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"bartender" poems
good weather is like good women- it doesn't always happen and when it does it doesn't always last. man is more stable: if he's bad there's more chance he'll stay that way, or if he's good he might hang on, but a woman is changed by children age diet conversation *** the moon the absence or presence of sun or good times. a woman must be nursed into subsistence by love where a man can become stronger by being hated. I am drinking tonight in Spangler's Bar and I remember the cows I once painted in Art class and they looked good they looked better than anything in here. I am drinking in Spangler's Bar wondering which to love and which to hate, but the rules are gone: I love and hate only myself- they stand outside me like an orange dropped from the table and rolling away; it's what I've got to decide: **** myself or love myself? which is the treason? where's the information coming from? books...like broken glass: I wouldn't wipe my *** with 'em yet, it's getting darker, see? (we drink here and speak to each other and seem knowing.) buy the cow with the biggest **** buy the cow with the biggest **** present arms. the bartender slides me a beer it runs down the bar like an Olympic sprinter and the pair of pliers that is my hand stops it, lifts it, golden **** of dull temptation, I drink and stand there the weather bad for cows but my brush is ready to stroke up the green grass straw eye sadness takes me all over and I drink the beer straight down order a shot fast to give me the guts and the love to go on. from "poems written before jumping out of an 8 story window" - 1966
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126.7k
Charles Bukowski
Cows In Art Class
good weather is like good women- it doesn't always happen and when it does it doesn't always last. man is more stable: if he's bad there's more chance he'll stay that way, or if he's good he might hang on, but a woman is changed by children age diet conversation *** the moon the absence or presence of sun or good times. a woman must be nursed into subsistence by love where a man can become stronger by being hated. I am drinking tonight in Spangler's Bar and I remember the cows I once painted in Art class and they looked good they looked better than anything in here. I am drinking in Spangler's Bar wondering which to love and which to hate, but the rules are gone: I love and hate only myself- they stand outside me like an orange dropped from the table and rolling away; it's what I've got to decide: **** myself or love myself? which is the treason? where's the information coming from? books...like broken glass: I wouldn't wipe my *** with 'em yet, it's getting darker, see? (we drink here and speak to each other and seem knowing.) buy the cow with the biggest **** buy the cow with the biggest **** present arms. the bartender slides me a beer it runs down the bar like an Olympic sprinter and the pair of pliers that is my hand stops it, lifts it, golden **** of dull temptation, I drink and stand there the weather bad for cows but my brush is ready to stroke up the green grass straw eye sadness takes me all over and I drink the beer straight down order a shot fast to give me the guts and the love to go on. from "poems written before jumping out of an 8 story window" - 1966
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84
My heart Is a happy drunk A little too open A little too optimistic It's over in the corner of the bar Playing poker Screaming at the top of it's lungs I'M ALL IN When it's never To this day Had a winning hand My heart Is a sad drunk A little too lonely A little too caught up in tears It's over at the counter Forcing the bartender to take its keys Because it would rather not go home Than go home alone again My heart Is a reckless drunk A little too unbalanced A little too impaired It's over by the door Making everyone nervous A little too good at scaring people away A little too far gone Like you A little too far gone Turn your head Shuffle away and pretend you don't notice The breakdown of a heart Too drunk on feelings To know when to stop
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Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
Anonymoose
too far gone
My heart Is a happy drunk A little too open A little too optimistic It's over in the corner of the bar Playing poker Screaming at the top of it's lungs I'M ALL IN When it's never To this day Had a winning hand My heart Is a sad drunk A little too lonely A little too caught up in tears It's over at the counter Forcing the bartender to take its keys Because it would rather not go home Than go home alone again My heart Is a reckless drunk A little too unbalanced A little too impaired It's over by the door Making everyone nervous A little too good at scaring people away A little too far gone Like you A little too far gone Turn your head Shuffle away and pretend you don't notice The breakdown of a heart Too drunk on feelings To know when to stop
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34
I need one more I need to forget a little more I need to remember a little less I need to remember a lot more I just need to remember it differently Better The way I wrote it The way it ends when I'm sleeping Dear bartender Make it a White Russian As white as her dress would've been One Pina Colada Tan as the sand would've been One more Gin and Tonic Sparkling as her eyes ***** Cranberry Red as her lips A triple shot of silver tequila As clear as my intentions Marry me Bartender I want to drink until I forget she said no Bartender I want to drink until I forget I ever asked Dear Bartender I want to drink until I remember she said yes ***** til my head rings wedding bells Gin til my body ticks raw rice *** til my cheeks flush honeymoon Tequila til my ring finger itches Whiskey until she loves me too Whiskey until she come back Whiskey
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Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 4:39 PM UTC
michael-devoe
Dear Bartender
I need one more I need to forget a little more I need to remember a little less I need to remember a lot more I just need to remember it differently Better The way I wrote it The way it ends when I'm sleeping Dear bartender Make it a White Russian As white as her dress would've been One Pina Colada Tan as the sand would've been One more Gin and Tonic Sparkling as her eyes ***** Cranberry Red as her lips A triple shot of silver tequila As clear as my intentions Marry me Bartender I want to drink until I forget she said no Bartender I want to drink until I forget I ever asked Dear Bartender I want to drink until I remember she said yes ***** til my head rings wedding bells Gin til my body ticks raw rice *** til my cheeks flush honeymoon Tequila til my ring finger itches Whiskey until she loves me too Whiskey until she come back Whiskey
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30
For Al, who left us With each passing poem, The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher, Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised, Domain, the association of words, ever lesser, Repetition verboten, crime against pride. Al, You ask me when the words come: With each passing year, In the wee hours of Ever diminishing time snatches, The hours between midnight and rising, Shrinkage, once six, now four hours, Meant for body restoration, Transpositional for poetic creation, Only one body notes the new mark, The digital, numerical clock of Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing. Al, you ask me from where do the words come: Each of the five senses compete, Pick me, Pick me, they shout, The eyes see the tall grasses Framing the ferry's to and fro life. Waving bye bye to the End of day harbor activities, Putting your babies to sleep. The ears hear the boat horns Deep voiced, demanding pay attention, I am now docking, I am important, The sound lingers, long after They are no longer important. The tongue tastes the cooling Italian prosecco merging victoriously With its ally, the modestly warming rays Of a September setting sun, finally declaring, without stuttering, Peace on Earth. The odoriferous bay breezes, A new for that second only smell, But yet, very old bartender's recipe, Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted, Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings. These four senses all recombinant, On the cheek, on the tongue, Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning Merging into a single touch That my pointer finger, by force majeure, Declares, here, poem aborning! Contract with this moment, now satisfied! Al, what you did not ask was this: With each passing poem, I am lessened within, expurgated, In a sense part of me, expunged, Part of me, passing too, Every poems birth diminishes me. _________________________________ (this poem more than most, for its birth celebrates my loss, your loss, which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18) _________________________________ written at 4:38 AM September 8th, 2012 Greenport Harbor, Long Island
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May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 7:07 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
