"barstool" poems
My caressing hands have stopped trying to tame the strings.
They move now more to harmony than to melodious things.
Brassy bands, drunk sailors and the sound of laughter.
The D string, the rough bar-stool clamp and clatter.
The sound of voices, raucous and hoarse with song.
The sound of voices, laughing as they all yell along.
It's a barstool anthem;
It's great and it's loud.
There're no classics here...
but Bach would be proud.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
I'd love to peer into that brain of yours and see the actual mechanics of your thinking. Where those creative juices of yours throb and pulse. Ya, I'll drink to that.
Maybe use one of them scopes to explore the left ventricle of your heart (you know, that chamber of the Heart that pumps blood through the aorta). Figure out that sensitive heart of yours.
Explore the rubber consistency of the lining of your lungs. With that heaving chest and ******* of yours, those lungs must be so healthy in their pinkish hue. Just some barstool thoughts while waiting for closing time.
Staring into this shot glass in front of me, my memory harkens back to the time you cut your arm and I ****** the blood from it, so salty and all. I want to bottle you up in a liquid formula or capsulize your essence in a unique pill form where I can digest and absorb you and grow new cells from the energy I receive from the calories of your precious body.
Maybe with the power of your bodies flesh I can grow a sixth toe, develop a third eye, build an ***** I love you so much I could eat you up!
Barkeep says this is last call so I better drink up and be on my way. I wonder what your left ventricle really looks like under close inspection?
Just wondering, do you have any x-rays of your body I could have?
See ya, Creepy Ray Ray
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 6:45 PM UTC
I realized that your area code
Was the same as one of my friends
Did you know her?
Or were you some stranger on the other side of a swiveling bar stool?
Was it abnormally warm in Cincinnati when you ordered the second beer?
I imagine you remarked about how fast the year was drawing to a close
And pulled the knit cap tighter on your head
And loosened your grip on the beer
The cliché draft you order that doesn’t fit your eyeglasses or your astronomy career
It would be nice if beer was cheaper than water
But it isn’t
And you’re still a stranger on the other side of a swiveling barstool
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 9:45 PM UTC
Why can't I be as pretty as the little girl
that sits next to me at work, she seems
all long legs and golden skin,
20 long years younger
thin body poured into size 6 jeans
Why can't I be pretty like that?
I wish I was as pretty on the beach
next to the bikini clad lovelies
all long haired and impressive assets
Why can't I be like that?
I wish I was as pretty as my friend
sitting next to her on a barstool
crowded away from her, male backs
facing me, surrounding her, I'm a fool!
I wish I was pretty
or even attractive
or even winsome
or cute
or
or
or
I wish, I wish
Oh, how I wish
I could be an entree
even if I'm not
the main dish
or
or
The fish
caught on the hook
an acceptable catch
not to have the hook
ripped from my flesh
just to be thrown back
I wish I was pretty
I'm positive I was one day
Someone loved me once
and my children say
Mummy, you look so pretty
when I decide to make an effort
but no matter how hard I look
in the mirror
I just can't make their words fit!
I wish I was pretty
a beautiful disguise
I wish I was pretty
in my eyes
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 3:54 AM UTC
In parlance of the street he's a dumpster-diver,
scavenger of non-losing wager or proposition tickets.
You'd see his fragile frame each night
walking the isles of the race and sports books,
a condor's aerial eye trained on the floor,
back visible only to casino surveillance cameras.
Seated atop a barstool at the back,
I watch him bend, examine and discard,
through the prism of my scotch glass.
Every food chain has its bottom-feeders,
he brings efficiency to the gambling ecosystem.
Likely not the life that you or I would chose,
but then he has no monthly credit card to pay.
Just now, I saw him straighten and smile,
a parlay ticket will pay for tonight's meal
with just enough left for a brown-bag.
He does not go uninvited to misfortune,
the streets tonight are lined with chance's down.
