Dara Slick Jan 10

I want to spend every day in a bar.
Drunk or not,
the atmosphere relaxes me.
To read a book,
to chat it up,
to get knockered too early.
I want to do it all in a bar.
Preferably one made of dark wood and many stories.

To become a regular looks bad in retrospect,
because no one believes its a place of good tidings.
It is though.

Booze, bourbon, bar tenders ears.
Therapy free of charge. (unless you order something)

I want to spend my life in a bar,
sad to the public,
but bliss on my tombstone.

I love bars, they fuel me.
Star BG Dec 2017

Put not bars on the heart
but open it wide.
with BREATH.
              with INTENTION.
                        With it's LOVE SONG that plays with grace.

Put not bars on the heart,
but expand it to transmute
and fear into light song

Put not bars on the heart
but let love in
light in
your essence in
For ALL deserve to reap its rewards.

Yes Open any bars of heart
so sacred self may fly
inside the rhythms of heartbeats
fly free from grief.

Inspired by jude-- Thank you for inspiring you. My heart goes out to you and I know you can rise above
Rick Nov 2017

for 6 years I’ve hidden
behind a long beard
but have always left
my dignity,
and truth
out in the open for
everyone to see
and for 15 years
I’ve carried it with me
as I shuffle my converse shoes
down the sidewalks of profligacy.

why should I be the one who
gets tossed in the streets
for my belligerence when the
bartender is the one who over served?
I feel like I’m just getting started
amongst the empty souls filling
the empty seats and the glasses
of self pity in front of them as they
drain cup after cup into their hollow bodies

if you’re the drunkest one at the bar,
you’re at the wrong bar

Wellspring Oct 2017

I hear the screams.
Tortured screams of children.

I hear the wind blowing through.
Rattling the un-openable windows.

I stare at the wooden desk.
My torture in progress.

I get a break in fifteen minutes.
I watch the seconds tick by on the clock.

It's freezing in here.
And hailing outside.

There is no hope here.
No hope for the children in school.

My thoughts on school. Legitimately.
aurora kastanias Oct 2017

Two coffee shops, one left one right, ancient
History of modern Rome, post-war families saving
Ethiopian delights, surviving selling beans rebuilding
The Eternal City, bringing back normality by drugging

Insanity. I knew them both since I was a child, holding
My father’s hand while he drank, the elixir and I
Ate my tramezzino looking up at his smile. Contagiously
Spreading the good vibes as he joked, with young

Bartenders sons, of local bar owners serving
Residents. Went to each yesterday, one for cigarettes
The other, for corretto, another way to gulp a drop
Of spirit disguising, in the tiny cup, of a dark mask.

Young tapsters have grown old yet remain, brewing
In solitude, relatives absent some departed.
At the cashier two Chinese ladies discovered, to be
The wives of new owners, foreigners employing

Italians, weird products of migration, for ambitious
Populations conquering integration, as their kids
Go to the same school as mine and locals mock
The change, living in the glory of the past, when

National espresso only charged, seven hundred lire
European currency exchanged, in ninety cents for those
Who don’t know, triple its original price. My bank
Stuck in the middle of the two has also changed

In twenty years, my first account at eighteen
Transformed, me into the witness of many comes
And goes, directors and vice, bankers and services
Evolving to reward, my loyalty with fraud.

Two nights ago it shamelessly stole, fifty euros of me
Claiming, inexistent liabilities on a contract that had none.
Peanuts to unconscious holders, asking explanations
To hear clerks remark, they have no idea and will

Eventually know in ten days time, when the statement
Will sentence the crime, as legal commending me to shut
Up, accept the theft, give thanks. Going tomorrow to grab
A coffee and close, twenty years of history, mine.

On change in Rome
NeroameeAlucard Oct 2017

I wonder what its like to look at a mirror, stare at your reflection and not want to reject it
Eject it into a vat of ether so it burns slow like tuna casserole
I know i shouldn't be writing about these things but its been haunting me since i was 16
Still young and somewhat pristine but no one went my way like cards on a riverboat, I've hid that feeling for a long time with an overcoat
Made of self deprecation and little derivation from that formula of running from things i cant see, but you cant avoid your own feelings
When they hammer into you like nails on a wall,
Its a winder I'm still standing up posted like a ghostbuster in city hall...

I wouldve been gone years ago, bur music saved me y'all.

