"regulars" poems
You were born on a cusp.
friends on the other side
couldn't decide,
Scorpio or Libra.
You yourself,
as constant as the tides.
A tenth sign ram
was blessed to cross
your lovely path
and the ram learned:
Short curly hair
pinned back reveal
asiatic eyes.
As you pass by and by
Time and time hearts race
Chicken salad sandwich,
its moist mayonnaise
is never as delicious
without a pickle.
Grubhub.
No, Scrubhub.
Too content to leave the room.
Yummy Rummy,
food in our tummy.
forever.
Broth, cheese and wine.
Mushrooms and time.
If ever I tasted love,
it was shared with me,
in a recipe.
Sound opinion in scores.
Royal, like the Tenenbaums.
Bill Murray fantastic.
Pink Moon over and over and over.
Divide that by nine.
And now I know,
almost as well as you,
how good Goodfellas is,
even after the tenth time.
Early morning awakenings or
snooze again and again and again.
Paralyzed in a dream or
awoken with a scream,
we tried a routine:
Once parts of a team,
a memory faster than it seemed.
Ran for miles.
A boy and girl in the hall,
amongst the boys and girls
in the hall.
Digital regulars in ecstasy.
Wake next to you a daydreamer.
So, when life gets hard,
and you're feeling down,
don't be so glum,
ignore your doubts,
don't feel left out,
I'll be there for you,
when you need me to.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 5:48 PM UTC
Moss covered women
beggin' fog man
to grip a cig
from their tangled wigs
(a snarl of emerald branches
& voodoo masks
with plastic flasks,
they grave loot from caskets
& trash.)
Raunchy regulars
calling loogies to duty.
I've been livin' in a tumble ****
with a doctorate for wildebeest.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
The play is written to be staged in a pub or a large cave like yurt in Cardiff. Its action and dialogue provides characterisation, with sound and lighting being used to establish context. The setting a darkened pub corner that is modelled on The Bunch of Grapes in Pontypridd. There are only 6 characters, five speak in haiku-ed verse with the exception of the Drunk who acts as my 'Greek Chorus'.
- Hand-in-hand she enters to **** her thumb in a corner
- Chocolate ice cream soda demanded from Daddy
- Joking banter ceased slowly as the regulars all begin to quaff their brown pints
“Balll uut eass swept -
Chimrrrrr, Chiirriica,
war is never won”
- Church quiet, the village pub listened lips clamped tears swelling
“ ***** cut swapped with eyes -
Chimerica, Chimerica,
war is never won”
- The cornered hero of two Afghanistan tours is seen regressing into childhood**
The set darkens slowly then after 30 seconds a spotlit conversation in lines and stanzas begins.
Haiku and tanka that inspired the coming play include:
*********** -
thoughts sought, taught and wrought,
testosterones
Fighting aggressive games,
Afghanistan camouflage
Globalism and War -
cloned greedy conspiracy,
that third tower
Titled selfish-self-grandiose,
deliver warring terror
Springs cut Irises -
dripping vital red not purple,
far from my window*
.
Apr 28, 2010
Apr 28, 2010 at 11:11 AM UTC
Walter was history's best fisherman -
history's best minnow fisherman.
He combed and cleaned his net
like a lint trap or a summer screen door
so delicate, seaweed fibers, mussel shells.
He fished more of a dance, a twirl
his arms up and down and around and always
spun in the shallows like a waterspout
he would glide his butterfly net through the lake
and capture little fish he placed
into a sand castle bucket filled halfway with water
he would always pour back into lake.
He was strictly a catch and release fisherman.
All the mothers on the beach would stare
at Walter and his water waltz and at his mother
who stood next to him so he wouldn't fall.
It was hard not to stare at Walter
always alone with his aged mother
and he had to be at least a teen by now.
Perhaps it was hard to tell, autism doesn't age well,
but we had been beach regulars for fifteen years
and Walter and his mother had for ten.
The last time I saw Walter he danced and fished.
I laid on the beach with my cousin and we observed
his patterns and his mother his rock who stood there
for ten years with the minnow fisherman.
The next day my own mother cried
more than when her own mother passed
and she told me, she died
Walter's mother died
Even now I stand in the shower skin deep in water
and think about where Walter is now.