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 2:03 AM UTC
Leashed by loves lynch till I’m dropped by my lack of respect for the beauty’s presence
Thank god she wasn’t curbside taking tips with perked lips for a stranger’s ****** fix,
But I needed to feel the evidence that the pieces fit,
That’s why this is about me and a barstool princess
Getting close enough to taste the moans of vodka’s venom
Get close enough so I can know my needs can be fulfilled
Like a lunar eclipse this species keeps grinding its teeth when teased
Time and time again we’ve been taunted by,
The mistress our ancestors once described as the serpent of Eve,
When procreation was preached as an STD
Yet we’ve been perpetually pivoting,
To defy the chastity of a species
Grandfathered misconceptions relating to why you and I exist
As wickedness warms in the covers of the lustfully parallel
So let’s drown in this bliss,
From head to toe, eye caught, grazes at the nose,
From the bar stool to a lonely man’s home,
From one dollar tips for two *** and cokes
To the bedroom of this writing,
The nights like this, that remind me I am alone
But this isn’t about me loathing the fact that I won’t hear her whispering for more body warmth,
Nor am I looking for you to pity me because I’ll be sleeping solo
Enough is enough since we are humans seeking ****** catacombs
I’ll try to be an adult about how the human molds but it started me at childhood,
When those that conceptualized love gave me this world,
And now I no longer have to listen to what I’ve been told
This is about how to perceive something we can never truly control,
Lucky enough to avoid a contraceptive despite unable to remember the doctor’s pull,
Its night’s like this I get to question,
When will my sheets meet the perfect fit?
When will this be more than just a humanizing fix?
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 12:41 AM UTC
The slam poet in cords, in denim,
rambles from neon beer haven
to flybuzz brothel, cracking quiet
jokes about soup to shiny junebugs
in the relentless moonlight.
One hundred dollars in thirty-five bills
slowly retreat from wallet
toward water-cut whiskey.
He’s got a chapbook widely
available at frozen yogurt shops
across the metro; he’s got a
tour in the works, tri-county,
every middle school from
Shawnee to Seminole; he’s
got a collection of ex-girlfriends,
made up almost entirely of wizened lesbians;
he’s got an MFA from UNC Wilmington,
and he shouts this more than speaks this
from his treacherous barstool to the sleepy bartender.
One of the girls, she takes him upstairs,
and to her he says, Your freckles—islands
in the sea of your milk-white skin.
The night passes, warehouses are razed,
and he watches the loft apartments emerge.
The food trucks come. He parks beside them,
typing poems made to order out of his trunk. The
money flows in, crumpled and sweaty and
in one-dollar denominations. The Old Fashions
transfigure into Old English. And in his pocket
thesaurus he looks for a word. It’s not vagrant,
nor vagabond. It’s not homeless, nor wayward.
He lies in the long shadow of a Midwestern sunset,
starved and shaking. Up from the blackened
city shrubs comes an indifferent breeze and
just as he thinks the word Pauper, he dies one
on the corner of 23rd and Western.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 4:14 PM UTC
A Bottle Full Of Whiskey
*He used a bottle full of whiskey
To dull the memories of his past
Knowing that the pain he felt
Would not fit into a glass
As he set there on his barstool
In his eyes I saw regret
He talked about the life he lived
How he wished he had it back
Would drink straight from the bottle
Just to make the numbness last
The story of his lonely life
He would tell to all who ask
He talked about lifes lessons
The mistakes that he had made
Said he lived with regrets
For things he cannot change
Thought the view from the bottle
Would help to make his life more clear
But the bottle got the best of him
And wasted all his years
He used a bottle full of whiskey
To dull the memories of his past
Knowing that the pain he felt
Would not fit into a glass*
Carl Joseph Roberts
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 4:18 AM UTC
pound the table
another round
here liquid courage
is to be found!
out flow the ales
pour forth the meads
hoist axe and buckler
there's mighty need!
For bearded froth
and battle hymns
tonight we drink
we drink from skins!
we drink from cups
we drain our steins
we'll drink until
our eyes go blind!