2013: With Each Passing Poem
For Al, who left us With each passing poem, The degree of difficulty of diving ever higher, Bar incrementally niched, inched, raised, Domain, the association of words, ever lesser, Repetition verboten, crime against pride. Al, You ask me when the words come: With each passing year, In the wee hours of Ever diminishing time snatches, The hours between midnight and rising, Shrinkage, once six, now four hours, Meant for body restoration, Transpositional for poetic creation, Only one body notes the new mark, The digital, numerical clock of Trillion hour sleep deficit, most taxing. Al, you ask me from where do the words come: Each of the five senses compete, Pick me, Pick me, they shout, The eyes see the tall grasses Framing the ferry's to and fro life. Waving bye bye to the End of day harbor activities, Putting your babies to sleep. The ears hear the boat horns Deep voiced, demanding pay attention, I am now docking, I am important, The sound lingers, long after They are no longer important. The tongue tastes the cooling Italian prosecco merging victoriously With its ally, the modestly warming rays Of a September setting sun, finally declaring, without stuttering, Peace on Earth. The odoriferous bay breezes, A new for that second only smell, But yet, very old bartender's recipe, Salt, cooking oil, barbecue sauce, gasoline And the winning new ingredient, freshly minted, Stacked in ascending circumference order, onion rings. These four senses all recombinant, On the cheek, on the tongue, Wafting, tickling, blasting, visioning Merging into a single touch That my pointer finger, by force majeure, Declares, here, poem aborning! Contract with this moment, now satisfied! Al, what you did not ask was this: With each passing poem, I am lessened within, expurgated, In a sense part of me, expunged, Part of me, passing too, Every poems birth diminishes me. _________________________________ (this poem more than most, for its birth celebrates my loss, your loss, which cannot be exonerated 8/7/18) _________________________________ written at 4:38 AM September 8th, 2012 Greenport Harbor, Long Island
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67
The girl with purple hair is sitting at my bar again. I think she is beautiful. And not in a way that I wanna have awesome *** with her but in a way that I want to drink chocolate martinis with her and go shopping for christmas vests that have tinkly bells and possibly polar bears with hats on them. She is having a full-body cry. I am the worst bartender, simply because I don't know how to counsel people without crying back at them. She is crying about the state of women. I know that we come from the same rotting wood, so all I do is nod. "How is it that three quarters of the women I know have been ***** or molested? What does that say about the men that I know? **** is not a man behind a bush with a knife, she laughs It's kissing you on the mouth like whiskey at a nice bar." The girl with purple hair and I are holding hands now, "I only wanted an apology, an acknowledgement of what occurred." Grappling as artists, as girls, as ships in bottles, how do we change any of it? I tell her I am going to write a poem. She says no one wants to hear a **** poem. And I know she's right. Have you ever seen a stampede of horses? Do you wonder what the hooves look like from underneath? Have you ever tasted the blood from biting your own lips because you couldn't say no enough? "I never fought back. I kept my thighs tight and closed, but once he's inside you, you wish you were the streetlamp, the store clerk, a street lamp, a bed of calla lilies- anything but a woman. In that moment, our eyes glaze over, and they stay that way for years. That's when you've lost.
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Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
jacob-resendez
Epidemic (by Mary Lambert)
The girl with purple hair is sitting at my bar again. I think she is beautiful. And not in a way that I wanna have awesome *** with her but in a way that I want to drink chocolate martinis with her and go shopping for christmas vests that have tinkly bells and possibly polar bears with hats on them. She is having a full-body cry. I am the worst bartender, simply because I don't know how to counsel people without crying back at them. She is crying about the state of women. I know that we come from the same rotting wood, so all I do is nod. "How is it that three quarters of the women I know have been ***** or molested? What does that say about the men that I know? **** is not a man behind a bush with a knife, she laughs It's kissing you on the mouth like whiskey at a nice bar." The girl with purple hair and I are holding hands now, "I only wanted an apology, an acknowledgement of what occurred." Grappling as artists, as girls, as ships in bottles, how do we change any of it? I tell her I am going to write a poem. She says no one wants to hear a **** poem. And I know she's right. Have you ever seen a stampede of horses? Do you wonder what the hooves look like from underneath? Have you ever tasted the blood from biting your own lips because you couldn't say no enough? "I never fought back. I kept my thighs tight and closed, but once he's inside you, you wish you were the streetlamp, the store clerk, a street lamp, a bed of calla lilies- anything but a woman. In that moment, our eyes glaze over, and they stay that way for years. That's when you've lost.
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28
Liquid courage to numb the pain. Intoxicated to forget. Offbeat blood, sent from heart to vein. Returns with a guest, she just met. She closes up, leaves the bar clean. To her apartment, around three. In bed she lays, counting some sheep, That mock her, thinking she will sleep. She hears the crickets’ lonely beat. Reminding her of creeps she meets. Sometimes they have a potential start. But never truly go that far. Each night dealt with some other cards. But slowly starts to build up guard. She puts less time in her makeup. But drunks continue to pick up. She joins in shots, hopes to pass out. But in her head she hears the shouts. Her heart’s hunger for real love. Her clouded thoughts rise above. A newly turned insomniac. No longer sleeping on her back. Till curtains peek with starry eyes. So bright, leaves a forceful rise. Her sobs like strings of violin. A void no liquor can fill in. Despite how much she tries to drown. The aches resonate with shrill sounds. Another night, still found no one. A man enters, two drinks and done. She questions him, “What is the rush?” Always pulled into a quick crush. But never really tends to last. As he mumbles about his past. A bartender, like therapist. As alcohol reveals the gist. Now drunk and loud, he starts to shout. Before his crash, he raises doubt. He talks about, the best he lost. Always at home, waits for the toss. She cheers him up, when in a rut. He gets up again, “That **** mutt! To see her hurt, curled up in bed. I held her paw, up till her death.” The next night, slept pretty early. He was perfect, brown hair curly. Her eyes were lost, but not with lust. Enjoyed his smells, delicious must. A piece of her, became a part. Happy to save his sinking heart. Rescued him, he slept on her rug. Named Milo, her three-legged dog.
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Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 12:12 PM UTC
lgavra
The Bartender
Liquid courage to numb the pain. Intoxicated to forget. Offbeat blood, sent from heart to vein. Returns with a guest, she just met. She closes up, leaves the bar clean. To her apartment, around three. In bed she lays, counting some sheep, That mock her, thinking she will sleep. She hears the crickets’ lonely beat. Reminding her of creeps she meets. Sometimes they have a potential start. But never truly go that far. Each night dealt with some other cards. But slowly starts to build up guard. She puts less time in her makeup. But drunks continue to pick up. She joins in shots, hopes to pass out. But in her head she hears the shouts. Her heart’s hunger for real love. Her clouded thoughts rise above. A newly turned insomniac. No longer sleeping on her back. Till curtains peek with starry eyes. So bright, leaves a forceful rise. Her sobs like strings of violin. A void no liquor can fill in. Despite how much she tries to drown. The aches resonate with shrill sounds. Another night, still found no one. A man enters, two drinks and done. She questions him, “What is the rush?” Always pulled into a quick crush. But never really tends to last. As he mumbles about his past. A bartender, like therapist. As alcohol reveals the gist. Now drunk and loud, he starts to shout. Before his crash, he raises doubt. He talks about, the best he lost. Always at home, waits for the toss. She cheers him up, when in a rut. He gets up again, “That **** mutt! To see her hurt, curled up in bed. I held her paw, up till her death.” The next night, slept pretty early. He was perfect, brown hair curly. Her eyes were lost, but not with lust. Enjoyed his smells, delicious must. A piece of her, became a part. Happy to save his sinking heart. Rescued him, he slept on her rug. Named Milo, her three-legged dog.
