What is it with you?' she shoves him off, and glances about. 'There are people about. People downstairs. There are people downstairs all over the World, you know.'
'Concrete, lass! In the strawcart! Was a coalcart, innit!' His cane rings the hardened floor.
'There are girls,' the lad snaps, setting his elbow in the Neufchatel, 'Behind these sliding doors, these weeping walls, women stuffed in every corner, bed, and cupboard, Lord! Girls with ankles like winestems, necks like porcelein arched above the Thames!'
'I was a milkmaid,' comes her lament. He hooks a pinky in her dress and tugs for glory, She, nostalgia-lost, allows it.
'I am sure,' he replies, 'you were.' Her bosom heaves like seal puppies. 'Women waiting for MY chance, I tell you.'
'There was a boy not unlike yourself, promising love, and I lost my post.'
'A revolver stuffed inside my belt.'
'THERE was your CONcrete,' cries the cook beside the two-armed man. 'The gun, you billygoat!'
'Harridan! You'll taste my Crete, for truth! My Greek eyetooth!
'A tragedy out on the coast,' the lad has wormed his jutting chin into that nectar-cleft.
'A tragic lad, as full of poetry as you.'
'As full of seed, of shit, of meat.'
'You'll pay your bill, wanting talk like that,' the Cook advances big as fuckMe hams, strapped into an apron like a sail.
'Ah, wanting,' wheels the two-armed man, 'wanting only mountains of your eyes, Cookie dear, and love what springs from midden heaps and soiled old garments in the Southern reaches.'
'Git on,' the Cook spits, grinning hugely.
'The meat was the problem,' snaps our Irish twat, and drives the lad from her Eden with a heave.
'The meat?' he cries, 'and not the seed? What sort of lad- how unlike me!'
'You'll have my leave,' she warns.
'No, no, sweet dove.' The lad crinkles face into a mourning grin. 'Lets talk of poetry again: Two pints of Bass
One Pint of Gin
I found a haven for my chin--'
'You're rhyming,' notes the Irish twat, and takes her leave, as quick as that.
The two-armed man is buried in the Cook's embrace. They'll soon renew in kitchen depths, they'll breathe, and drip, and die that little death.
The poet starts in fingering the suds amid the splintered wood, and rubs and thrusts until he's bleeding, mixing dark sweet Bass and heart-thinner, pushing all that youth and fear and need and ugly EgoDrive into a rut until he's dizzy, and the Cook comes back and whacks him hard along the earhole with her spoon, her monstrous jowls still pink with swoon, her oer'sized lips all pinched and fat from bites the two-armed man laid snipSnipSnip along her teeth and gums, and poet lad falls sobbing in his torn-hand Filth and sleeps till bouncers come.
They arrange him soft as kittens gainst the kerb, and whisper middling lullabies in his ear;
Have no fear, my youth, young Lover,
Have none of that- no fear.
For there are girls behind these sliding skies, with dewdrop teeth and honeyed eyes,
All waiting for the Wolf and his soft words to tear and bite and rip and thrust and puncture up till hipbones grind her lily thighs to canted bruise and moan and walk like horseman, lad, you'll see-
You'll knock the bounce from every knee. These girls in cupboards, under stairs, waiting for their gait impaired.
So sleep like ivy covered books.
And have no fear.
No fear.
The city holds such pleasures for your poet's driven hand. And coming yet: You'll be a man.