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Sean Winslow May 2010
I thought to those hands that draw my strings
why do ghosts only haunt the living?
Fear slithers down from the stains on my ceiling
coiling thickly around my throat
dripping fetid sweat
from the tips of its' fangs

“To Spur You To Run”

so down the darkened hallways and
out to the *****
downtown streets I flew
skittering fitfully between the alleys
for risk of being seen
before slipping into that same empty bar
great bartend, ferry me from the whispering docks
ducking onto that same crooked confessional
oh holy bartend save us, your sons, we fallen fiends
where I am promptly handed
my glass of Sorrow
deliver us from evil
atop a napkin wrote with print

“All The Better To Drown You With”

it seems I have forgotten
if this sip or the last
was bitter or sweet
but it burns my eyes
cracks my ribs
thickens the air
and in the moment I see that face
out beyond the foamy waves
that shore upon the dregs
oh hallowed face of Judgement,  
it seems blackened ivy has taken root
around your eyes

"Redemption's Pyre is Fueled by the Slow-Burn of Midnight Oil"

every block that I stumble by
drips pooling
orange streetlight onto the sidewalk
which wetted feet find liquor slick
and thus put nose to grindstone, idiom or no
I hear the quiet Fury
when you fall down far enough
when your ears are planted to the earth
addressing me curtly
burning up through the asphalt
stretching and ripping beneath my fingers
she lifts me screaming from the gutters

"To Hell With Forgiveness"

I find none other than Passion
standing under a spotlight
on the next street corner
always dreamed of becoming a star 
 you burned out far below the heavens of the hollywood highrise
she beckons me over with knowing gestures
and still wound up center stage

“I Am Cheap and Love is Dead
Buried With All The Other Fairy Tales”
to which I respond
“We Must Make Due.”

she came and left swiftly,
departing with the last of the warmth
in this empty room
her candles doused in gasoline
burn half as long but twice as bright
after which I rose and went to my window
and listened to the chirps of Melancholy
singing of sin.
New and Improved
Copyright ©2010-2013 Sean Winslow All Rights Reserved
A L Davies Nov 2011
a few weeks back i
   opened my big
                              fat mouth
& agreed to bartend
this art auction fundraiser for
street children in
         kenya
which my parents organize
         yearly
to which a lotta local artists
big & small all
donate pieces to.

anyway my pops wouldn't
let me serve gin with tonic (this being a front so
i could drink it all of course, if y'know me at all..)

and bought bud light (horsepiss)
and for wine used several
bottles of the stuff my
mother makes
                          in town
                          at the Penetang Wine Cellar
which, though rich & darkly red
is over-dry and smacks of vinegar,
be assured.

so despite see-sawing between
indignant "No's"
&
commiserative "Yes'ses"
(i mean who else are they gonna get??)
(---and due in part to
my lack of success in
making other plans)
i end up doing it &
having an alright time
in the process ...

(hey i had a big sink fulla icy beers &
'probly drank more than anyone
else save my father's friend Ted!!)
---i even threw down
a bit o cash on a pretty neat little
abstract called "view to the bay"
but got outbid,
---as if i needed to drop $100 +
on some painting
when i should be saving ev'ry dime
for old España
in the new year.
so i crack another beer and
live vicariously thru my mother
when she picks up a oil of this island
with big storm & clouds comin' in
---and then outta nowhere it actually is me
that closes out the show by outbidding
a neighbour for a
photograph of some dingy toronto night
(buildings under construction)
and then go back to pouring more wine
& smiling & shaking (wringing) a few hands.
seven beers deep poetry
Lunarian Oct 2013
I have taken shots of sorrow
til it became bottle after bottle
of warm liquid that ever warms my veins
leaves me wobbly and in a daze
the bartender says my limit is reached
but i tell him to keep pouring
keep pouring ,keep pouring, til I lie down snoring

However, like a wounded beast i refuse to lie down
So,I'm sitting at the bar and feeling weak
ditzy and cant speak
the woman next to me is saying something
about her problems and things
but my only replies formed are mumblings
the shot glass is sitting on the bar empty in front of me
painted with the cherry red of my lipstick
that once made me pretty
it tempts me for another round
it's evil stares haunts me and so I befriend its gaze
by looking at the glass lovingly

I ask the bartend for more
but he tells security to usher me to the door
upset, i saunder out,
broke my left heel and scream curses as if im opening hell's mouth

Limping around,I somehow found my car and sat in it
took out depression ,rolled it up and lit it
kept taking hits
hit after blazing hit
til my car was so smoky,it leaked out the window
dancing into the air and vanishing--
leaving me as a widow
it was then i decided to grow
tracing the smoke as it dwindled
looked under my seat and found a half empty bottle pain
and kept sipping on it
with nothing to gain

the mirror showed my patheticacy
faded cherry red
runny eyeliner
and smudged blush
painted a wasted mural of me

numb from anything once felt or thought
i threw it into gear and attempted the wasted ****** of me
(pathetic-ca-cy) lol i doubt its even a word but this is kinda how i feel tonight :/
Jonas Jun 2023
Today I created liquid poerty,
that no one understands
or cares for, no one asked.

Still it made the news,
which made a spot on my mothers fridge,
which made my day.

Once this menu is gone
my creations will be forgotten forever
or worse reinvented under a false name
by another, ignorance chasing originallity.

I poured my all out for nothing,
gave it all away for some recognition, basic respect
and now I'm all used up,
I've served my purpose.

Time to go, to be replaced and left behind
with nothing
but some blurry bittersweet memories
of lost bonds and time wasted,
and a bit of  sad leftover pride.

Oh to do it all again, and lose yourself
in the service of others.
Back than when my energy was infinite,
to move without bounds is magical.
Duke Thompson May 2015
move to small island village
bartend at only bar
serve drunk Irishmen
sleep soundly
Mary-Eliz Mar 2018
Nonsense and rhyme
down the dark streets of time

a pagan moon overhead

shedding patterns of gloom
in an empty room

dusky shadows on
the unmade bed

a train whistle blows
rattling steel slows

hissing sounds mark
the end of the ride
last stop is called out
as doors open wide

out drain the crowds
the moon lost in the clouds

dingy globes by the rails
point out the trails

for
shuffling into the station

cattle brought in for the night
moving in resignation

nobody speaks
no one looks up
as they head for the turning stile

no rush to get home

he'll stop for a while

bight garish lights
shriek into the night
he turns in response
to their call

dark booth at far end
he slumps there alone
hugging his golden potion

biting and warm
whiskey goes down
empties the glass in one motion

nods to the bartend
his one constant friend

friend or foe
he can't know
but tomorrow he'll do it again

in that nonsense and rhyme
along the dark streets of time

— The End —