Kewayne Wadley Dec 2017

In the back of the
Bar, the spider sits in wait
The fly strips its clothes

We sat there at the bar were I always preferred to hold court .
"Hey man Rebecca tell's me you write".

The young kid said as he took a seat next to me .
"If you can call it that then yes I do bud".

"Well to be honest when Rebecca told me that I looked up your work ", "Your style isn't my cup of tea but you are a skilled writer".

"Oh yeah I'm Brandon by the way ".

The young kid said sticking out his hand .
I shook and braced myself for whatever boredom I was about to endure .

"So you write also I take it or you just a critic"?.

"Oh I'm no critic I write but I write science fiction it's simply a more free forum to me with endless possibilities ".

Wonderful I thought to myself not only am I sitting next to someone who thinks there a writer they have to be a godammed science fiction writer!

"Do you ever read science fiction"?

"Not if I can help it".

"Oh why is that "?

I took another swing of beer decided to light a cigarette maybe the smoke would drive this mosquito of a person away.

"Bud I will be honest I write what I know , "And time travel and space ships and bio mechanics is just a little out my depth you see".

"Well it can get complex I suppose ".

"Well kid honestly if I have to spend five chapters explaining the environment and setting up the story I've already lost interest".

"Yes but the freedom it gives the writer is without limits the pallet is so vast".

"I'm happy just staying in my corner kid and I am no painter so I prefer a page to a canvas".

"Well I think you would really like my work maybe I could share some with you sometime".

"I'm good bud".

I ordered another beer the kid beside me just kept silent least for a second .

I kind of felt like a prick so I told the bartender grab one for my friend here .

I was a asshole but anyone who had the balls to put themselves out there still was owed a ounce of respect even if I didn't dig there style .

"Hey thanks is it okay if I call you Jack"?.

"It's my name bud so feel free".

We sat there spoke about the flustrations of publishers and rejection slips all the normal bullshit that goes along with writing .

"Jack how did you break through"?
"  I Mean you get published you get read how did you do it"?

"It's no secret kid ,I just kept writing through the bullshit ".

"You see eventually if you dont go away and your work is good someone will say yes ".

"It's no different than chasing women , You take a room of fifty women you ask every single one of them to dance someone's going to say yes ".

"I thought all women love to dance ".

"Most yes ,But not all and usually its more appealing from far better looking men".

The kid laughed and replied well I guess you got a point there .

"Jack you ever think about writing about more than just booze and chasing women "?

"Nope ".

"It just seems so limited give me the moon and stars worlds unknown that's the sight I yern to see".

I laughed as the bartender sat two beers down took my money off the bar and stared at her nice round ass as she walked away to get my change.

"Kid you can have the moon and stars I'm doin just fine with the view down here".

Britney Lyn Sep 2017

Our minds are a prison but the difference between yours and mine is I built my bars. Others built yours.

Hailyn Suarez Sep 2017

It’s a bar like this:
Smashed in Bud lite cans, Hennessey bottles half emptied.
Cable TV, static at high volume,
Re-runs of Seinfeld and
Occasionally the game.

Men in sweats, men in tuxes, men in rags,
Men in company jackets.
Bonded and connected by their mutual friend Jack
And their ex-lover Brandy.

It’s a bar like this:
Bartenders sniffing coke, pouring
3 parts orange juice, 1 part vodka, 2 parts water.
Posters hanging with hooters girls and
Kate Upton.

Smells of defeat and destruction emanate to the street,
The sign swings crooked, uncared for, untouched.
Broken in windows, lined with blackened wood panels
Creatively decorated with graffiti

Lightbulbs act like lightening bugs,
Never illuminating on command.
Plumbing rattles, toilets overflow,
One woman stands alone.

It’s a bar like this:
Two men swear and hiss,
Breaking a table in two.
Chairs part like the red sea,
Bets are placed.

Occasionally, some stray wanders in,
Testing out the waters,
Coughing up nicotine and tar,
holding his door frame crutch.

Scratchy hand towels and oily soup,
Sink bowls re-rusted.
McDonald’s bags liter the stained tiles,
Enjoying rat company.

It’s a bar like this:
Over enthusiastic boss hiring
Sixteen year olds,
Blondes only,
No criminal record.
Eviction notices used as placemats and
Electric bill coasters.
Been open since 1975 but
Even then
it was a bar like this.

written for CW350A; prompt was "in a bar like this..."
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