The quaintness of a bar in the heart of my city breathes an air of charming, old-fashioned walls, it echoes of the days and night I sat there drinking my gin and tonic pouring my words onto pieces of paper or into hearts.. it reminds me that modern life is convenient but the quaintness of certain walls never die!

Half way up the hills
and eclectic group gather
at a narrow bar.

Leather jackets
occupy seats
by the door.

We sit
for a cigarette length of time
(cigarette length of time =
   1 x 10 minutes
            + ≥ 10 minutes before
                   and/or after cigarette)
and walk
the dimly lit corridor
to the bar.

We sit
at a table for two
against a wall.

The band plays fiercely.
I've seen them before.

Their moxie
always brings
a rowdy crowd.

Behind them
apple crates
cling to the wall,
housing quirky decor.
Books, globes and vintage cameras.

A projector casts
lollipop swirls
and a singing silhouette.

Drink specials:
tequila mockingbird

I spoke to a Serbian girl I know.
She always wears glitter
and hazy eyes.
The more questions
I ask her
the longer I can listen
to her accent.

We spoke about the age old
nature vs nurture enigma,
and the life long impact
of a child's first six years.

She asked me
about my art.

It seems
that's all anyone
knows me for.

Outside, again, we sit.
For 5 x cigarette length of time.

Around me
people talk...
                 and talk.....
                               talk....
                                       ta...
                                             l...
                                                 k.

I'm sober.
Too **** sober.

My daydreams are broken
by a man.
He's bubbly and smiles a lot.
I like bubbly, smiley strangers.

We exchange stories
of our current lives.
He's a graphic designer,
and tells me
I should merge my art
and writing
into film,
and gifts me a flashlight.

I like quirky, bubbly, smiley strangers.

I'm left to retreat
back into my own thoughts.
It's less lonely in there.

I sort through memories,
recite lyrics,
observe the people around me
and watch them closely.
Their body language,
the way they bring
their glass to their mouth
and blow their smoke.

People interest me most
doing nothing in particular.

But I miss something,
and I can't quite pinpoint what.

I'm sober.
             Too.
                 ****.
                         Sober.

O'blessed Darkness cover me
Blanket the rushing words & flashing blurs;
The disjointed fragments of blinking walls,
Lights crashing off and on,
Blue, red, green-the marionettes dancing,
So many together and all alone.
It is all a show.

The hiccup of life, the vomiting dream.
I see my life before me;

A slush of goo,
The stink of this world,
Or is that the scallops & escargot?
What have you done to me?

Everything I do myself-
This dream, this life...
Why do I hurt myself so?

Punching mirrors, ***** on porcelain.
Dark, thick-
My throne for many minutes...

Time ticking, time ticking-
I was unaware.
My wooden box was silent,
My wooden life is tragic.

The voices through the walls,
Through the fog and haze-
You okay? You okay? You okay?

I croak a positive.
I have no steady legs-
When have I ever?
I have no:
stable brain
clear thought
decisive moment
steady action
fruitful journey-
All slipping through my fingers...
Like the vomitous goo of tonight.

Everything we have, we lose.
Owning anything is an illusion.
Holding on is meaningless.

I want to go home.

(Everything is nothing)

I want to go home

(there is no sense in anything)

i want to go home.

Please, hold me now.

*©Lesley Wood

Languid tendrils of smoke unwind
The ashes of your affliction.
There is comfort in the sun's underbelly.
When you play half-lidded pool drenched in
Artificial lights, the night seems endless.
Once dusk falls, the world outside scatters
And settles together in close quarters
Like bunkers under air raid.

I feel like Hamburglar,
I went to the Burger Bar
of gifts, like you did, hah hah!
Yes, there's a Burger Bar of life,
Who does get one with the lot? No strife,
We all have gifts, I guess,
A burger bar for life, no less!

multicolored lights flashing
slowly, slowly, slowly
smoke from cigarettes wafting
slowly, slowly, slowly

you take in the smells and sights
of the small room that you're in
it's a crap hole, you cannot lie
perhaps that is why you're drawn to it

how can such lovely sounds
come from such a humble place
a place that makes you stink of
smoke and alcohol, sadness and joy  

I see their dark silhouettes against
the spotlights of the dim room
I see their fingers dancing across strings and keys
I see a single man keeping a heartbeat alive

he hits the drums and plays like
he's going to make the room fall apart
with a cacophony of loud crashes and
a choir of subtle tapping, all together

they play like they want the world to know
of the mess they hold within themselves
the mess that wants to create art for all
those who are willing to listen can hear it

not a single beat can ever be repeated the same way
not a single moment can ever be duplicated again
this is no song, this is no empty stream of notes and tones
this is a conversation between artists and dreamers

these are their hopes and wishes
these are their darkest secrets
things they will only ever share once
this is beauty and chaos as a whole

this is jazz