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52
the club is not the place to be so the bar is where you'll find me with my girlfriend doing shots scanning the room and catching nods your eyes hang in the smoky air come on over, if you dare trust me, I'll give you a chance surely you see that, in my glance my friend and I are laughing like girls do my magnetic eyes push and pull at you starring, you haven't looked away I can see the interest, you convey another shot the bartender places confused, he gestures and your glass raises I smile as my girlfriend whispers, he's cute toasting you, we lift our shots and shoot I won't beg you to on come over but it's only wasting time until you come closer the possibilities, I foresee I'm already in love with your body in confidence, over you saunder in my mind the question, I ponder obviously I see, you're in to me but what about my friend... are you into three?
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Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 9:33 PM UTC
Cne
The Pick Up
the club is not the place to be so the bar is where you'll find me with my girlfriend doing shots scanning the room and catching nods your eyes hang in the smoky air come on over, if you dare trust me, I'll give you a chance surely you see that, in my glance my friend and I are laughing like girls do my magnetic eyes push and pull at you starring, you haven't looked away I can see the interest, you convey another shot the bartender places confused, he gestures and your glass raises I smile as my girlfriend whispers, he's cute toasting you, we lift our shots and shoot I won't beg you to on come over but it's only wasting time until you come closer the possibilities, I foresee I'm already in love with your body in confidence, over you saunder in my mind the question, I ponder obviously I see, you're in to me but what about my friend... are you into three?
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24
The man at the bar He is a young **** He's got years on his slate Double my own A bottle of scotch He swishes away The British way Born in London Now a Southerner Touring the country With his Wife, Elene Not missing a thing Quite the engineer Laughing away With each glass The bartender brings Flapping his yap At the pretty young miss Residing at the bar Enjoying her dinner No longer feeling a part From the crowd
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Oct 21, 2011
Oct 21, 2011 at 8:58 PM UTC
luci-sunbird
Young ****
The man at the bar He is a young **** He's got years on his slate Double my own A bottle of scotch He swishes away The British way Born in London Now a Southerner Touring the country With his Wife, Elene Not missing a thing Quite the engineer Laughing away With each glass The bartender brings Flapping his yap At the pretty young miss Residing at the bar Enjoying her dinner No longer feeling a part From the crowd
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23
Overthinking is like waking up in a labyrinth. Its like mental war. Its a sea where, you cant float on your own, its getting lost in a foggy path Overthinking made you a killer of your own mind. You are now wanted. Questions like when, how, and why ? Becomes a rope around you neck. Whats your escape plan? Do you got one? How many walls do you got to hit, Till you meet a solution. Maybe another position will perhaps Give you a new perspective of life You not a bartender Don’t make martinis with all these lemons thrown at you You’ll realize The twisting part of it all is that the only way out, is to overthink.
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Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 2:08 AM UTC
Logyk
Overthinking
Overthinking is like waking up in a labyrinth. Its like mental war. Its a sea where, you cant float on your own, its getting lost in a foggy path Overthinking made you a killer of your own mind. You are now wanted. Questions like when, how, and why ? Becomes a rope around you neck. Whats your escape plan? Do you got one? How many walls do you got to hit, Till you meet a solution. Maybe another position will perhaps Give you a new perspective of life You not a bartender Don’t make martinis with all these lemons thrown at you You’ll realize The twisting part of it all is that the only way out, is to overthink.
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18
poetry readings have to be some of the saddest ****** things ever, the gathering of the clansmen and clanladies, week after week, month after month, year after year, getting old together, reading on to tiny gatherings, still hoping their genius will be discovered, making tapes together, discs together, sweating for applause they read basically to and for each other, they can't find a New York publisher or one within miles, but they read on and on in the poetry holes of America, never daunted, never considering the possibility that their talent might be thin, almost invisible, they read on and on before their mothers, their sisters, their husbands, their wives, their friends, the other poets and the handful of idiots who have wandered in from nowhere. I am ashamed for them, I am ashamed that they have to bolster each other, I am ashamed for their lisping egos, their lack of guts. if these are our creators, please, please give me something else: a drunken plumber at a bowling alley, a prelim boy in a four rounder, a **** guiding his horse through along the rail, a bartender on last call, a waitress pouring me a coffee, a drunk sleeping in a deserted doorway, a dog munching a dry bone, an elephant's **** in a circus tent, a 6 p.m. freeway crush, the mailman telling a ***** joke anything anything but these.
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7.7k
Charles Bukowski
poetry readings
poetry readings have to be some of the saddest ****** things ever, the gathering of the clansmen and clanladies, week after week, month after month, year after year, getting old together, reading on to tiny gatherings, still hoping their genius will be discovered, making tapes together, discs together, sweating for applause they read basically to and for each other, they can't find a New York publisher or one within miles, but they read on and on in the poetry holes of America, never daunted, never considering the possibility that their talent might be thin, almost invisible, they read on and on before their mothers, their sisters, their husbands, their wives, their friends, the other poets and the handful of idiots who have wandered in from nowhere. I am ashamed for them, I am ashamed that they have to bolster each other, I am ashamed for their lisping egos, their lack of guts. if these are our creators, please, please give me something else: a drunken plumber at a bowling alley, a prelim boy in a four rounder, a **** guiding his horse through along the rail, a bartender on last call, a waitress pouring me a coffee, a drunk sleeping in a deserted doorway, a dog munching a dry bone, an elephant's **** in a circus tent, a 6 p.m. freeway crush, the mailman telling a ***** joke anything anything but these.
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49
Lipstick cigarettes and the empty soul of modern rock n' roll laid in ruin amongst my collection of black soul addictions and sultry benedictions. MIDI saxophones and an ex-girlfriend on the telephone directing me to find my home, to rebuild the comb, to banish the bartender and the Reverend ****** Alamo idiot stand and a neon Jesus waving newcomers into the whitewashed port town known as "Cuba North". At the Caged Gorilla, Linda, the waitress, laughs through yellowed teeth, while my bloodshot eyes crawl up her red gums. Binge'd and my brain keeps parallel with the ceiling fan while a plain clothes cop tries to give me the reprimand for nostalgic mischiefs. Handcuffed and looking for that old fiend, Freedom, while Miranda spews on the back of my skull, slides down my shoulders, dots the cement. Out the door and tourists with cameras looking for evil behind my irises, but I can assure my handshakes feel the same, I'm front pew tame, and I blend with the parade.
