"barstools" poems
It was not, by any means, a loss of faith;
Indeed, her devotion was a boundless, unfettered thing
Beyond proscription, beyond rote chant and catechism,
And what she found as a novitiate
Were shuttered gates and gossipy confessionals,
Standoffish priests, pig-eyed and pinch-lipped
Sisters who thought life’s commerce
No more than mechanical prayer and spotless linens,
The whole enterprise
Smacking of the exclusion of Heaven’s bounty.
So she demurred when the time came to take her orders,
And she returned to the world of pavements and lesser pieties,
Free to seek God on park swings and barstools,
In pleasures of the pastoral and the profane,
Though her faith is no Dionysian walkabout,
As she is passionate to the cusp of maniacal
When it comes to the Book of James’ admonition upon works;
She is often found among the sisters she once tiptoed alongside
At food pantries and clothing drives
(She is scrupulous about ministering to only secular needs,
As the Bishop is not happily disposed towards those
Who choose not to take the veil,
And the specter of excommunication is a prospect
Too awful to contemplate)
Afterwards clambering onto some vaguely roadworthy MTA bus
Back to her studio apartment in Green Island,
Where she often walks down to the Erie Canal lock nearby,
Praying for those who have travelled near and upon the water,
Convenience store clerks and ragged Irishmen fleeing famine,
Feral kittens and insufficiently mourned mules.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
She was a carefree soul
in an uptight world
Just trying to fit in.
Looking for love
in all the right places
that's how her story begins
Her mama didn't want her,
Her daddy didn't know her,
so she ran away
Looking for love
in all the wrong places
as she does to this day
Men her daddy's age
Drug are all the rage
Disco ***** Stripper Poles,
Needles and Sin
Married at 18
seemed like the right thing
drugs, an abortion, then a baby girl.
Why she had me
I'll never know
I didn't fit into her world
She found love
in the form of a son
for a time it was enough
A walk with God
She claimed she was on
But satan called her bluff.
Many men, any age
Drugs are still all the rage.
Barstools, Stripper poles
Needles and sin
She left us
at an early age,
Teenage girl and boys times 2
Searching for happiness
in all the wrong places
is watch she HAD to do.
Being a mother
To my little brothers
We got through life ok.
Hoping and dreaming
wishing and praying
Our mother would find her way.
All these men, every age,
Ice is now all the rage
Sleepless nights, alcoholic life,
Needles and Sin
On the streets
is where she lives
druggies are her friends.
Countless ways
to try to save her
But there is no end.
Is this the life
she dreamt of having
All that time ago?
A beautiful daughter, two talented sons
and grandkids she'll never know.
Any man, whatever age
Homelessness all the rage.
Self deception, mind corruption
Needles and sin.
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
i marinade my fingers,
banana pepper juice, hot wing sauce, sriracha,
i beg you to come close enough so that
i can burn every inch of your lukewarm skin
i'm not looking for revenge
i just want you to know what it feels like
to be set on fire and live to talk about it
when the sun blazes tomorrow
i drank enough whiskey for ten men last friday
and followed familiar footfalls,
i held myself up on barstools and good friends
and watched the door, waiting,
confusing look alikes through blurred vision
when you finally sauntered in
i saw it in slow motion,
i felt absolutely nothing
except hammered and free
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
"They're selling postcards of the hanging" Bob Dylan
Frolicking in the Hague festooned
as if some monarch's golden jubilee
not a room left empty in all the land
queues for miles to get a ringside seat
at what is billed as The Trial of Man
as W, **** and Rummy sit chained
to the bionic calves of barstools while
Condo Lisa bears witness atop a piano
ferreted throughout the conurbation
breadlines and circuitous routes
recalling the Nicaraguan case
low on the radar of short-term
the disunited states of disarray
vetoes its own trial's outcome
and it is business as usual
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
On barstools, people drone on endlessly
about meditation and yoga and hot yoga
or cold jogging, and bicycling in special pants.
‘It gives you a high,’ they say.
‘You’re on top of the world,’ they scream.
The saps push their new religions
with the gusto of car salesmen.
When it’s a woman, I politely listen
between mouthfuls of whiskey and ginger ale.
When it’s a man, I shut him down
early in his ramble. I tell him to
grow a pair.
Curvaceous women with long hair
and ***** that easily get wet,
bourbon that melts the top layer of ice,
pocketing a few bucks after sinking the 8 ball,
those are the legal addictions,
I tell punks
that give a man small escapes,
the sins he commits to feel whole.
A man who knows the desperation
of fulfilling temptations always
works harder to stay one step ahead
of the game.
Those are the addictions,
I tell men in designer clothes,
that **** us
slowly
when we least expect
our demise.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:40 PM UTC
I no longer mind
the laughter of people,
leaves falling,
sun rising—
all is destitution,
squalor,
our dirt-clod--
Earth.