I see him in my mind dancing in some bath tub
with a butterfly net in some foster home
without a mother to break his fall.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:30 PM UTC
The night was over
The band was done
Time to hit the lights
Another Friday
In the books
And we only had two fights
One busted speaker
A broken chair
A proposal killed at ten
Time to close
And shut it down
Until we start again
Ashtrays full of hopes and dreams
Burned away with no success
Half filled bottles and empty glasses
Just signs of more excess
Time to clean away the night
And sweep away unanswered prayers
Wash the lipstick from where it stayed
And clean up the nights layers
Another morning
after another night
of at least ten broken hearts
where remnants of
scattered hopes
were dead before their start
An empty shell
hopelessness...tempting
once more..'have a try
where once the band
is finished up
you can all go home and cry
Ashtrays full of hopes and dreams
Burned away with no success
Half filled bottles and empty glasses
Just signs of more excess
Time to clean away the night
And sweep away unanswered prayers
Wash the lipstick from where it stayed
And clean up the nights layers
Each day starts fresh
Last night is gone
Nothing ever lasts
The beer is cold
The bar is warm
Last night is in the past
Regulars arriving
Band is tuning
The staff is in position
Fake Id's
abound tonight
with cougars on a mission
Ashtrays full of hopes and dreams
Burned away with no success
Half filled bottles and empty glasses
Just signs of more excess
Time to clean away the night
And sweep away unanswered prayers
Wash the lipstick from where it stayed
And clean up the nights layers
Ashtrays full of hopes and dreams
Burned away with no success
Half filled bottles and empty glasses
Just signs of more excess
Time to clean away the night
And sweep away unanswered prayers
Wash the lipstick from where it stayed
And clean up the nights layers
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 11:49 PM UTC
There are vampires, but they like to feed on blood and they do it because they have to, to exist.
The werewolf has to feed because it is in their nature and meat becomes their prey.
Zombies are cursed and that is why they feed the way they do.
But me, I do what I do for the sheer pleasure of it and you would be shocked if you knew how many people like me were out there in this world of ours.
You see, I am what you would call a cannibal and if you even tasted human flesh, then you would understand how it is an amazing required taste.
And the fear of my victims makes that taste so much sweeter, the mingling of their sweat is just mouth watering and they just so much better when they have to feel pain.
Mind you, heavy smokers can be a bit annoying because you get that smell of nicotine in the air when you fry up their lungs.
There are so many of us about, have you ever wondered about those exclusive restaurants where you find it difficult to be able to book a table.
Where if you order the sausages it has so much great flavour and the gravy is just so delicious.
Next time and look around at those regulars that always seem to get a table, that look is not the expectation of the food but the wonder of what you might taste like.
I've had it all, Indian, Mexican, Chinese and nothing seems to beat a nice English roast.
But never complain to the management because the next time you might find yourself on the menu.
Sooner or later we are going to get you, we might cut you to pieces as you are still alive, because as I said before, the flesh tastes so much better that way.
Maybe we could boil you alive like a lobster, I've done that so many times to my victims.
I know the neighbour was having some problems with some teenagers but they have disappeared now.
So I decided to celebrate and have a barbeque and invite everyone, the food will taste like nothing you've tasted before.
Yes I'm going to invite you over to join us, we would love to have you over for dinner.
Jun 13, 2010
Jun 13, 2010 at 2:34 PM UTC
The coffee cups are *****
But it’s the cleanest way
To drink whiskey here.
The barman lost half his right fingers
To a wood chipper in his early 20’s
And spent the rest of his adult life
Flipping the world off.
He got it down to a fine art
By the time I showed up.
He didn’t smile when I ordered my drink.
He didn’t smile at all.
The jukebox hasn’t changed
For two stagnant decades
And most everyone but the regulars
Are too scared to use it.
It’s the same rotation
Of Elvis,
Muddy Waters,
BB King,
John Coltrane,
And early Bruce Springsteen.
Not a woman in sight
But every song is about them
And we are all here
Because of them.
Certain patches of carpet
Have not seen a crack of light
Since the Berlin Wall fell.
Nothing changes here but the customers-
And that change is incremental at best.
The same filthy etchings over
The same filthy cubicle doors.
The same Cherokee Indian
Smoking a Cuban Cigar
In the heartland of America.
I can’t find myself here
But there is no feeling of loss.
There is no profundity in anything here.
Just squalor
And enjoying one’s squalor.
I think that is what it means
To be truly happy.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 5:24 AM UTC
For I will consider a town called Riverside.
For its only river, the dry Santa Ana, it's shore peppered with the homeless, garbage, an old shoe, a cart stolen from the grocery.