So hoist yer glass
join us tonight
put up yer fists
prepare to fight!
Put down that barstool
Ha! Ya missed
And sing the
Cadence of the ******
Then pound the table
one last round
there's liquid courage
to be found!
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 11:03 AM UTC
Oh, the ineffectual deluded intellectual
Cream of the crop barstool philosopher
Yes, you are included
Potential does not excuse the fool
Nor does a place at the top
In debates at coffeeshops
Indicate a prowess that places beyond school
Unbound by reality is your perception
Of yourself as some exception
Some paragon of cool
Please proceed with your perspective
Surely there is no source better respected
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 9:43 PM UTC
while chewing on the sandwich i was given
i failed to notice the ruffage and the soil of my glamour
only the ludicrous measure of my apathy and passion.
only the girl of my memes and the maladaptive gnomes
of my moveable feast.
i saw through the aerosols and the Hindi.
i ate nothing but net.
i slept with a barstool and a comet.
and asked you " Why? ".
and said, Less.
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 9:26 PM UTC
I like to drift aobut the oprah show
with my laptop open, sipping bourbon, it smokes my eyes
and stings my tounge
I like to drift about like this,
I like it when the benches to the barstool are sepraated by groups of three
and I like itwhen the tender leans towards my direction
I like the laptop open in a giant kazooo, in an inredibly modest church
I like the laptop open while I'm searching for pens and pencils
while I'm picking roses
Iwhile I am farting
now listen,
I like the laptop open because I am flawless,
yes
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 10:39 PM UTC
It's a Thursday evening
and over par for the course I'm sitting
in a sandtrap.
The lie is bad,
I'm buried next to a watering hole
in the wall.
I can't get out.
The half truth is I'm a drunk
a sea of sorrows.
Even the dolphins, I shed no mercy.
The real truth is I'm ***
anchored to a barstool,
barnacles from the dead sea
hanging on the four legs.
If this bar stool ever came to life
the voice would bubble to the surface,
get me to dry dock.
How fortuitous the wind in my sails,
finding every sandtrap
and waving at the mothballs.
Blind to letting the barnacles take it's course.
Corrosion creeping up on me, like its
relative.
Who cares about the long lost voice
or the red ants at his picnic.
Or if Uncle lost his strokes he never had.
Did someone say shipwreck?
I order another double,
with fire in my eyes,
adding another burn to my stomach.
I look at the bartenderess
and my eyes don't lie.
She's my type.
My head tilts this way and that.
I see people starring back at me.
If only they knew how the ball bounces.
Logan Robertson
12/21/2018
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 9:22 AM UTC
I am a blue bird exploding in a million bright beautiful colors and shades,
smooth spinning shapes.
Father always told me I was meant to take breeze beneath my wings and fly, But all I want to do is roll around in the dirt;
***** dirt and I. and I. || the dirt, ***** dirt and I. and I.
Soothing bird songs, winds whisper along In harmony you and I. you and I.
I am a blue bird exploding not just in color, but in figure and scope.
On the next full moon I will pluck out of the sky and own
Every shimmering star, dreary dream, and hopeless hope.
I refuse to flap my wings like a feathery fool,
I'll keep my feet on the ground and my tail on a barstool.
Tapping talons to some beat, snapping and squawking at every fair fowl I meet.
Soothing bird songs, winds whistle along
To every fair fowl face I greet, my hollow heart flutters, it fleets.
I am a blue bird eroding at all angles and ascensions;
savoring such subtle and slithering sensations.
Wait for whipping winds to walk tenderly up my spine;
smelling the flowers, taking
its time
Pedals explode to expose
Ivy Iced Irises in fold
Within each bursting blossom I am swallowed
to sink in sublime.
Soothing bird songs, winds whirling strong
I am a blue bird eroding from outside and In.
The spectrum slid away--in this heavy blue I've hidden.
Praying for the pull of a pulsing red wind.
Please fill the hollow bones holding up my skin.
To lift my wings at long last and rescind.