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Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 7:13 PM UTC
jj-hutton
Caged Gorilla
Lipstick cigarettes and the empty soul of modern rock n' roll laid in ruin amongst my collection of black soul addictions and sultry benedictions. MIDI saxophones and an ex-girlfriend on the telephone directing me to find my home, to rebuild the comb, to banish the bartender and the Reverend ****** Alamo idiot stand and a neon Jesus waving newcomers into the whitewashed port town known as "Cuba North". At the Caged Gorilla, Linda, the waitress, laughs through yellowed teeth, while my bloodshot eyes crawl up her red gums. Binge'd and my brain keeps parallel with the ceiling fan while a plain clothes cop tries to give me the reprimand for nostalgic mischiefs. Handcuffed and looking for that old fiend, Freedom, while Miranda spews on the back of my skull, slides down my shoulders, dots the cement. Out the door and tourists with cameras looking for evil behind my irises, but I can assure my handshakes feel the same, I'm front pew tame, and I blend with the parade.
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14
Looks like you need a drink... What'll it be, let me think... One thing you should know, Little Miss, I'm not a bartender... I'm just winging this... Hmm... Arc in a cocktail shaker Filled halfway up Throw Melz in the mix Just a dollop Let's see now... Spoonful of rhymes Make that a table Few drops of Conor If he's up and able Almost ready... A touch of Tea Maybe a tad more A dose of Frank In a little pour Just about done... Cap it up Shake that shaker Pour it out Top with Silver Ahh... In a cocktail glass Now sprinkle with Dani Let's not stinge Sprinkle aplenty There you go, Hon... Take a full swig When you see the bottom, your pain wouldn't seem so big...
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Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
ryn
Bottoms Up!
Looks like you need a drink... What'll it be, let me think... One thing you should know, Little Miss, I'm not a bartender... I'm just winging this... Hmm... Arc in a cocktail shaker Filled halfway up Throw Melz in the mix Just a dollop Let's see now... Spoonful of rhymes Make that a table Few drops of Conor If he's up and able Almost ready... A touch of Tea Maybe a tad more A dose of Frank In a little pour Just about done... Cap it up Shake that shaker Pour it out Top with Silver Ahh... In a cocktail glass Now sprinkle with Dani Let's not stinge Sprinkle aplenty There you go, Hon... Take a full swig When you see the bottom, your pain wouldn't seem so big...
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31
"hell yeah?" the burglar asked the pusher. (the burglar: wirily, ambitious. plain appearance, dressed in black. the pusher: wealthy, strong and well-conditioned. sumptuous leather jacket.) "hell yeah", the pusher answered. "now i got what i like and you got what you need." both grinned. after a day of extensive work, they relaxed in a hellish pub. it was visited by diplomatic creatures whose faces were recognizable like shadows. this pub was called babylon 8. the burglar and the pusher touched glasses to celebrate their deal. they drank. "nothing to be written down", the pusher added. burglar nodded. voices of the diplomatic creatures surrounding them; satanic sighs; bold laughter; their sentences sounded like orders that are dictated by judges.    snakes and rats. gravelpitbulls and red cats. creatures with excellent memory. guys who swallow their plans after they had learned them by heart. a while later, a lady entered the pub: adorable like a man's fantasy; imitable like a woman's strategy. her hair color was your desire; her skin color the color of your dreams. her name was fantasy girl. suddenly, the lights went out; suddenly, a lightblue sun illuminated the room. no one noticed. everyone so busy hiding something that nothing was hid. the creatures of babylon 8 therefore didn't perceive the light. fantasy girl ordered a drink. she told the bartender: "i need freedom. that's what i want from you, the people of babylon 8." the bartender a giant with a face full of shining scars; his right ear missing; flashy shirt; an ancient first name; speaker of all world languages combined: the omerta. fantasy girl took a sip from a silver brew which had been served to her by the bartender. she took out a single match and there was no box; a long cigarette between her unknown lips. bartender looked at fantasy girl. without saying a word, he turned his stubble cheek into her direction. fantasy girl lighted the match. lightblue fire. inhaling. smoke. iceblue cloud. the burglar and the pusher had been looking at fantasy girl all the time. fantasy girl held a white fountain pen and took a black sheet out of a green handbag. she began to write.
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Dec 15, 2019
Dec 15, 2019 at 10:12 AM UTC
maxneumann
BABYLON 8. FANTASY GIRL'S SCENE.
"hell yeah?" the burglar asked the pusher. (the burglar: wirily, ambitious. plain appearance, dressed in black. the pusher: wealthy, strong and well-conditioned. sumptuous leather jacket.) "hell yeah", the pusher answered. "now i got what i like and you got what you need." both grinned. after a day of extensive work, they relaxed in a hellish pub. it was visited by diplomatic creatures whose faces were recognizable like shadows. this pub was called babylon 8. the burglar and the pusher touched glasses to celebrate their deal. they drank. "nothing to be written down", the pusher added. burglar nodded. voices of the diplomatic creatures surrounding them; satanic sighs; bold laughter; their sentences sounded like orders that are dictated by judges.    snakes and rats. gravelpitbulls and red cats. creatures with excellent memory. guys who swallow their plans after they had learned them by heart. a while later, a lady entered the pub: adorable like a man's fantasy; imitable like a woman's strategy. her hair color was your desire; her skin color the color of your dreams. her name was fantasy girl. suddenly, the lights went out; suddenly, a lightblue sun illuminated the room. no one noticed. everyone so busy hiding something that nothing was hid. the creatures of babylon 8 therefore didn't perceive the light. fantasy girl ordered a drink. she told the bartender: "i need freedom. that's what i want from you, the people of babylon 8." the bartender a giant with a face full of shining scars; his right ear missing; flashy shirt; an ancient first name; speaker of all world languages combined: the omerta. fantasy girl took a sip from a silver brew which had been served to her by the bartender. she took out a single match and there was no box; a long cigarette between her unknown lips. bartender looked at fantasy girl. without saying a word, he turned his stubble cheek into her direction. fantasy girl lighted the match. lightblue fire. inhaling. smoke. iceblue cloud. the burglar and the pusher had been looking at fantasy girl all the time. fantasy girl held a white fountain pen and took a black sheet out of a green handbag. she began to write.