For its downtown with dried gum spots all along the sidewalk, its dive bars with regulars pouring in at 3pm and pouring cheap beer into their gullets until morning.
For its overpriced theatre, a gentrified landmark, driving the sun-hot strays to the park.
For the park, and a lake, dotted with boats in the summer, driven by tired feet, hands hiding beer in gas station soda cups.
For the mountain, with the old ladies, counting every step, looking up to the cross and over the edge onto a thick brown smog.
For the steepled churches on every corner, waking us every Sunday to pray to a hotly scarce God.
For I will consider a town called Riverside.
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 2:21 AM UTC
Delivered to us by an optimistic gentleman in a black Stetson cap
who spent his days waving village traffic down with an open hand,
it's been four years since you were sat on the bookshelf in Kath's house.
You stood proud, surveying the fine china made across the border
wrapped up in donated newspaper articles and pristine hand-me-downs,
while my inky fingers welcomed regulars who only ever looked around.
Each weekend we were greeted by bright smiles set in permanent shadow.
Sometimes I declined banknotes on the street for carrying dismantled tables.
I'm still searching for namesakes when perched on local stones above sea level.
Friends like Elvis were divisive figures due to their signature tobacco smells.
Under a green bus shelter, I laughed at his frown about a Midlands town.
Thinking about the rows of vacant church seats still leaves me cold
even now. As I watch needles drop onto rocks and a solitary shell,
your frame shrivels daily and bends you crooked like a question mark.
Oh, Eric - will I ever meet your father again to discuss your burial?
Sep 12, 2020
Sep 12, 2020 at 11:16 AM UTC
The man decked in blue
sits quite content
on a sofa
and observes wealthy offspring
waltz in flashing their brilliant teeth
glossed with potent peppermint.
These teens
don't know love,
lust is all it is.
While the Jazz bops away,
more whisky is poured
and they zip out to get jammy.
The man, mid-twenties,
kind of blue, dapper apparel,
has one on the rocks.
Sees them
walk in most evenings,
cute blondes with flawless skin,
guys in suits, bow ties, the works,
gaze into each other's pupils.
There are regulars,
Robert, the chap from Yale,
Quentin, sly guy at Harvard
and Carly, still at school the man believes,
who's coquettish, fresh,
these two want to have her
but she's astute,
knows just what she wants.
They're all after her in fact.
Every male in the room
turns their head,
can't blame them,
she's like Candyfloss,
all the men want a taste
but there's not enough for everyone
and they don't look like the sharing kind.
The man in blue
just grins to himself
thinking how grand it is
that he's single, sensible, secure.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 10:27 AM UTC
*We were both still quite sleepy.
She laid her head in my lap in
fetal position for most of the ride
and I nodded off as the thunder
rumbled, and rocked me to sleep,
my head lolling to one side.
It was miserable out.
The sky was a toxic, smoky gray,
swollen and bruised purple
like rotting flesh, and the rain,
so incessant, berated the windshield
of the cab the whole ride to the theater
and all the while after we had handed
a couple crumpled dollars to the driver
and gotten in the cue.
We had our backstage passes
tucked away into our coats,
we didn't want any of the
regulars to see. She huddled
closer to me to guard her
ashen lips from the needle ******
of the wind, that would bring a tear
to her eye when they scraped against
the tip of her nose. She was thinking,
as she fingered the strap of the shiny,
clean, new camera
she bought to photograph us doing
***** things, the lens
reflecting all of her good intentions,
warm feelings onto me.
As a vendor strode by I snagged
up two cups of coffee, and handed one to her
and then we sank back into the shivering,
shuddering mass. She took a few sips, as I drew
the flame to my cigarette, ducking behind her
and cupping the tip in order to get it lit,
I could see the steam dissipating into the cold,
wet air. She smiled with amusement and
after a few moments looked up and whispered to me
"I want him at his best. I hope he's super depressed."
I said
"Yeah",
as I exhaled the smoke and simultaneously, in one heave,
cleared my throat,
"I hope he ******* hates us."*
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 2:46 PM UTC
the professor
name's John, I think
every day a goatee
a ponytail
and an honest smile
brings me flowers
sometimes.
pays in nickels
sometimes.