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 3:49 PM UTC
From this barstool i have sat waitting for some moment
of inspiration to come to me.
But the only thing that that comes to me is
a bartender with another drink.
And in empty reflection lost in a jukebox's song
played by a lonley heart shooting pool.
I cant recall where the spark went.
maybe it fell to floor like the ash from a cigarette.
the page waits at home like a wife waitting in worry as her husban is off doing God knows what.
So worried only wishing he'd return.
And when he does the fear fades and the anger kicks in.
The bottle doesnt hold a key but it does know me well.
I kiss it's fiery lips and cant resist it's charm.
so I sit with it passing hours in a dance that will end in
nothing but another wasted night and a bitter morning taken
out apon my mind.
In a swirl of hungover thoughts id leave half written pages.
To soon find themselves collecting with my ever growing arsenal of
drunken rants.
All ending bitter and cold.
But when the whiskey hits I'll make such great plans
that will never be.
I'll write that epic that will keep in the minds
other writers.
And in the warm arms of women who wanna love a
trainwreck just to say they've known what it's like.
Whiskey wishes are like sparks from a much larger fire.
the sparks fly off into the midnight sky.
only to fade befor are very eye.
Dec 3, 2009
Dec 3, 2009 at 6:01 AM UTC
I want you to call me when you're drunk
When vision is blurred and words are slurred
When your mind is running and tripping over its own feet
Throwing misspoken sentences right out of your mouth
I want you to call me
I want you to tell me that you miss me, tell me that you haven't forgotten about me yet, tell me that this drunken conversation is one you have been rehearsing for months
I would never want you to tell me these things sober
I want you to call me when you're drunk
I only want you to call me because you are lonely and are craving any sort of attention, I do not want you to mean anything that you say
I want you to call me when you're drunk
Cascade this façade all over your barstool
Run your fingers through your hair in distress and lack of affection
Call me and tell me everything on your sweet mind that I once knew
Call me and remind me of it all
And I want you to do this when you are drunk because I do not have to worry about this fight dragging on, we will settle this tonight and you will not recall it
I will able to nod my head and smile and not miss you anymore
This is the brink of intoxicated exhaustion
Call me when you are drunk
And reveal the secrets you've hid away in your heart
But I want you to wake up the next morning wondering
What spilled off your tongue, and why my name appeared lit up on your phone
I want you to call me when you're drunk
And not remember any of it
Do not call me in the morning
Do not call me ever again
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 11:04 PM UTC
Here's to nothing;
As always.
Let us toast
To petty jealousy and bitter betrayals
That years nor antibiotics can cure.
Let's drink to wasted memories
and missed opportunties,
and let's get drunk and do it all over again.
Mar 30, 2010
Mar 30, 2010 at 9:11 PM UTC
We are all poets;
when words come quick,
shaolin blades slicing pixels
in angry, poetic kung-fu;
when words come smooth and slow
in fleeting, awkward caresses
pulsating across goose-bumped skin,
every new lover a poem.
When we sway on the barstool,
flag poles resisting booze’s steady gale,
arguing for that one last drink
before the white light cuts through
the swaddling shadows and the barkeep
sees the reds of our eyes,
every slurring plea a poem.
When we beg the officer
to let us go gently into freedom’s violet dawn
and when unsuccessful,
to crack the back window of his cruiser
just enough to keep the world from spilling in,
spinning into violent oblivion,
every handcuffed squirm a poem.
We are all poets;
when both heart and home sputter,
energy from a rusting machine crawling
from check to check until
chair becomes wheelchair,
house becomes apartment,
fruits of past labor
line the curb in piles of bags,
every unpaid bill a poem.
When we stare out over the water,
rolling sheets of morning fog across the lake,
still, except for ripples of dew drops
painting the water in widening circles;
revived campfire crackling next to
snug, sleeping children;
quiet, like a poem’s end.
Apr 22, 2010
Apr 22, 2010 at 5:02 PM UTC
Sweet rejection a simple pinch and slap in the face.