Moons snicker, too
at our moon, which,
sneering at me
becomes dizzy
from its hypocrite
cycle.
Pulling tides,
the way it has
a quarter-century,
my life.
I want you
to die;
I want you all
to die before I do.
Moons, stare on.
I want to steal an abandoned air-
liner for you.
As far as possible,
I will climb toward
your towering grimaces
crashing, directly,
into the ground
without wonderment
or acknowledgment
on this Earth.
Trending topics
of the day
could not take stock of my
demise.
Shallow conversations
sit on barstools
put off
for eternity.
They showed me love
by suggesting
“change”.
I show them
love
is coming back
to earth
and lying with their putrid
bodies
against my will.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
i spit metaphors
and stumble to my knees,
i wipe similes from my lips
like blood and teeth.
i am pummeled with irony fists
as i stagger and crash
across barstools in anapest reels,
with splinters of broken
clauses enjambed in my flesh
and choppy flashbacks
blinding me, pounding my head.
i slip in spilled spirits,
scrabbling and scrambling
to steady my psyche.
i flail, i falter, i fall,
again and again in alliterative agony.
this is not a beating.
this is catharsis.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
Friday, I am going to do something very difficult
I do not want to be Charles Bukowski anymore
There must be more to life than drinking
It used to be fun but it has gotten out of hand
I will still enjoy the words that he wrote
I will still want to emulate him
I know what he was talking about
But I don't want to live there anymore
Because if I live there, I will die there
There is a bluebird in my heart
But in order to set him free,
there are things I need to do
I am going to do those things
And I am going to let him out
I do not want to be Charles Bukowski anymore
There is more to life that barstools and cigarette butts
More than the fiery whisky churns
In a gut that is bloated but always has room
For another sixer or another bottle
I know what he was talking about
But I don't want to live there anymore
Becausea if I liver there, I will die there
Drunk and disorderlly, sad and lonely
There is a bluebird in my heart
But in order to set him free,
there are things I need to do
I am going to do those thins
And I am going to let him out
I do not want to be Charles Bukowski anymore
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
Meticulously maintaining
Impossibly feigned nonchalance,
Toying the cigarette ever so slightly
In her fingers -- careful so not
To appear as too calculated
The pariahs parade the dancefloor,
Shades of ignominy culminating in a
Prismatic rainbow, heightened by
The stale odor of ***** and body heat
Still, she stays in her perch like a silent sphynx
Waiting -- watching --
Aimlessly, but with direction, such
Carefree flamboyance below her,
A stoop to which she’d never deign
And so she watches, resigned
To fate, as much a fixture in the joint
As the gilded barstools --
The closest she can come to confronting
The fact that she is no different
Than any of the rest
Jan 29, 2021
Jan 29, 2021 at 3:23 PM UTC
There is a wooden window, circular
above a roses-in-ink embroidered couch
that complements and contrasts the curtain
of roses-in-mud that eloquently hugs
the wooden sides of the wooden window.
On this couch I sit in my suit and out I see
through the circular wooden window
waves with stretch marks and salty burps
dancing (for me?) with brave crashing crescendos
and butter melting bass.
This ocean could teach humanity
absolutely everything about ***
its voluptuous waves caressing
the ***** seaweed and *******
it for miles until it's washed (limp) ashore.
The couch back is hard and unused
speaking of the depravity of our angry age
whose ***** wear bare the leather and studs
on the barstools in the club below my library
with its wooden window, circular.
I've yet to see a sunset or sunrise
in a place where I can see no land
but looking at the quiet reflections of rage on
the roiling ocean, on which I'm afloat,
I pray I do- I want to see it all aflame.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
so scream you
from rooftops and sidewalks
to barstools in dark rooms
the last pleas of a broken soul:
"i am me
and so i matter!
lift me up
on these clichés and gray hazes!
applaud me for dreaming,
and bow down to the dropout!"
so dig you
deep and wide
the void you're trying to fill,
and use it as your grave.
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 2:02 PM UTC
I
A scream scares the day away and makes the night a dark eternity.
Mating calls lurching behind barstools talking about nothing and jumping deeper into conversation over the bovine carcass at Applebee's.
Desolate honkytonks fueled by Percocet and chlamydia, fat musicians and anthems of Beer drunkenness hanging over the toilet to ***** their soul away for a buzz.
Coal diggers and gold diggers painted in black and red and the pinks drips down their leg to a puddle of shame. Crying in the corner for a fix with their broken knees and backs and their black lungs and their pharmacies of solutions that end up being their prison. Poisoning the air with the smoke of death and masculinity with broken hands punching the walls until the blood pours.