"have an easy day"
he says to me
man in the same brown
suit, mismatching
every day
coffee, hunched over
with something under
his arm
sometimes.
never seen him speak
just a scowl
and a solemn shuffle
the owner
of the bar next door
I think.
out for a cigarette
every 30 minutes or so
or move his car
he gets our mail
sometimes.
glasses on his forehead
never on his face
always a fleeting
noncommittal smile
pacing past the door
sly eyes.
there's the guy
stuck in the 70s.
every day
bell bottoms
a black bowl cut
it's a wig
I think.
a leather jacket
sometimes.
walks like he owns
the sidewalk
he doesn't.
the old man
the half-blind one
orders the same thing
always.
with his walker
his hands searching
haven't seen him
in a while
the big guy from
the burger place
across the street
no, not the famous one
the other place.
took his suggestion
got a burger
wasn't very good
but he's always so
cheery, gotta be nice
the one guy
blue shorts guy
stops by during his
run, to check
the selection. back
an hour later in
pants and
a jacket now.
never buys a thing
wearing those blue shorts
the woman with
oddly spaced teeth
and hair
the short witchy kind
lots of shawls
and oversized tote bags
and cargo-capri's.
complained of
an allergic reaction
once
to god knows what.
keeps coming back though
a mother and son
mother, tired.
ten year old
private school boy
asks for too much
and too many questions
"did you make this?"
"are you really 20?"
"do you go to school?"
he asks so many questions
"yes, yes, no."
"why not?"
"well…"
mom saves me
distracts him away
the poor skinny one
the homeless man.
ill-fitting clothes
always.
women's
sometimes.
begging, cigarettes and money
has a tic, says
"hello! hi! hello!"
every few seconds
he's very persistent.
and very polite.
gracefully insane, I'd say
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 4:20 AM UTC
“To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late
And how can man die better
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his gods”
Soft murmurs along the front line crackle like a broken prairie plough,
The maples and oaks snapping with
Every burst of the cannon.
Crested breaths choked out by
The ferocious blasts of this entrenched
Jungle.
Shrieks punctuate the deathly silence,
And sobers the divisions thirst for war.
I, a dead soul among the living.
The soft wind at night is the nefarious fingers of death,
Soaking the earth and ****** boughs
Of the old oaks with the veins
Of golden purity.
(I am standing on an eagles skull.)
I can hear the Rebel yell beyond the tree line,
BLASTING the barreling notion of liberty,
Stacked within our Union souls.
A Bundren coffin takes form in the mist beyond the wasteland.
My kin lay wait at home,
Shall I return one day and parade through pastures
And creeks until the days grow old
and so shall I.
With kin side by side.
My vacant mind floats off to distant lands along the
timbered forests of the Free North.
Orations from my Grandfather resonate like wind chimes
Rattling among the inner confines of my sanity,
Strewn images flash like the lines of Virginian regulars,
A sparse reminder of my ever so soon fate
In the Wilderness.
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 5:32 PM UTC
Fingers move up the frets
blues entwined with the metal slide
drowsy smoke swaying with hips and pool *****
knock with the jukebox keeping time.
You’re ******* down another drink
drown out demons
haunting your soul,
hoping you can take someone home.
Forgotten beauty, only fear
lurking in the heavy air
the bar is spinning and every lesson
you've learned, you’re dead set on forgetting.
Regulars hustle another game
trying to win back years lost
in this basement
that smells of ***** and **** and sin and long lost dreams.
They come to forget
the war, they come to forget
the rent they owe, they come to forget
why they came to this godforsaken bar in the first place.
My eyes glaze over
watching the ghosts drifting around
green felt tables and the old dusty dart boards
heavy hearts hidden under calloused layers of tough love.
When the lights come on and the music stops
your touch pushes me further into the haze
and every plan is put on hold when
your lips find their way up my neck
teasing every nerve until I forget how to breathe.
The forgotten and the lost
roaming aimlessly together
to the tunes of regret
the pangs of sadness
drinking only to forget.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 2:29 PM UTC
With the curves of her body,
Ten thousand men could fall.
A vision so sublime,
Swaggered into the bar.
Oh, her perfume!
Her perfectly painted lips!
The hypnotizing eyes!.....
smote the drooling regulars.
"Guarana". She ordered.
"No **** Amarula on my bill"
Offered the usually quiet Baba Jemo.
"And a pack of Guarana to take home"
Added 'Fisi' Johny the local mechanic.
With a smile that could melt Antarctica's ice,
She accepted the two stooges' offer.
Just as they were marrying their stools to her's
There bounced in a striking gentleman
"Sorry honey, i was caught in traffic.
Can we go to a better pub?"