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21
"Hey, Charles! I won't be back." His friend yells out before Continuing to eat the face off Of the young Latino he had met. "Ok! I guess I can get home.. Somehow..." He mumbles to himself, signaling to the Bartender that he wanted to order Something off menu. He pays no attention to the trans Woman who sits down beside him. "I'll have a watermelon sangria, please." he requests softly, but confidently. The lady by him chuckles, "Watermelon? That's odd." Her voice is rich with flavor, And humor. "It is odd. But so am I." He mumbles. "It seems that way, doesn't it? Well, at least now I can call you Melon Rather than ask your name!" "A rather odd nickname for an odd person." And so their conversation continued. It became all the more lively once 'Melon' had had a couple rounds. Both drunk and desperate, they Kiss passionately in the gay bar, Paying no heed to the others Yelling "Get a room!" Roaming hands. Stumbling up stairs. Drunken giggles. Broken speech. "You're so beautiful." He whispers. Skin against skin, Burning hot,   Both mad with desire. Panting. Groaning. Moaning. Ecstasy. It's late at night. They manage to call A taxi, and go home. Home to Melon's apartment. The next morning was spent Drinking ****** Mary's and Making an account of what Happened the night before. That, and more *** Hot, ****** *** Passionate, lively And loving *** Charles sits up in his bed. He feels something sticky. "Oh, that's disgusting!" ****** *** indeed. He stands up to clean himself Off in the bathroom, but he Hears the shower running. "Did I get laid last night?" He peeps into the shower And sees the woman from His dream. "Eva?" He asks. "Who else would it be?" "Why are you in my apartment?" Charles exclaims. Eva turns and Raises an eyebrow at him. "I live here, Melon." "Since when? We hooked Up just last night!" "Darlin', we've been married for 4 years!"
0
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 12:39 AM UTC
hopeful-abecedarian
Wet Dream
"Hey, Charles! I won't be back." His friend yells out before Continuing to eat the face off Of the young Latino he had met. "Ok! I guess I can get home.. Somehow..." He mumbles to himself, signaling to the Bartender that he wanted to order Something off menu. He pays no attention to the trans Woman who sits down beside him. "I'll have a watermelon sangria, please." he requests softly, but confidently. The lady by him chuckles, "Watermelon? That's odd." Her voice is rich with flavor, And humor. "It is odd. But so am I." He mumbles. "It seems that way, doesn't it? Well, at least now I can call you Melon Rather than ask your name!" "A rather odd nickname for an odd person." And so their conversation continued. It became all the more lively once 'Melon' had had a couple rounds. Both drunk and desperate, they Kiss passionately in the gay bar, Paying no heed to the others Yelling "Get a room!" Roaming hands. Stumbling up stairs. Drunken giggles. Broken speech. "You're so beautiful." He whispers. Skin against skin, Burning hot,   Both mad with desire. Panting. Groaning. Moaning. Ecstasy. It's late at night. They manage to call A taxi, and go home. Home to Melon's apartment. The next morning was spent Drinking ****** Mary's and Making an account of what Happened the night before. That, and more *** Hot, ****** *** Passionate, lively And loving *** Charles sits up in his bed. He feels something sticky. "Oh, that's disgusting!" ****** *** indeed. He stands up to clean himself Off in the bathroom, but he Hears the shower running. "Did I get laid last night?" He peeps into the shower And sees the woman from His dream. "Eva?" He asks. "Who else would it be?" "Why are you in my apartment?" Charles exclaims. Eva turns and Raises an eyebrow at him. "I live here, Melon." "Since when? We hooked Up just last night!" "Darlin', we've been married for 4 years!"
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72
drunk on the dark streets of some city, it's night, you're lost, where's your room? you enter a bar to find yourself, order scotch and water. ****** bar's sloppy wet, it soaks part of one of your shirt sleeves. It's a clip joint-the scotch is weak. you order a bottle of beer. Madame Death walks up to you wearing a dress. she sits down, you buy her a beer, she stinks of swamps, presses a leg against you. the bar tender sneers. you've got him worried, he doesn't know if you're a cop, a killer, a madman or an Idiot. you ask for a ***** you pour the ***** into the top of the beer bottle. It's one a.m. In a dead cow world. you ask her how much for head, drink everything down, it tastes like machine oil. you leave Madame Death there, you leave the sneering bartender there. you have remembered where your room is. the room with the full bottle of wine on the dresser. the room with the dance of the roaches. Perfection in the Star **** where love died laughing.
0
5.3k
Charles Bukowski
Big Night On The Town
drunk on the dark streets of some city, it's night, you're lost, where's your room? you enter a bar to find yourself, order scotch and water. ****** bar's sloppy wet, it soaks part of one of your shirt sleeves. It's a clip joint-the scotch is weak. you order a bottle of beer. Madame Death walks up to you wearing a dress. she sits down, you buy her a beer, she stinks of swamps, presses a leg against you. the bar tender sneers. you've got him worried, he doesn't know if you're a cop, a killer, a madman or an Idiot. you ask for a ***** you pour the ***** into the top of the beer bottle. It's one a.m. In a dead cow world. you ask her how much for head, drink everything down, it tastes like machine oil. you leave Madame Death there, you leave the sneering bartender there. you have remembered where your room is. the room with the full bottle of wine on the dresser. the room with the dance of the roaches. Perfection in the Star **** where love died laughing.
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39
Sittin’ on the beach, in Cancun Suns overhead it, must be noon Don’t really know ain't been to sleep My souls on ice, I guess it’ll keep My Costa’s are filtering out the sun I seem to be suffering from too much fun Only one cure, I need another drink Maybe then my clouded brain can think Summer time in old Mexico Have a good time when we go Drinking and smoking and having fun Swimming and snorkeling, soaking up the sun Bikini clad waitress, strolls the line Cuba Libre please, don’t forget the lime Swaying cheeks, a pleasure to see Maybe later on, just her and me I can’t wait, slowly follow to the bar Panama hat and a Cuban Cigar Strolling along, while I watch her sway Can only imagine, if I had my way Summer time in old Mexico Have a good time when we go Drinking and smoking and having fun Swimming and snorkeling, soaking up the sun Puffing smoke, we arrive at the bar The bartender winks, I stuff a tip in her jar Hands me my drink, I squeeze the lime Having so much fun it’s bound to be a crime Mexican girls and ******* tourists Equal opportunity, hey! I’m no purist Seeing the sights, and doing well Summer beach, and I'm feeling swell Yeah, summer beach, im'a feelin' swell feelin' swell.... Aaaaaaarrrriiiiibaaaaa
0
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 10:52 PM UTC
jed-johnson
Panama Hat and a Cuban Cigar
Sittin’ on the beach, in Cancun Suns overhead it, must be noon Don’t really know ain't been to sleep My souls on ice, I guess it’ll keep My Costa’s are filtering out the sun I seem to be suffering from too much fun Only one cure, I need another drink Maybe then my clouded brain can think Summer time in old Mexico Have a good time when we go Drinking and smoking and having fun Swimming and snorkeling, soaking up the sun Bikini clad waitress, strolls the line Cuba Libre please, don’t forget the lime Swaying cheeks, a pleasure to see Maybe later on, just her and me I can’t wait, slowly follow to the bar Panama hat and a Cuban Cigar Strolling along, while I watch her sway Can only imagine, if I had my way Summer time in old Mexico Have a good time when we go Drinking and smoking and having fun Swimming and snorkeling, soaking up the sun Puffing smoke, we arrive at the bar The bartender winks, I stuff a tip in her jar Hands me my drink, I squeeze the lime Having so much fun it’s bound to be a crime Mexican girls and ******* tourists Equal opportunity, hey! I’m no purist Seeing the sights, and doing well Summer beach, and I'm feeling swell Yeah, summer beach, im'a feelin' swell feelin' swell.... Aaaaaaarrrriiiiibaaaaa
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35
# I visited the heavens today all gods were absent looked out the window we were in the clouds landed in Detroit on a dreary day why would it be any different? this skeletal remain of a city at least the bartender was great but now I’m drunk wandering around Detroit hope I wake up in my hotel #
0
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 11:17 PM UTC
EvilShredder
Detroit
# I visited the heavens today all gods were absent looked out the window we were in the clouds landed in Detroit on a dreary day why would it be any different? this skeletal remain of a city at least the bartender was great but now I’m drunk wandering around Detroit hope I wake up in my hotel #
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14
