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Amanda Kay Burke Feb 2020
Crowded bar
Drink held in hand
Music blaring loud
Pretty sure my soul is ******
After the second round

Shot of whiskey down throat
One more to follow
Sea of ***** keeping afloat
Weightless with each swallow

Dizzy head
Thick and light
Clouded
Pulsing
And hazy
Tiredness drags down my sight
Legs relaxed and lazy

Warmth spreads throughout torso
Fingertips begin to tingle
Euphoria inside my brain grows
My neurons and serotonin mingle

Air heavy
Sweat and motion
Humid heat clinging to my skin
Around me is a blurred commotion
Logic and sense wearing thin

Tummy performing cartwheels
Whole place unbalanced and dark
Stool wobbly underneath my heels
Bartender pouring from a fifth of Monarch

Saturday night in a tiny town
Where everything else is just too far
So you find yourself driving the same road down
To the local nothing-better-to-do bar
In Talkeetna that bar is called The Fairview which is where I was when I began writing this little treasure haha
a day of love
but spent it alone
saw you in a corner
but not on your own

beer in hand
big smiles and laughs
introduced by a friend
who knew we would cross paths?

conversations flowing
staring at each other's eyes
a smile like yours
caught me by surprise

left you for a while
and went for a dance
came back, you were gone
i've missed my chance

alone in a full room
thinking if we'll ever meet again
'twas short but magical
till then...
in that hour of meeting you, i fell for our conversation
Nathan A Brock Jan 2020
Dark and cozy,
playlist of metal and punk,
generous doubles -
above the 4 ounce standard;
I like this place.

The bartender’s drinking too;
looks like *** - dark and sweet -
neat.. my man!

no one bothers me,
I bother no one;

only sit and sip my drink,

peace.. solace.. tranquil..

listening to the montage
of ***** ***** jokes
from the men center bar.

They laugh - not loudly,
they are quite old.. mousey..
squeaky voiced..

I chuckle as Skid Row skids
just outside the door -
it doesn’t come in
until after dark.

This city hasn’t much to
offer a redneck like me,
but I like this place.
JAM Jan 2020
The bar.
New personas,
Rare from near to afar.
Tangling in the smoldering lights,
With haste.
Grey Dec 2019
If the bar is low,
maybe I won't disappoint
you with my failures...
12/27/19
Shawn Awagu Dec 2019
Normally this isn’t the way it goes, but this time I’ll do differently
And so I ask who are you? What is your name?
Do you like running? I do as long as I can breathe

I dream of a day where I can run freely in silent poplar forests without my lungs weighing me down

What is your favorite kind of music? Do you like pop, rock, or hip-hop?
Is your soul kneaded and worked by tender hands like Jazz? Swing?

I may not look the part, but I love classical music; there’s something about listening to Chopin’s Nocturnes that makes me feel as if I am right there with him, sitting in the pews of an abandoned church whose dead parishioners long ago grew bored of contemplating their sins. I feel as if I am gently sipping his breath like one would coffee that’s still a bit too hot, savoring the stories he weaves out of thin piano strings that taste like moonlight
It is a flavor that seldom is tiresome
I wish I could cook some for you

If you could go anywhere, anywhere in the world, where would it be?
Would you roll into an airport with your luggage in New York? Tokyo?
Would you brave the crushing heat of Cairo for a glimpse of Giza?

I would go anywhere, anywhere you’d like, as long as we come home
I’ll open the door and immediately turn on the space heater—I can sense you hate being cold
While the tea is warming on the stove, we’ll talk about your favorite artist’s best album
Listening until we’re interrupted by the shrill shriek of a teapot needing attention
And that night I will dream that my footsteps will never be lonely

I’m terribly sorry, who are you and what is your name?
I do not know; you are there and I am in here; my mouth is so dry it hurts

Neither coffee nor alcohol can spur me to action
There is nothing I can drink
I can imagine, but I will never ask
I already have, so many times
A letter from the past
Gabriel Dec 2019
Why latch on a lover
who couldn't even shed a tear for you?

Does your pillow know
How you cried for her in a bar
Only to go home
with a drowning heart

For you held the beer bottle
More than her hand
You chugged it down
Hoping it will be emptier
Than you ever can
Steve Page Dec 2019
Pub poetry is a form of performance poetry consisting of the shouted word which has developed in UK urban pubs, dating back to the 1940s and 50s. Words are typically yelled over ambient haphazard rhythms which are not especially chosen for the piece of poetry, rather the poetry is performed over the generic sound of empty bottles and part filled glasses and live samples of patron conversation that will be familiar to those frequenting hostelries around the UK.

Sometimes the audience will employ call and response devices to distract the poet, such as calls of "W##k-er!', with the traditional response of "F##k-You!" before the pub poet continues with his yelled out verse, often read from the beer stained back of an overdue envelope.

The pub poet usually appears on a chair or table, surrounded by immediate family or work mates cheering him on.

Invariably inebriated, the pub poet may not appear to make any sense to the uninitiated - but once you too have availed yourself of your 4th or 5th pint, the words become clearer and easier to appreciate.

No musicality is built into pub poems and pub poets generally perform without backing music, delivering chanted speech with pronounced modulation, broken-rhythmic accentuation and dramatic, though random, stylization of gestures, often resulting in the pub poet losing balance and sustaining a head injury thereby losing consciousness and bringing the evening's entertainment to a premature, but often welcome, end.

It is often noted that many pub poets are remarkably shy and retiring when sober.
Based on 'dub poet' wiki entry.  I simply took another look through a different lens.
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