With Amarula on her right hand,
A twelve pack of Guarana on his left,
They legged it out holding hands,
Leaving my silly two thunderstruck,
As I handed them the bill.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 6:29 AM UTC
My regulars
..
A cup of hotly brewed tea
with a menthol roll
sitting on an ash tray
beside my widely opened book
of a guilty pleasure promise
Day dreaming of a cold weather
with pine trees covered in white softness
and a
waft of cinnamon
mixed with baked floured ginger
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC
And here they come with their beautiful demeanour ,with their empty eyes laced with an allure stronger then the forces which construct our physical forms.
They speak in perfect sequence as if it had be rehearsed but I've heard these words before, of course, they've been here before they're regulars to my bar, filled with my bottled emotions.
They spoke of no wonders or such tacky things they spoke of a peace unparalleled, a welcome change to my current state of mind, a place where there is "no more judgment", "no more ridicule","no more lies" and "no more death" a place where I can be myself.
As they imbibed themselves with my fermented hopes, dreams and beliefs they grew bolder with each bottle they emptied.
"How can you live in this place it's a cesspool, so cluttered so unsure"
it's my home I play with the cards life has dealt me-
"ah there is the problem you are bound by life why not be free?".
I see no other path.
"there is".
they slide me an object,
"keep the change"
and they left.
the object was a box reading "the tool of your salvation" it had a note end the lie, end your ____.
I closed up shop,they are right, it was time for a change,
So this is my good bye.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC
I awoke
from sleep
nightmares, enforced by you
sweat,
cold,
I turn over and try to fall
fall back
asleep
an impossibility, a futile attempt
there's a full dining room's worth
plates,
spinning plates, in my head
they never stop, always spinning
till one wobbles, balance falters,
and just as you'd expect they fall
one
after another
crashing
another
but there's always one
one left,
still spinning, shakily
waiting for the mess to be cleaned up
where'd that little fairy go?
the one who used to follow you around..
who is gonna clean up this mess
NO!
No, I cleaned up after you long enough!
even a maid receives a paycheck, compensation
I was just a slave
a slave to you, a slave to my mind
the trickery and contortion, you'd think I was a gymnast,
of Olympic Gold proportions!
I was a lap dog, following you around,
eating what ever you gave me,
begging for more
please sir, more?
more abuse,
more deception,
more than just friends
more than just a use,
for a good time
for who?
I worked so hard at trying
trying to make you love me
trying to make you see
obvious oblivion,
I get it!
You're blind!
hopefully
you must be,
Have you even seen some of these women?
those one night roll arounds
you're just so polite
waiting till the morning to push them out
out the door,
and you will, oh how they know you will,
but still you'll call them
those disposable women
you'll call because you know it's free
because you know they want you to
if only you were good enough to have one for every day
of the week -
you know, those ones
the ones you equated me too!
But,
a friend of mine you'll always be
so long as it pays off for you
a few amazing hours
naked
together, alone
a drinking buddy when the regulars are out of town
a gram here, a joint there
an easement of your guilt
for allowing yourself to lie
right through your teeth
to the face of an adoring fan
to use, abuse and get what you can
from your supposed life long friend!
you should have been more careful though
for you smell nothing like a rose
you wreak
your stench so vile
you slop your sludge of a personality
right across my face
before twisting the knife in my back
then pretend like none of it exists
extinct
though that would imply that it once existed
which you've stated
for certain
it does
not.
Nov 20, 2010
Nov 20, 2010 at 9:46 PM UTC
It’s 1:30am and we were at a cute little dance club in Dublin called “The Sugar Club.” It’s a converted movie theater with tables in stadium seating rows. That night was Salsa themed, and the regulars were stylin’ - the men dressed in white Havana or Colima, Italian Linen and women in bright salsa dresses.
The DJ was mixing a gr8 groove - with music from Bassia, Brazilian Girls, Kate the Cat, with some ElectroSwing thrown in from Tape Five, Pink Martini and Doja Cat (Yes, I asked the DJ for his playlist). The tiny, darkly-disco-sparkling dance floor was crowded and refrigerator cold.
We had a good time. Irish guys are funny and unpredictable, they’ll say practically anything, “Shall I buy you a drink, or do you just want the money?” and those brogues make everything they say spankin’ hot.
We all danced a few times, but Sunny’s a gwyn who never seemed to tire. Guys kept asking her to dance and she seemed happy to oblige - I would have collapsed already.
There was a dead-fit guy, Rían, throwing a strong Chris Evans vibe, who seemed completely smitten with Sunny. He seemed a real dean but he didn’t 404 that Sunny’s femme-facing and that he might as well be offering lettuce to a shark.