The **** of the body and land in unison in mind, flutters from our corner of the world to the coast
then to the heavens where it again rapes. Where it forces itself upon the consciousness of a nation
That buys it up and sells it again for naut. Souls of the lost gather for your final baptism in pain, together,
Ready and willing for more.
Trailers like tombstones in the distance at the end of hollers buried beside their dignity in the mines. Eternal monuments to good enough sprouting from every seed wasted in the divine Goddess who is reduced to the ***** of Hazard and surrounding counties.
Repeat the cycle of suffering.
Churches of skeletons praying for that divine **** of death,
reap what ye sew,
Harvest of the men in plenty,
eat for your fill!
II
It has been a cold winter, and I have traveled to the land of my heroes, who live now only on the page and in spirit alike. I have bussed cross nation, gone to Boulder and Denver and dear Allen Ginsberg I found out the time. I search for the street where I can find you, curl up in your beard, hear your stories, and hitchhike with you to Nirvana. I have snowshoed high and happy with friends and have no regrets only that I didn't stay longer. Played music on the top of mountains and felt them dance under me. I have been reborn with life and friends and it is good enough. Dislocated souls connecting in the ephemeral plane somewhere between Kentucky and Colorado in dreams and though and music and poetry and body and soul.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
A reflection
of melted mascara,
glazed eyes,
and motorcycle hair
in the bathroom mirror
realized,
Cupid doesn't work here.
He doesn't shoot arrows
to women on barstools.
Guys might shoot darts,
but only to nail a red dot.
So she ubered home.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 7:25 PM UTC
We sit down
At the Bar
You remark on
My posture
We order
Your favorite
Jack and
Coke
We sling
Them back
Double Shots
Burning my belly
Your eyes fill
With disbelief
I can see
The photographs flash
In front of
You
School Pictures
Prom Photos
Graduation
Shots
All Stacked up
Underneath this very
Bar-
Stool
My eyes roll
Away from sentimentality
Laughing it
Off
I order
Two more
I can hear you
Tell me to
Slow
Down
As if
Recorded into
A Broken
Record
Even now
I’m still
Your Baby
Sister
As My
Vision Doubles
Your Smile
Remains
As One
Though
your voice
Seems to grow
Faint
My throat begins
To burn
Feeling myself
Crying out
Over a space
Much more vast
Than the distance
Between
Our two
Barstools
Before I misplace
Myself Completely
You
Catch me
Your other Half
Your little twin
I will
Not be
Doubled
Over
We are
Celebrating
This
Birthday
As I blink
To see you
Through
My blear
I see you
Preparing
To
go
Mirroring my moves
To put me at ease
But your
Cheeks
Have lost
Dimension
Your color
No longer
Changes in
The light
You pull your
Hands away
Not wanting to
Make me
Cold
Insisting I’m
Warm
My clammy
Palms
Push
Forward
Just in
Time
To
Catch
That
Paper
Wafting
Down
I ****** it
Up
Staring at
Your smile
That always
Did
Photograph
Well
Flipping it
Over
I tried to
Remember
When you had
Signed
This photo
You could never
Have known
About
I refuse
The answer
Wary of the lies
You will believe
When you
Split drinks
With A Memory.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 12:10 PM UTC
Wounded men at barstools
turn and watch her walk away
they try to play it cool
but their blood spurts to her hips sway
She held them up, cleavage for miles
dressed to the nines in her heels
shot them with her shotgun smiles
and laughs as they bleed and reel
Egos destroyed, she did not sit
just kept on walking by
now they wither bit by bit
as their machismo, slowly dies
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 5:00 PM UTC
smiling at myself
stretching the skin
across the skull it covers.
I would erase you
but then you'd be
forgotten.
trouble down the line
fools apoxyed to the
barstools they'll die in,
listen to the symphony
of gutter rain
just like me...
I changed who i was for you.
For you, amor, for you.
Feb 13, 2011
Feb 13, 2011 at 10:23 PM UTC
It's that good one
That really good one
That plucks heaven
From scripture
And barstools jesus,
By god it's a wonderful
Wonderful something!
That blessed something
From the east rolling hills of nowhere
And big breasted hopeful Bliss
God bless god bless
Holy! Holy! Holy!
The one, the beautiful one
That nirvana heard
That glorious Perception of Love
On weary beat down minds
Well gee, I think
God stopped for this One
To gasp in disbelief, sing
Holy! Holy! Holy!