First Kiss (Manchester to Miami) Rachel was a 19 year old student who attended the Royal Northern College of Music, located in Manchester UK. Manchester was considered the arts, media, higher education and commerce mecca of north central England. Bordered by the Cheshire plain to the south, and the Pennines mountain range to the north and east. The famous River Mersey ran along the southern side of Manchester. Rachel was packing for winter holiday with some of her classmates, to the warm beaches of Miami Florida, for a week long stay in the sun, far from the often dreary weather that settled over the UK this time of year. Not only was Rachel looking forward to the warm weather and sunny skies but she was looking forward to meeting up with Daniel. Daniel was a 40 something musician, beach bartender, handyman, who lived just outside of Miami. They had met on a poetry website seven months prior, and had established a warm friendship. They communicated almost daily threw emails, chat sites and through poetry exchanges. Their friendship had become more romantic in the last month or so, talking that silly love talk that new lovers used, and Rachel finished off every meeting with the initials AKTY at the end. AKTY stood for angel kisses to you, as Daniel liked to refer to her as his angel. they both were very excited about the chance to see each other, face to face. Rachel knew that the majority of Daniels poetry was slanted toward the romance side, and she knew from their conversations that he seemed to be educated, gentle and romantic. She was, they were, both looking forward to spending an evening together, holding hands,caressing each other, looking into each others eyes, and..... that first kiss. Kiss kiss kiss kiss hard rock guitars, lights and smoke Kiss, that first kiss, this is what, loves all about kiss, your sweet kiss, makes me go crazy, scream and shout your kiss, that angel kiss, can't live with out it, you drive me mad one kiss, just one kiss, from your sweet lips, blows my mind real bad don't know how I got by before you never want to try it no never again my darlin angel I adore you, since I met you you know i've been crazy, I've gone crazy, just can't get enuff, of you sweet baby dreaming, got me dreaming, every night baby, I don't mean maybe every kiss, like your first kiss, sets me ablaze, you know it takes me higher another kiss, I want another kiss, turn the flames up like a funeral pyre don't wanna try to get along without you never want to try it no never again my darlin angel I adore you, since I met you been waiting for that first kiss Gomer LePoet
0
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 8:58 PM UTC
david-nelson
First Kiss (Act I -Manchester to Miami) A Rock Opera
First Kiss (Manchester to Miami) Rachel was a 19 year old student who attended the Royal Northern College of Music, located in Manchester UK. Manchester was considered the arts, media, higher education and commerce mecca of north central England. Bordered by the Cheshire plain to the south, and the Pennines mountain range to the north and east. The famous River Mersey ran along the southern side of Manchester. Rachel was packing for winter holiday with some of her classmates, to the warm beaches of Miami Florida, for a week long stay in the sun, far from the often dreary weather that settled over the UK this time of year. Not only was Rachel looking forward to the warm weather and sunny skies but she was looking forward to meeting up with Daniel. Daniel was a 40 something musician, beach bartender, handyman, who lived just outside of Miami. They had met on a poetry website seven months prior, and had established a warm friendship. They communicated almost daily threw emails, chat sites and through poetry exchanges. Their friendship had become more romantic in the last month or so, talking that silly love talk that new lovers used, and Rachel finished off every meeting with the initials AKTY at the end. AKTY stood for angel kisses to you, as Daniel liked to refer to her as his angel. they both were very excited about the chance to see each other, face to face. Rachel knew that the majority of Daniels poetry was slanted toward the romance side, and she knew from their conversations that he seemed to be educated, gentle and romantic. She was, they were, both looking forward to spending an evening together, holding hands,caressing each other, looking into each others eyes, and..... that first kiss. Kiss kiss kiss kiss hard rock guitars, lights and smoke Kiss, that first kiss, this is what, loves all about kiss, your sweet kiss, makes me go crazy, scream and shout your kiss, that angel kiss, can't live with out it, you drive me mad one kiss, just one kiss, from your sweet lips, blows my mind real bad don't know how I got by before you never want to try it no never again my darlin angel I adore you, since I met you you know i've been crazy, I've gone crazy, just can't get enuff, of you sweet baby dreaming, got me dreaming, every night baby, I don't mean maybe every kiss, like your first kiss, sets me ablaze, you know it takes me higher another kiss, I want another kiss, turn the flames up like a funeral pyre don't wanna try to get along without you never want to try it no never again my darlin angel I adore you, since I met you been waiting for that first kiss Gomer LePoet
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47
Waltzing through the chaos that life’s left for today, Dragging along my battered horn in case she wants to play ‘Scuse me, Ms. Bartender, but I’ve got something to say Ain’t nobody listening to the radio anyway I don’t need a soapbox, no suit or microphone Just a space to spread the truth wherever I may roam I speak straight from the bottom of a bottle left at home The night is not much easier when you take it on alone Hear ye, hear ye, gather round to hear a tale Of dreaming big, working hard, but destined still to fail Shredding that loopy little melody, The craziest cat you ever did see Make you feel so alive, ladies screaming, “Wow boy!” I jump and I jive, cuz I’m a bebop cowboy
0
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
anthony-casamassima
Bebop Cowboy
Waltzing through the chaos that life’s left for today, Dragging along my battered horn in case she wants to play ‘Scuse me, Ms. Bartender, but I’ve got something to say Ain’t nobody listening to the radio anyway I don’t need a soapbox, no suit or microphone Just a space to spread the truth wherever I may roam I speak straight from the bottom of a bottle left at home The night is not much easier when you take it on alone Hear ye, hear ye, gather round to hear a tale Of dreaming big, working hard, but destined still to fail Shredding that loopy little melody, The craziest cat you ever did see Make you feel so alive, ladies screaming, “Wow boy!” I jump and I jive, cuz I’m a bebop cowboy
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14
Bottom feeders flourish When the economy's a bust When bad times are the norm And good times turn to dust When neighborhoods go south it's sad But a sign of their demise Is when a bunch of pawn shops open up Before your very eyes When stores close down or move on out After years in the same place Their memory is a radar blip They leave without a trace But as fast as they lock up their doors Another shop moves in It's the local pawn shop dealer He's a shark without a fin Like dollar stores and boarded doors The pawn shop shows the way That business has moved on out Or closed or moved away They prey on peoples hardship They broker deals without a care They don't need to know your history They just know that you're there The street has three new pawn shops Palaces of buy back stuff It's bad when there is one around But, three...well that's enough One opened by the Jeweller Two doors down across the street Now he's buying up possessions Of everyone he meets Folks who purchased jewellery From Old Cy at his old store For each twenty of it's value The pawn shop gives you four Cy can't afford to buy back He doesn't have much money left And besides his store insurance Doesn't cover much for theft The people at the Pawn shops Took jobs and live in town They trained two counties over They succeed when times are down It's a sign of the recession Downtown dies and fades away And then the bottom feeders surface Their the ones who're gonna stay You can look in the shop windows Know who bought what and from where You know the candlesticks were bought at Cy's And you know who bought them there The guitar that hangs beside them That was pawned by Emma Rose She needed money for the bills When the fresh fish plant had closed There's a snapshot of the township Sitting inside on their walls They pawn shop is successful While the economy still falls You can see a piece and start to cry For you know just why it's there There's no one here to help them There's no jobs and it's not fair They open up each morning While the nights dregs still sleep outside They have done two hours business Before lights on at Cy's It's a sad and constant story Of just what a town's become But when asked if they've been in there The inhabitants go "mumb" They never seem to close up The town's never make it back While most places lose money Pawn shops make it by the sack The bluesman has some stuff there The bartender has some too Even though her bar's still going She did what she had to do The street, it is it's own world Jewelly shops, banks and bars But inside the local pawn shops Are hidden all the scars.