We’d discussed the possibility that things might come up and decided to avoid delicate public acts of disclosure (Sunny’s gay, Leong’s a communist, etc..) - we’re trespassing different cultures on this trip, after all.
We explained to Rían that we were students, just in town for the Duran Duran concert, and consoled him with a couple of “Black & Golds” (Kahlua, whiskey and orange bitters) - he was a LOT of fun to talk to.
The bartender asked me if I was one of the colleens with “Margot Robbie” - he was referring to Lisa - which Anna found amusing - but I think Lisa’s way phater than Margot.
Jun 17, 2022
Jun 17, 2022 at 3:32 PM UTC
Your legs stick out from my side as you sing from the corner,
A challis to your lips, contracting flesh from your hips, you drink and I know you think more then most so a quick glance is all ill shoot you
I wonder if the house dj knows your favorite songs, you've both been regulars for quite Long, he plays requests for the crowd but you've still grown quite close, and he plays your special requests the most, but it's almost like you sing to me, I've
Seen some of the back wall, and you've seen me stumble and almost fall, but I caught myself staring at your angles, and I just can't make sense of them, I Am no Albert Einstein, and I hate the recognition of time, so I party all the time, and I forget about what time it is and the dj plays his favorite songs
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC
Outside the tower
In fear people cower
Outside that they call the slums
Where people were nothing but bums
Till one day you are called inside
they say the tower you must climb
you are chosen they say
there is a role you will need to portray
you need to conquer
this 300+ floored tower
And at the top they promise
A land full of promise
A wish will be granted
You'll have anything you wanted
You then build dreams as high as the tower
Only to find disappointment
outside they call you chosen
inside they call you a regular
Along with people that were also "chosen"
You must climb with them
live with them
befriend them
Fight them
Betray them
**** them
Step on them to climb
those same people as you
those same people who were chosen
those same people who were called regulars
those same people that share dreams as you
you need to beat them
and carry the weight of betrayals to climb on top
will you still accept
the title of
a REGULAR?
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 2:18 AM UTC
The crowded streets seemed empty now, beneath the noon day heat,
as the devils and the invalids wait 'til dusk to meet.
Then the sunlight fades and the neon signs, attract the social crowd,
the silence dies and an echo's born as the deadly night grows loud.
A ***** blonde in a ***** coat, leans on a grey stone wall,
waiting to lead her regulars down a dark and dingy hall.
While a blind man steers his cane ahead to aid his weary feet,
he gropes his way to a barstool where he and bottle meet.
The piercing sound of a siren is muffled by angry tongues,
as an old drunk falls in an alleyway clutching his heaving lungs.
The sight of the city from the fifteenth floor turns the heart to a giant pump,
as a ****** high in every way prepares for his final jump.
Dance hall girls line the stage and kick their legs in time,
as the prestige men in business suits order gin and lime.
An aging man with glass in hand finds friendship in the night
bringing back his childhood through the shouts of a barroom fight.
The pain goes on 'til the lights go out and the wolves all head for home
for those who have no place to rest the sidewalk is there to roam.
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
The makeshift congregation packed into the church.
Hands clasped in broken hallelujahs.
Consecration of this community.
Guidelines for the faithful, faithful for tonight.
At least for now we can be one.
Trascendental divinity, like a silent wind flowing through
Public servants to ourselves.
We are the Church.
Sewn in the fields of the faithful.
Strewn through life like an empty chalice.
Filled with Merlot.
Hear us Father for we have sinned.
Glory to you.
Buffet Catholics asking for salvation.
Forgiveness sandwiched between the bread and pasta salad.
Repentant.
Offering up prayers for the ******
Quick to judgment.
With the ferocity of Charlemagne.
Partial acceptance into our open hands,
You made a valiant effort.
Sign of the cross with water blessed.
Genuflect.
Kneeling on the pews, praying for peace.
External.
Internal.
Oh! My children! God will have mercy.
Part of the flock for once
Maybe twice
A year.
Not even staying for the full length.
The faint smell of frankincense.
We offer you this gift.
Ceremonies steeped in tradition.
Rosebeads hung from the wrist of regulars.
This mass is being said in memory of…
We offer up these prayers for…
The meek will inherit the Earth.
If we leave anything.
Cynics questioning.
We’ve found hope in a paperback on a bookshelf.
Who is our shepherd?
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 1:23 PM UTC