Mugged

There was an opportunist in the room.

Somewhat taken back by this thug,

I ran like adrenaline was the drug.

Sweat replaced blood as a redolent perfume.

I tried to get away from the pale ghost,

someone who was expecting cash

from a man who couldn't dash.

The addict had to brag and boast.

In the presence of the ashen-faced bastard,

I watched myself freeze in a hardlined winter 

like silence from the days of Pinter.

I blanked him when I was ostracized and plastered.

The memory was embedded in my psyche.

It was emblazoned across a dark brain

the charcoal painter mixed in with a black stain.

The prickly heat made a thorny issue spiky.