0
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 7:54 PM UTC
roger-turner
The Pawn Shop
Bottom feeders flourish When the economy's a bust When bad times are the norm And good times turn to dust When neighborhoods go south it's sad But a sign of their demise Is when a bunch of pawn shops open up Before your very eyes When stores close down or move on out After years in the same place Their memory is a radar blip They leave without a trace But as fast as they lock up their doors Another shop moves in It's the local pawn shop dealer He's a shark without a fin Like dollar stores and boarded doors The pawn shop shows the way That business has moved on out Or closed or moved away They prey on peoples hardship They broker deals without a care They don't need to know your history They just know that you're there The street has three new pawn shops Palaces of buy back stuff It's bad when there is one around But, three...well that's enough One opened by the Jeweller Two doors down across the street Now he's buying up possessions Of everyone he meets Folks who purchased jewellery From Old Cy at his old store For each twenty of it's value The pawn shop gives you four Cy can't afford to buy back He doesn't have much money left And besides his store insurance Doesn't cover much for theft The people at the Pawn shops Took jobs and live in town They trained two counties over They succeed when times are down It's a sign of the recession Downtown dies and fades away And then the bottom feeders surface Their the ones who're gonna stay You can look in the shop windows Know who bought what and from where You know the candlesticks were bought at Cy's And you know who bought them there The guitar that hangs beside them That was pawned by Emma Rose She needed money for the bills When the fresh fish plant had closed There's a snapshot of the township Sitting inside on their walls They pawn shop is successful While the economy still falls You can see a piece and start to cry For you know just why it's there There's no one here to help them There's no jobs and it's not fair They open up each morning While the nights dregs still sleep outside They have done two hours business Before lights on at Cy's It's a sad and constant story Of just what a town's become But when asked if they've been in there The inhabitants go "mumb" They never seem to close up The town's never make it back While most places lose money Pawn shops make it by the sack The bluesman has some stuff there The bartender has some too Even though her bar's still going She did what she had to do The street, it is it's own world Jewelly shops, banks and bars But inside the local pawn shops Are hidden all the scars.
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84
**The allure of everything bad The allure of vices that nullify circumstances which make living seem sad The 'Hollywood' cigarette, the hard liquor... ******* crystal **** All very romanticized but in reality, isn't that really just a self-induced slow death? We don't talk about it, until we watch from the sidelines If only for a second When partaking one repeats quotes like 'it is what it is' 'I am not a quitter' You've built up a tolerance for one, so you beckon The bartender to pour you a second Social trend like a hot topic on twitter So now you want more You ignorantly jab the needle inside you like you don't know what your signing up for In a sense you don't, for you choose not to Addiction entraps... but who? Not you And the moment you decide to go cold turkey It appears more enticing in another movie, or in the hands of a fellow druggie Impossible to reject Relapse... rubber band effect Yet even he that doesn't use gets a little curious One day the stress becomes too much to handle, he's peeved He's furious He's heard of pills sold over the counter, and also of those available from dusty cobwebbed shelves By dealers with hollowed out eyes, ghosts of their former selves In an alternate reality Where 'it's all good' It's all about finding solace in one happy, high family... 'It's all hood' A distorted image of zoned out smiling faces Floating around in temporary elation These vices have comforted and haunted many, way before our so called 'X-rated generation' The druggie, the alcoholic or the *** addict you see... could be your's or someone else's dad Or it could very well be you or me Seduced by the allure of everything bad I write this expecting it to be misunderstood by many... For a judgement between bad and good I myself could be affiliated to one of these vices... or many Someone reading this may have already renamed it 'The allure of everything good'.**
0
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 4:01 AM UTC
nigel-obiya
The allure of everything bad
**The allure of everything bad The allure of vices that nullify circumstances which make living seem sad The 'Hollywood' cigarette, the hard liquor... ******* crystal **** All very romanticized but in reality, isn't that really just a self-induced slow death? We don't talk about it, until we watch from the sidelines If only for a second When partaking one repeats quotes like 'it is what it is' 'I am not a quitter' You've built up a tolerance for one, so you beckon The bartender to pour you a second Social trend like a hot topic on twitter So now you want more You ignorantly jab the needle inside you like you don't know what your signing up for In a sense you don't, for you choose not to Addiction entraps... but who? Not you And the moment you decide to go cold turkey It appears more enticing in another movie, or in the hands of a fellow druggie Impossible to reject Relapse... rubber band effect Yet even he that doesn't use gets a little curious One day the stress becomes too much to handle, he's peeved He's furious He's heard of pills sold over the counter, and also of those available from dusty cobwebbed shelves By dealers with hollowed out eyes, ghosts of their former selves In an alternate reality Where 'it's all good' It's all about finding solace in one happy, high family... 'It's all hood' A distorted image of zoned out smiling faces Floating around in temporary elation These vices have comforted and haunted many, way before our so called 'X-rated generation' The druggie, the alcoholic or the *** addict you see... could be your's or someone else's dad Or it could very well be you or me Seduced by the allure of everything bad I write this expecting it to be misunderstood by many... For a judgement between bad and good I myself could be affiliated to one of these vices... or many Someone reading this may have already renamed it 'The allure of everything good'.**
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38
#Mr. Piano Man how your fingers rain down on the keys dancing a somber ballet capturing the feeling of being empty like those bottles underneath Here Mr. Piano Man the next drink is on me while we sift through debris of our melancholy Every note stings every chord bleeds woe is you and woe is me play Mr. Piano Man a song to our ennui Let it rain Mr. Piano Man let the storm hammer the strings lets swim in the puddle of whats spilt underneath Oh Mr. Piano Man What is that I hear? That note that was just hit it sounded rather queer there is no room for happiness at the bottom of this beer No! NO! Mr. Piano Man I don't want the sun go back to stormy waters to where you had begun I thought you a friend I thought we allies I thought we understood the sounds of demise Mr. Piano Man how you so betrayed with your songs of love and spring every note my heart aches every chord a bee sting Mr. Piano Man this is my goodbye I am leaving you now please don't cry I am going to my new friend Mr. Bartender How do you do? Give me an endless bottle and another drunk to talk to. #