Drunken splendor and a ***** floor.
Some woman I dont care to know why do I always
find myself in this ****** up place.
Puff Puff Pass.
Wild Turkey loud music im such a happy sleeze
with not a hint of class.
Lean of over the bar my dear you fill my thought's and i your glass.
I walked when I was ten.
Runaway in New Orleans dont belive I could do that one again
Two packs a day and a shakey hand.
Midnight drives strippers in arm bar's
with floor's of sand.
Im not ment for long but sugar im here now.
Drinkin till I die fields of my past been burried
long ago under plow.
Dance in happiness die without regret.
My friends names tattoo my thoughts.
Richard ,Rach,Baths,Lily,Paula how can I ever forget.
******* up perfection is I.
A perfect losser who could care less.
How could you ever shed a tear when I die?
Rearview babydoll backseat queen.
Stay crazy in this cold place.
Skeeter do you still dream in your beauty so tormented
and obscene.
Where all perfect for are flaws.
Barstool will be forever empty.
Im tried but always eager to fall down for a
half naked body or a fellow lunatics cause.
Gonzo do ya know how they see ya outside thoose glasses
so dark.
The partys jester spirt of a eternal teen.
Empty cans hold court by the lake of lovers lane
where still they park.
Richard a bottle and friendship forever i'll share.
Insane is a buddy but never worry.
Cause even a falldown drunk does care.
So sad is the fading light bitter the moment.
But perfect isthe ****** up song though.
Kids dont let em break ya you stay crazy.
And I'll forever be Gonzo.
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 2:46 PM UTC
A smoker
in the winter
depends on that feeling
flowing through
their tar caked lungs
and even though their bodies
quiver
like the baby deer
hunters
leave
alone
to remember only the scent
of their mother’s
blood
they remain in the great
outdoors
and they remain
dependent
An alcoholic
in the winter
depends on the warmth
of the barstool and
the sting of the thing
that twists and contorts
reality
so maybe they can
breathe easier
and pretend
they have not murdered
with their words
they have not pounded their
fists into the wall
they did not
fire
that
bullet
that killed whatever it is
they are drinking
to forget
At least the latter
can feed
indoors
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 12:08 AM UTC
the coffee’s burnt again
and the cat’s staring like it knows
I haven’t cried in six years
but I’ve been leaking in other ways
through the fridge light,
through the cracks in the drywall,
through the way I say “fine”
when I mean “I’m rotting.”
the mailman dropped another envelope
with no name, just a whisper
and I thought maybe it was time
to bury the version of me
that still believed in clean slates
and women who don’t flinch
when you say you write poems.
I’m overdue for a funeral
but nobody wants to dig
unless there’s a paycheck
or a priest involved
and I don’t believe in either.
the barstool still remembers my spine
and the bartender’s got a face
like a broken clock
always stuck at 2:17 a.m.
when the jukebox plays Sinatra
and the drunks pretend
they’re philosophers.
I tried to write an obituary
for the part of me that used to care
but the pen ran out
and the paper laughed.
so I lit a cigarette
and gave the ashes a name.
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 6:59 PM UTC
I met her for the first time at a downtown bar in Denver
On a Friday night while sipping Shiner beer.
We drank and danced and mingled and she told me she lived single,
In a small room at the Rustic Pioneer.
What started as a one night stand turned out to be a double;
I finally left on Monday about three.
If I stayed any longer I would have to face the trouble
Of a love affair that wasn’t meant to be.
On a trail not far behind me rode a lawman from Laredo,
With my picture on a poster and a price.
Dead or alive made no mind to the dead I’d left behind,
Who had died cheating at cards or playing dice.
I left her in Colorado; headed straight for South Dakota.
But I lied and said we’d meet in Santa Fe.
Should the trail lead him to her bed and he acted on what she said,
I’d gain several days sending him the wrong way.
But the bravest hearts are fools for love when fate has dealt the hand
And I headed back to Denver at full speed.
