Left alone with my chardonnay and nicotine,
He walks out the door with a smile on his face and a pep in his step
And I slide down into the cushions and swish the sweet nectar over my tongue and teeth.
He’ll be back, my cigarette is almost to the filter and I flick the stick at the eye sore on my bookcase.
Flitting around town he’s getting his fill on Jack and Jim, making twilight friends out of strangers.
I listen to the floors creak and the couple below me start to scream at each other.
Early summer’s heat is taking its toll. Time will pass as it always does.
I light another cigarette and the hours drone on. A knock on the door snaps me out of my melancholy.
Familiar pools of green are looking at me from the door way. He wasn't gone long.
Dark patterns have formed on his shirt and he wears a crown of sweat.
He handed me a bottle and the chill sent lightning through my fingertips.
The quarrelers below have exchanged their harsh words for lustful moans and I pour two glasses.
Are you in trouble?
What makes you think that? He sips his ***** and holds his hand out to me. I give him mine and his lips rest softly on my knuckles.
You're never home this early. He looks hurt, but flashes me that winning smile and takes me in his arms.
Our body heat could scorch this earth.
I look over to my full glass and sigh.
Another glass wasted..

We all piled out of the pub
****** as a load of newts;
'Where to now boys?'
Bellowed naughty Niall O 'Neill
(that's notorious nineteen pints a night Niall)
As he tottered over to his Pa's Rolls Royce.

'Do ye think ye should be driving
With that record-breakin' skinful
I just seen you put away?'
Enquired serious Sean slurringly
From his slightly inconvenient
Viewpoint in the beery gutter.

So we all clambered gaily into the car
And roared off into the enchanted night
And then this ****** stupid clodhopper
Who didn't even have his driving licence yet
Came round the next corner in his Ford
And got sent to Kingdom-sodding-Come.

'Oh ****, would ye just look at the mess
The oul' fella's made of me Daddy's car,
And it's his pride and joy so it is!'
Cried Niall O'Neill in incandescent rage,
As he surveyed the largest insurance claim
In the County Wicklow for twenty years.

How fortunate Father Tucker and Garda Sergeant O'Toole
Could both testify from their vantage point
In the front seat of the devastated Roller,
The accident was not Niall's fault at all, at all,
As the other stupid sober ****** was on
The wrong side of the ****** street.

The music flowed as smoke rings littered the barroom ghosts for a second washed clean by the smell of stale beer and worn out lines.
It's here I'm home and here I'm most detached from it all I'm invisible only wanting to view and catch a buzz to chase the nights passing .

I sometimes question this existence wonder why the **** no direction suits me best .
I used to fight the urge now I simply have grown to tired to care .
And where odes another find themselves sitting next to me?

Maybe I'm to damaged maybe I'm just happy being alone .
I haven't found the answers cause I truly never gave a **** about the questions to begin with.

There's more reflection in a empty seldom clean bar glass than within my heart darlin  and my times all that matters to me now .
I have no options and the past is dead to me as the person who most hold to be the man I no longer can be .

There's always a fire burning  I just wash it clean to keep you away.

Maybe when I'm lost home seems the furthest place from my thoughts .
Like some left behind castaway I have simply went insane with time.

Underneath the lights reflection I stand the same fractured and wanting nothing more than a stiff drink and some old song to keep me company into this smoke cast fade .

Maybe home is anywhere I choose  it to be .
So try not to question the man who is but a stranger to even me.

Cheers

Those twin bards.
Since pining bites us,
we taint our tales
with lace and gin.

To be drunk on *****
Now there's a thing!
Dance and laugh and wobble and sing.
Loud man too loud. Sorry pardon me I didn't mean....
Whoa, not another? Oh alright, I have all of the night to recover
Must remember have to work tomorrow....... Excuse me!
What's your name? You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen
Would you like a sausage for breakfast? Sorry what d.yer mean?
I'm not sure where that is actually....... Women! Love em!
I think I need the loo. NO! I'm not drunk, just happy! Happy to be
Merry! Merry.......yea ....... Hey you......lovely woman at bar
Will you merry me! Hahahahahahahahah!
Think I'd better go.......could someone help me plleeeeaasse?
Too much I think? ........goodnight?

POOR ME,

              
                      *POOR ME,



                                   *Pour me a drink...

9:13 p.m. on Wednesday
sitting, bolted to this bar,
next to tired tropes and worn out jokes
I've met a million times or more.
And the drinks all swirl together
and they start to taste the same
               going down
               or coming up.
          It really doesn't matter much.

If the streets looked any different,
they'd still bear familiar names:
trees and states and Presidents--
Left turn, snowfall, sitting fences,
               walking home
and getting old. These towns all
look alike, with weeks spent walking
                in the cold.

And the salt on the sidewalks
might season your footsteps--
                                       sure--
a steady, frigid cadence
carried through like a threat:
shallow and petty, from downtown to home.
Alone on the sidewalk,
               it's 7 below.
And I don't know
               what that is in Celsius,
but I know there's no home
              
               for at least
               another block or 2.

I came clean in muddy puddles,
***** slush and snowbound streets,
     in towns that looked alike.
Tonight, I'm headed for clean sheets.
So close the doors, unbolt the patrons
          Thursday morning, 2 a.m.
And it never feels like half an answer
when I push my front door
                                                shut again.

Ink pierced skin,
Illuminating
Image in
Thick black lines.
Skin bled
Shyly,
Adding red pigment
To all the haphazard
Mistakes,
Gun shook,
Skipping,
Jumping,
******* up,
As he downed the liquor,
And smiled,
Admiring his work
Through proud
Drunk eyes.

person 1:*  *pick up pick up pick up
person 2:  "who is this?"
person 1:  don't pretend you don't know who this is
person 2:  "i'm sorry?"
person 1:  but that's the thing, you're NOT sorry"
person 2:  "jesus jasmine are you drunk right now?"
person 1:   *no
yes
*******
this call is a mistake
no it's not don't hang up please
i saw your new girl
i'm just saying you could do better
do you ever think about me
when you're beside her
inside her
cause i just drank a full bottle of whiskey
and i forgot my name
but not yours
never yours
okay
i'm hanging up
i still love you
i never stopped
i love you
so, so much
you ******


beep
**dial tone.

I wonder while perusing a pile of personas
at why I don't write love poems
of a wistful and musky air
that froths, overflowing
with emotive schema
towards some ******, yet tragic end.
I suppose I actually do.
But they're much different than the usual fair,
less dramatic at least.
Sort of like wine you've let sit for a while
in a barrel
before you let it out again.
Mellow.