The old green door creaked when it opened. The same way it always did. The same old pitiful, sad sound it had made for years.
Sad because, like the rest of Jimmy's Bar it wouldn't be broken the way it was if someone would only take the time to fix it, in this case to grease the hinges, and then maybe the joint wouldn't be such a dive.
But that was the way it was, and the old green door pretty much summed up the whole place before you had even stepped in.

It was an everyday scene, this dreary November afternoon like any other: the glasses from the night(or nights) before were still stacked up on the far end of the bar, waiting to be washed, or just used again. The regulars, as they were known really didn't care if they were drinking out of a ***** glass or having a shot or a short out of a pint glass or beer or a stout or a bitter or an ale or a cider or even a water or milk(to wash down or soak up the days drinking) out of the same old ***** glass they had been drinking out of all week long.
Anyway, when the door creaked this time, it was old Tom Ashley that made it creak.
He shuffled in like the broken down bindle-stiff he was. Yawning like a lion and rubbing his unwashed hands on his four day beard. His grey hair as bed-headed and dishevelled as ever.  He was wearing the same crinkled-up blazer he always wore, tailor made some time in his youth but now in his advancing years was ill-fitting and torn at the shoulder, but still he wore a white flower in the lapel, and it didn't much matter that he had picked it from the side of the road, it helped to mask the smell of his unwashed body and whatever filth he had been stewing in his little down town room above the second hand book store. It wasn't much, but it suited him fine: the rent was cheap, and Chuck, the owner would let him borrow books two at a time, so long as he returned them in week, and he always did. He loved to read, and rumour had it, that a long time ago when he was in his twenties he had written a novel which had sold innumerable copies and made him a very wealthy man. The twist in the tale, went that he had written said novel under a pen name and no soul knew what it was, and when questioned he would neither confirm nor deny ever writing a book at all. It was some great secret, but after time people had ceased asking questions and stopped caring all together on the subject. All that anybody knew for sure was; he did not work and always had money to drink. It was his only great mystery.  T.S Eliot and Thomas Hardy were among his favourite writers. He had a great stack of unread books he had been saving in shoe box on his window sill. He called these his 'raining season'.

But for now, the arrangement with Chuck would suit him just fine.
He dragged his drunkards feet across the floor and over to the bar. All dark wood with four green velour upholstered bar stools, that of course, had seen better days too.
He put his hands flat on the bar, leaned back on his heels and ordered
a double Talisker in his most polite manner. He was a drunk, indeed but 'manners cost nothing'' he had said in the past. Grum, the bartender(his name was Graham, but in the long years of him working in the bar and
all the drunks slurring his name it gradually became Grum)smiled false heartedly, turned his back and whilst pouring old Toms whiskey into a brandy glass looked over his shoulder and said, ''so Mr. Ashley, how's
life treatin' ya'?'' Tom was looking at the floor or the window or the at the back of his eyelids and paid no attention to the barkeep. He was always
a little despondent before his first drink of the day. When Grum placed the drink on the bar he asked the same question again, and Tom, fumbling with his glass, simply murmured a monosyllabic reply that couldn't be understood with his mouth full of that first glug of sweet,
sweet whiskey he had been aching for. Then he looked up at tom with
big his shiney/glazed eyes, ''hey grum,
now that it is a fine whiskey, Robert Lewis Stevenson
used to drink this you know?'' Grum did know, Tom had told him this nearly every day for as long as he had been coming in the place, but
he nodded towards Tom and smiled acceptingly all the same. ''The king of drinks, as I conceive it, Talisker, he said'' Grum mouthed the words along with him,  caustically and half smiled at him again. Tom drained his glass and ordered another one of the same.