I returned there for the misses, who had won my heart with kisses,
Taking no heed of the danger in my deed.
Back in Denver I was taken by the lawman from Laredo.
But there is no hero in this tale of vice.
At a downtown bar in Denver the girl shot me from a barstool,
In her hand she held a poster with a price.
With a bullet in my shoulder, my gun never left the holster
And the lawman moved to quickly save my life.
I met her for the first time at a downtown bar in Denver
At a jailhouse altar she became my wife.
Jul 31, 2011
Jul 31, 2011 at 8:12 PM UTC
I blew in from the camino
like a wild tumbleweed,
the smell of iquana
hung around me
like a dark cloud
as I slumped onto
the barstool &
ordered a tequila
with the worm.
The mariachi was as loud
as thirty babies screaming,
I knew it wasn't me dreaming.
In the darkness & haze,
I used my dynamite-eyes
to scan the spinning room
& I caught Lupita looking.
We ended up
on the wilder side of town
that night,
I fought three banditos
and a chupacabra,
beat the snot out of all
of them.
If it wasn't for
this Betty Boop tattoo
on my ***
that classy senorita
would have married me,
lucky me.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
Sitting in a darkened bar
Ten dead soldiers in a row
My bladder was now screaming
It's time for you to go
I ordered up another drink
Left my seat, went down the hall
And on my way back to the bar
I saw a number on the wall
Help...it said, is close, close by
It's nearer than you think
Call, the number that you see
Before you order your next drink
I thought, it doesn't make much sense
I've got my life under control
I haven't bottomed out quite yet
I'm only half way down the hole
Four more drinks and then again
I stumbled down the hall
And coming back, I once more read
The notice on the wall
Help...it said, is close, close by
It's nearer than you think
Call, the number that you see
Before you order your next drink
I put a dime into the payphone
I thought I'd give it one good try
Before I hit rock bottom
I'd call them up or else I'd die
A friendly voice responded
"out of service...try again"
I laughed at this short message
Then I tried it once again
I checked the number on the notice
Dialed it, and then I heard
the message "out of service"
I laughed at every word
It seems that "out of service"
Was a title I should hold
After all I was a soldier
Out of work, and drunk, and cold
Those three words, they described me
"Out of service" , right bang on
No one cared that I was falling
Who would notice when I'm gone?
I went back to my barstool
Downed my drink and got one more
I thought, I'd better have another
Before I stumbled out the door
Before I went, I ventured
To the jukebox, checked for change
The sign said "out of service"
I thought that that was strange
Twice now, "out of service"
In a message sent to me
Was I truly worth redemption
A hopeless case for all to see
I figured that tomorrow
If I found I woke up dead
"out of service" were the last words
That were emblazoned in my head
I went back to the barkeep
Ordered one more for the road
Then I downed another soldier
"out of service" number stowed
I'd laugh on this tomorrow
If I made it through this night
I was truly "out of service"
I need help to find the light.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 2:41 PM UTC
The crowded streets seemed empty now, beneath the noon day heat,
as the devils and the invalids wait 'til dusk to meet.
Then the sunlight fades and the neon signs, attract the social crowd,
the silence dies and an echo's born as the deadly night grows loud.
A ***** blonde in a ***** coat, leans on a grey stone wall,
waiting to lead her regulars down a dark and dingy hall.
While a blind man steers his cane ahead to aid his weary feet,
he gropes his way to a barstool where he and bottle meet.
The piercing sound of a siren is muffled by angry tongues,
as an old drunk falls in an alleyway clutching his heaving lungs.
The sight of the city from the fifteenth floor turns the heart to a giant pump,
as a ****** high in every way prepares for his final jump.
Dance hall girls line the stage and kick their legs in time,
as the prestige men in business suits order gin and lime.
An aging man with glass in hand finds friendship in the night
bringing back his childhood through the shouts of a barroom fight.
The pain goes on 'til the lights go out and the wolves all head for home
for those who have no place to rest the sidewalk is there to roam.
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC