A DARK PINT OF PRICK AND PURPOSE
A Philosophical Ode to the Bloke’s Brew and Balls
Ah, black coffee —
that fierce bastard of a brew —
bold as bollocks, bitter as truth,
hot enough to scald the shame off your Sunday suit.
It does not fawn,
nor flutter like oat milk foams or
whimper in syrupy submission.
No.
It arrives like a slap round the chops,
all grit, no grace.
Like a lad who’s seen the end of love
and still turns up for the fight.
You sip it, and it stares you down.
Thick as a scorned thought,
sharp as the morning after.
It doesn’t go down easy —
much like the truth about your father,
or the fact you cried after shagging her,
and not because it was good.
It’s the same bloody ritual each dawn —
you grind, you boil, you pour.
Like your cock, frankly —
automatic, loyal, often confused.
A stiff salute to the day’s demands,
a throbbing declaration that you’re still here, mate,
that despite rejection, inflation, and
Janine from Accounts
— you function.
Let’s not pretend, shall we?
The average bloke’s obsession with his todger
isn’t about sex,
it’s about control,
about proof —
the last bastion of self that salutes when the rest of life
is flaccid and fucked.
A willy and a cup of coffee:
both black, bitter, often overestimated.
They stand tall for three minutes and
are promptly abandoned.
Neither lasts, but God help you if they don’t start the day.
What is an orgasm, anyway,
but the body’s way of saying:
“I’ve had enough. Let me die for a moment
before the taxes come.”
Brief, violent, and vaguely humiliating —
like most of the world’s prime ministers.
You clench, you grunt,
you spill —
and then you wonder if you ought to text her,
or just make another brew.
Because at the end of it all,
what comforts a man isn’t her name,
nor the tender lull of pillow talk,
but the kettle’s hiss,
the steam rising like absolution,
the silence between two sips.
Coffee and cock —
brothers in arms, both raised and worshipped,
overpraised, misunderstood.
Each a symbol,
each a saviour,
each a splendid, steaming middle finger
to the soft-soaped world
that asks us to apologise
for being blunt,
for being bold,
for being fucking male.
So raise your mug, lads,
and if you must — your limp and lonely friend.
Here’s to dark brews, darker moods,
and that bitter little god you hide in your pants,
hoping — just once —
it’ll save you.