A few more drinks, a few hours and a few more drinks again
passed, Tom put them all on his tab like he always did. Grum,
nor the owner of the bar minded, he always paid his tab before
he stumbled home good and drunk and he didn’t cause too
much trouble apart from the odd argument with other customers
or staff but he never used his fists and he always knew when
he was beat In which case he would become very apologetic
and more often than not veer out of the bar back stepping
like a scared dog with his tail between his tattered trousers.
Drinking can make a cowardly man brave but not a smart
man dumb and Tom was indeed a smart man. Regardless
of what others might say. He was very articulate, well read
with a good head (jauntily perched) on his (crooked) shoulders.
By now it was getting late, Tom didn't know what time it was,
or couldn't figure out what time it was by simply looking at
the clock, the bar had one of those backwards clocks, I
don't know if you have ever seen one, the numbers run
anti-clockwise, which may not seem like much of task to
decipher I know, but believe me, if you are as drunk as tom
was by this point you really can not make head nor tails of
them. He knew it was getting late though as it was dark
outside and the  lamp posts were glowing their orange glow
through the window and the crack in the door. It was around
ten o’clock now and Tom had moved on to wine, he would
order a glass of Shiraz and say ''hey Grum, you know Hafez
used to drink this stuff, used to let it sit for forty days to achieve
a greater ''clarity of wine'' he called it, forty days!'' ''Mr Ashley''
said Grum looking up from wiping down the grimy bar and
now growing quite tired of the old man’s presence and what seemed
to be constant theories and facts of the various drinks he
was devouring, ''what are you rabbiting on about now, old
man?'' ''Hafez'' said old Tom ''he was a Persian poet from the
1300's as I recall... really quite good'', ''Well, Tom that is
truly fascinating, I must be sure to look in to him next time
I'm looking for fourteenth century poetry!'' said the barkeep,
mockingly. ''Good, good, be sure that you do'' Tom said,
taking a long ****-eyed slurp of his drink and not noticing
the sarcasm from the worn out bartender. He didn't mean
to poke fun at Tom he was anxious to get home to his wife
who he missed and longed to join, all alone in their warm
marital bed in the room upstairs. But Tom did not understand
this concept, he had never been married but had left a long
line of women behind him, loved and left in the tracks of his
vagabond youth, he had once been a good looking man a
''handsome devil'' confident and charming in all his wit and
literary references to poets of old he had memorised passages from ,Thoreau,Tennyson ,Byron, Frost etc. And more times
than not passed these passages of love and beauty off as
his own for the simple purpose of getting various now wooed
and wanting women up to his room. But now after  many
years of late nights, cigarettes and empty bottles cast aside
had taken their toll on him he spent his nights alone in his
cold single bed drunk and lonely with his only company being
once in a while a sad eyed dead eyed lady of the night, but
only very rarely would he give in to this temptation and it
always left him feeling hollow and more sober than he had
cared to be in many long years.
The bell rang last orders.
He ordered another drink, a Gin this time and as he took
the first sip, pleasingly, Grum stared at him with great open
eyes and his hand resting on his chin to animate how he
was waiting for the old man to state some worthless fact
about his new drink but the old man just sat there swaying
gently looking very glazed and just when the barkeep was
just about to blurt out his astonishment that Tom had noting
to say, old Tom Ashley, old drunk Tom took a deep breath
with his mouth wide, leaned back on his stool and said...
''hey, you know who used to drink gin? F. Scott Fitzgerald''
''really?'' said the barkeep snidely ''Oh yes'' said Tom
''The funny thing is Hemingway and all those old gents
used to tease Fitzgerald about his low tolerance, a real
light weight! He paused and took a sip ''but err, yes
he did like the odd glass of gin'' he said, mumbling
into the bottom of his glass.
Now, reaching the end of the night, the bartender
yawning, rubbing his eyes and the old man with
close to sixty pounds on his tab, sprawled across the
bar, spinning the last drop of his drink on the glasses
edge and seeming quite mesmerised by it and all its
holy splendour, he stopped and sat up right like a shot,
and looking quite sober now he shouted ''Grum,
Graham, hey, come here!'' the sleepy bartender was
sitting on a chair with his feet up on the bar, half asleep,
''Hey Graham, come here'' ''eh-ugh, what? What do you
want?'' said the barkeep sounding bemused and
befuddled
in his waking state, ''just come over here will you,
please''
the barkeep rolled off his chair sluggishly and slid
his feet across the floor towards the old man ''what is
it?'' he said scratching his head with his eyes still half
closed. The old man drowned what was left of his
drink and said ''I think I've had an epiphany, well err
well, more of a theory really w-well..'' he was stuttering
. ''oh yeah? And what would that be, Mr Ashley?'' said
the bartender, folding his arms in anticipation. ''pour
me another whiskey and I'll tell you''
''one mor... you must be kidding me, get the hell