And the angels
What else but angelic
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
7 men walk into Deep Pool
an outlaw motorcycle club
the man in the red leather jacket
stood with his back against the wall
and every once in a while
for reasons
unknown
he'd yell,
"just nobody touch, Toad."
i push past Toad
on my way to the men's room
and as i'm *******
i think about Ron
he trapped rats in corners
then let them go
slapped angels in the face
and ihe craziest things he'd say
like
"the smartest rats
always get out of the maze first,"
he'd give you a knowing nod
throw down a shot
and walk away
but like a miracle
he had you wondering
ron dreamed of the angels
who stand under vapor street lights
at 4 a.m.
or sit on barstools til closing
but love is never
what it ought to be
and he lived his life
like a circus high wire walker
wandering back and forth
day after day
and one day
he disappeared
like the rabbit in magicians hat
now,
Ron was a warrior
he drew to the inside straight
to sunlight fading
and outside the 7-11
where his x-wife worked
with a pair of her nylon stockings
he hung himself
Nov 17, 2022
Nov 17, 2022 at 7:07 PM UTC
Seasons fall short as she celebrates wine and rejoices in its carnage.
Logistically speaking, we were miles away from Tripoli,
Somewhere near the edge of the desert when the barstools began to sink and the drugs began to take hold.
Amongst the indecent, Intolerant citizens of three,
Your name rings silent but Bustrophedonically.
TaXXXed like the Phoenicians, I meandered aimlessly,
True to form halted norm of reality.
Prelude thee of nomenclature and I without sin
“Was this the face that launched a thousand ships and burnt the ******* towers of Ilium?”
Dreamersofsocietyinterjectthemishapenmoldofbeaucracysimoultaneouslypivotingbetweentwelveshotsandahippopotomauscarnivoresubstituteofdissarayabbrasionsstillgatheringdustamongthecravassesofmodernenlightenmenthowaboutabreakshesaidreluctanttospeakinebriatedanddisproportiantelypunctuatedwithatleastaverbalaltercationservingseveralthievesmishapenguidanceabrubtlysweepscreatingovalpatternsperplexedbypretensciousmonolopy
_TRF
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 10:37 PM UTC
She walked into the dark dreary bar,
wondering if she should turn back, run to her car...
Smoke billowed without notice, filling the small room,
a few regulars were perched on barstools, speaking of gloom
They saw her walk in as they poured down their beers
Her well pressed suit and designer shoes,
She definitely did not belong here...
The high tops stood empty, as she pulled up a stool
Ashtrays and peanuts strategically placed, beer on tap, being kept cool
She sat still in the darkness, thick smoke all around
She was a prisoner now, she could not make a sound
Her head began to ache, her mind began to race
She knew she did not belong in this place...
The jukebox began playing some sad country song
Her heart started screaming, something was wrong!
The door finally opened
There he stood
Wearing the red sweater, like he said he would
Strange grin on his face, he was covered in sweat
She couldn't move now, not a hair out of place
He walked closer and closer, her heart started to race
She had no where to hide, no where to run,
She knew right then, the nightmare had only begun...
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
Those beautiful tendrils of smoke
that halo the heads of the regular
joes; their ***** weighing heavy on
mahogany and brass barstool.
That beautiful, marbled piece of beef
that sizzles in the cast iron pan on
the burner in the back as the jacket
fries boil in oil in a wire basket
beside.
Wanting to be here,
There.
With those fellas.
waiting on that meal.
Willing to give anything
for the opportunity to embark
on such a Bukowski-esque quest
like steak frites
served up steaming
with sidecars of bourbon
maybe a beer or two;
cigarette smoke.
Elevated cholesterol,
maybe a choked-upon
piece of gristle,
lungs full of carcinogens,
maybe a nodule of cancer.
We won’t talk of this ****
We’ll talk about the ***** of
the lasses that stroll by our barstools,
heedless to us in the least.
We’ll howl and drool like beasts
(once they’re out of earshot.)
Eventually, we’ll all die anyway.
Eat a steak,
some potatoes
fried in duck fat.
Pat a nice ***
if you can.
Fall in love.
Choke upon the
wealth of your
satisfaction.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 5:30 PM UTC
We write late into the night,
words carved from barstools, conversations, and car drives.
Words borne from indecency, drawn out brawls, and fragmented memories
We write until the sun comes alive
and we see beastly revolutions
turn into beauty drenched by its brilliant rays
We write the tragedy the night has become
and immortalize our immoral defeats
for prosperity and time capsule memories
so that when we are old and broken and faded
we may recall the stories of our youth
with glimmers of hope
that there is
and always will be
the rebellion of life
coursing its way thru our veins
and that someday
we will go into the night again
And live like we were immortal
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
I vaguely remember us on the edge of a canal
Fists clenched, holding the night sky
Standing, screaming that we were alive
Back then it wouldn't have been a lie
And on barstools as well, faint guitar riffs
Echoing through smoky pub air
Heads lain flat on damp tables
Wish we'd known then the difference between having purpose and simply breathing
Also our beds, with the lights dimmed
Asking questions neither could answer
Just two ignorant kids waxing philosophy
Just two ignorant kids already forgetting how to live
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 6:26 AM UTC