0
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 3:07 PM UTC
EvilShredder
Mr. Piano Man
#Mr. Piano Man how your fingers rain down on the keys dancing a somber ballet capturing the feeling of being empty like those bottles underneath Here Mr. Piano Man the next drink is on me while we sift through debris of our melancholy Every note stings every chord bleeds woe is you and woe is me play Mr. Piano Man a song to our ennui Let it rain Mr. Piano Man let the storm hammer the strings lets swim in the puddle of whats spilt underneath Oh Mr. Piano Man What is that I hear? That note that was just hit it sounded rather queer there is no room for happiness at the bottom of this beer No! NO! Mr. Piano Man I don't want the sun go back to stormy waters to where you had begun I thought you a friend I thought we allies I thought we understood the sounds of demise Mr. Piano Man how you so betrayed with your songs of love and spring every note my heart aches every chord a bee sting Mr. Piano Man this is my goodbye I am leaving you now please don't cry I am going to my new friend Mr. Bartender How do you do? Give me an endless bottle and another drunk to talk to. #
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48
Across from me at the bar table, the bartender smiles and asks for my order I tell him, "anything strong," and hand him ten dollars I drink it up, feel its strength running down my throat into my ever-growing stomach I look up and remember what I've left at home My wife sat in the bedroom alone, My children pacing around and adapting the way women and men are supposed to be I have taught my son power, strength, and dominance While I have taught my daughter weakness and submission Maybe that's where I went wrong as a father Where all previous generations of my family have gone wrong Raising me as a man seeing women as objects, And I raising my son in the same manner I take one last sip from my ten dollar drink Taking it in along with my realizations In front of me is the door of my home where I have left women to shrink in order to enlarge myself to the point of overfeeding my ego And then I decided to shrink myself into the size of the women I've shrunk The size of my home has grown larger Its proportions have expanded Allowing each of us to occupy the same amount of space And so I sat across my wife at the kitchen table Looking at her at eye level She smiles and I smile back
0
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 6:21 AM UTC
heyitspoti
A Response to Lily Myers' "Shrinking Women"
Across from me at the bar table, the bartender smiles and asks for my order I tell him, "anything strong," and hand him ten dollars I drink it up, feel its strength running down my throat into my ever-growing stomach I look up and remember what I've left at home My wife sat in the bedroom alone, My children pacing around and adapting the way women and men are supposed to be I have taught my son power, strength, and dominance While I have taught my daughter weakness and submission Maybe that's where I went wrong as a father Where all previous generations of my family have gone wrong Raising me as a man seeing women as objects, And I raising my son in the same manner I take one last sip from my ten dollar drink Taking it in along with my realizations In front of me is the door of my home where I have left women to shrink in order to enlarge myself to the point of overfeeding my ego And then I decided to shrink myself into the size of the women I've shrunk The size of my home has grown larger Its proportions have expanded Allowing each of us to occupy the same amount of space And so I sat across my wife at the kitchen table Looking at her at eye level She smiles and I smile back
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27
It was early fall, the leaves were vibrant when I crawled to the bar, catch myself a weekend buzz. Fred’s drinks were pure trouble, more jet fuel than mixer. I mean you could torch your breath after just one sip. Rock blared there like a live concert, loud enough to make you a deaf mute after just one drink. The dark walls swirled, moved in & out, carnival-like, I purred-down Jack-elixirs. I first saw her shining from across the Mahogany bar. She was hidden in the shadows, a real good looker. Her amber hair was crazy, blowing everywhere like the bride of the stitched-man, electrode-neck. She might have been a ****** or a nose-candy queen, but after what the bartender gave me, it really didn’t matter, life was played hard on the edge in them days. I was enthalled with her, captivated by her lady-vibes, she was the perfect last call. We sang rock and roll songs in my 455 rocket, crawled the back roads, looped all the way to my country-place. We were on auto-pilot, dropped our guards, fell into each other’s embrace. She smelled like salty-patchouli, had a killer innocent-face, kissed me with fire, such strong desire, a beautiful-wantonness. Her eyes were so red & green, indeed she was the consummate, the prettiest, late-night dream girl. She was bathed in bright ink, the sun, the moon, the stars, vividly scrawled on her back along with a frowning-tiger. Above her privacy, I spied a smiling-gnome with outstretched arms screaming, “I Wuv You.” I obliged him, there was no fighting her ***** to the wall demeanor. We shook the planet, frolicked way past the wee hours, deep into the noon hour. When the earth-shattering stopped, I was hung over on her & the jp4. We crashed still trashed, I still don’t know how I ever got her home.
0
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
jonny-angel
We Crashed Still Trashed (I Don’t Know How I Ever Got Her Home)
It was early fall, the leaves were vibrant when I crawled to the bar, catch myself a weekend buzz. Fred’s drinks were pure trouble, more jet fuel than mixer. I mean you could torch your breath after just one sip. Rock blared there like a live concert, loud enough to make you a deaf mute after just one drink. The dark walls swirled, moved in & out, carnival-like, I purred-down Jack-elixirs. I first saw her shining from across the Mahogany bar. She was hidden in the shadows, a real good looker. Her amber hair was crazy, blowing everywhere like the bride of the stitched-man, electrode-neck. She might have been a ****** or a nose-candy queen, but after what the bartender gave me, it really didn’t matter, life was played hard on the edge in them days. I was enthalled with her, captivated by her lady-vibes, she was the perfect last call. We sang rock and roll songs in my 455 rocket, crawled the back roads, looped all the way to my country-place. We were on auto-pilot, dropped our guards, fell into each other’s embrace. She smelled like salty-patchouli, had a killer innocent-face, kissed me with fire, such strong desire, a beautiful-wantonness. Her eyes were so red & green, indeed she was the consummate, the prettiest, late-night dream girl. She was bathed in bright ink, the sun, the moon, the stars, vividly scrawled on her back along with a frowning-tiger. Above her privacy, I spied a smiling-gnome with outstretched arms screaming, “I Wuv You.” I obliged him, there was no fighting her ***** to the wall demeanor. We shook the planet, frolicked way past the wee hours, deep into the noon hour. When the earth-shattering stopped, I was hung over on her & the jp4. We crashed still trashed, I still don’t know how I ever got her home.
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70