out of here you old drunk we're closed!'' the old man
put his hands together as if in prayer and said in his
most sincere voice, '' oh please, Grum, just one more
for the road, I'll tell you my theory and then I'll be on
my way, OK?'' ''FINE, fine'' said Grum ''ONE more and
then you're GONE'' he walked over to the other side
of the bar poured a whiskey and another for himself.
''OK, here’s your drink old man, and I don't wanna
hear another of your ******* facts about writers
or poets or whoever OK?'' Tom snatched the drink of
the bar, ''OK, OK, I promise!'' he said. Tom took a slow
slurp at his drink and relaxed back in his seat and
sat quite, looking calm again.
The bartender sat staring at him, expecting the old
man to say something but he didn’t, he just sat there
on his stool, sipping his whiskey, Grum leaned forward
on the bar and with his nose nearly touching the old
mans, said ''SO? Out with it, what was this ****
theory I just HAD to hear?'' ''AH'' said the old man,
waving his index finger in the air, he looked down
into his breast pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes,
calmly took two out, handed one to the barkeep,
struck a match from his ***** finger nail, lit his own
the proceeded to light the barkeeps too.
Taking a long draw and now speaking with the blue
smoke pouring out his mouth said '' let me ask you a question''
... he paused, …  ''would agree that everybody
makes mistakes?'' the barkeep looked puzzled as to
where this was going but nodded and grunted a
''uh-hum'' ''well'' said the old man would you also
agree that everybody also learns... and continues
learning from their mistakes?'' again looking puzzled
but this time more  intrigued grunted the same ''uh-hum'' noise,
though this time a little more drawn out and
higher pitched and said ''where exactly are you going
with this?'' curiously.
''well..'' let me explain fully said Tom. He took another
pull on his cigarette and a sip on his drink, ''right,
my theory is: everybody keeps making mistakes, as
you agreed, this meaning that the whole world keeps
making mistakes too, and so the world keeps learning
from is mistakes, as you also agreed, with me so far?''
the barkeep nodded ''right'' Tom continued ''the world
keeps makiing and learning from its mistakes, my
theory is that one day, the world will have made so
many mistakes and learned from them all, so many
that there are no more mistakes to make, right? And
thus, with no mistakes left to learn from the word will
be all knowing and thus... PERFECT! Am I right? The
barkeep, now looking quite in awe and staring at his
cigarette smoke in the orange street light coming t
hrough the window, raised his glass and said quite
excitedly ''and when the world is then a perfect place
Jesus will return! Right?'' ''well Graham...'' said the old
man doubtingly ''I am in no way a religious man, but I
guess if that’s your thing then yes I guess you could be
right, yes''
He then drowned the rest of his whiskey in one giant
gulp, stubbed out his cigarette in the empty glass
and said ''now, I really must get going ,it really is getting quite
late'' and begun to walk towards the door. The
bartender hurried around the bar and grabbed Tom
by the arm,
'' you cant just leave now! We need to discuss this!
Please stay, we'll have another drink, on the house!''
''Now, now,Graham'' said the old man, ''we can discuss
this another night, I really must get to bed now'' he
walked over to the door, and just as his hand touched
the handle the barkeep stopped him again and said
quite hurriedly,'' but I need answers, how will I know
everything is going to be alight? You know PERFECT,
just like you said!'' the old man opened the door
slightly, turned around coolly and said ''now, don’t
worry yourself, I’m sure everything will turn out fine
and we’ll talk about it more tomorrow, OK?'' the
barkeep nodded acceptingly and held the door open
for the
old man, ''sure sure, OK'' he said ''tomorrow it is,
Mr Ashley''
Just as Tom was walking out the door he stopped
looked at the   barkeep with large grin on his face
and said very fast, as fast as he could ''you-know-an-interesting
-fact-about-whiskey-it-was -Dylan-Thomas'
-favourite-drink-in-fact-his-last-words-were -"I've-had-18
-straight-whiskeys......I-think-that's-the-record."­!! HAHA '' he
laughed almost uncontrollably. Graham the barkeep looked
at him with a smile of new found admiration and began to
close the door on him.
Just as the door was nearly shut, the old man stopped
once
more, pulled out a roll of money, looked in to the
bartenders
eyes and put the money into his shirt pocket, then putting
his left hand on the bartenders shoulder said ''oh and
Grum, one of those great ol' women I let get away, once told ,me:
''if you are looking at the moon then,everything is alight'' and slapped
him lightly on the cheek.
. Then finally, pointing at the barkeeps shirt pocket said ''
for the bar tab'' then went spinning out the door way with
the grace of a ballroom dancer(rather than the old drunk
he had the reputation for being) and standing in the
orange glow of the street and seeing the look of sheer
wonderment on the bartenders face still standing in the
old green door way and shouted ''LOOK UP, THE MOON,
THE MOON!'' The barkeep, shaking his head and laughing,
peered his head out of the door and took a glance at the
moon and grinned widely then closed the old green door
for the night. It made the same old loud creak when he shut it.

                                       FIN

I'm trading sticks of cigarette for a poem
Bottles of beer for a few more
Whiskeys make me forlorn
Why not a few more poems
So I scribble and scribble some more

I'm trading my loneliness for lines
Rhymed or rhymeless, why should I mind
When the please the eyes and tickles the mind
I sure will memorize and mimic them like a mime
So I'm still scribbling on this torn paper of mine

I'm trading my hearts pain
Trading it for a paper and a pen
Like a painter ready to paint
I deep my petite paint brush in a bowl of paint
Dap dap, little dots, strokes and dashes as I dare to paint
Little by little the whole picture is becoming plain

I'm trading all love's tears
Tears shade in secrecy for a poem shared publicly
Though seemingly absurd but poems brings this inconceivable peace.
So I'm scribbling and scribbling my way to serenity.

I trade it all for a piece of poem
I may not have made the point
But I've washed clean my plough
And starring at this beautiful not-so-beautiful poem
I have read and reread it that it is starting to sound like a song.
Reading one last time, "my best trade ever".

•••
*Dancing lights
Only hurt my eyes

Screaming and loud music
Disgusting to my ears

Vodkas, cocktails and whiskeys
Never wanted to feel frisky

***, dope, cigarettes
I will only regret

Dancing, party, bar
Never wanted to go that far

Yes I have been to parties
But never will it become my thing

Maybe my past life has an old soul
Who finds comfort in her own hole

Yes, sometimes an anti-social
And sometimes interacting is crucial

So next time you ask me out
Make sure you know what I'm about

Coffee or tea, movies and books
Exhibits and museums let's take a look

A good music or a storytelling
A walk in a park or just talking

Pick me a flower, don't buy me a bouquet
Just hold my hand and always stay

I had my cake and I ate it too,
like all the time in the world that you took.
Adorned with cherries
and decorated with cream,
like the taste of my lips
that is only a thing of your dreams.
I thought I have once
tasted a slice of heaven,
only for it to rot away to
a thing from hottest hell.

I had my time and you took it too,
like my faith and my core that you shook.
Laced with grace
and the promise of salvation,
thoughts of your touch once felt
like a dream vacation.
I thought I have once
been granted patience,
only for it to burn down a hole
in my purest conscience.

But then I was sure I had it all,
the diamonds, the universe,
I had you, but then I also have a curse.
The parties, the best jazz age whiskeys,
these shall be enough to distract me.
The waiting, the wondering
are opulence I could no longer afford.
Like my favorite vice I had to abandon,
you are a glimmering borrowed gown
I shall never again don.

But then I'm sure I could do more,
the Philippine pearls, the world,
wrapped around my finger in a red cord.
The weddings, the finest wines I could buy,
these shall do good to get me by.
The patience, the pitying
are charities I could no longer give.
Like a prayer I utter in front of a new lover,
I am the luxury, the gold, all the fortune
you would never wager.

I keep writing down the year as if it means anything to me dear
I don't feel connected,
just another spirit lost.
Gone is that turned leaf.
And his mother still faces him in his wildest nightmares and keeps him home,
and his mother cries tears and whiskeys down her pain. She can't do this on her own,
but she's holding on; for the sake of them both.

It makes him happy to know that he was actually a part of the family before he left
and I can't speak for him, but I sure know when someone loses their mind again,
better keep it on the downlow, because nobody wants to go to detoxification home, no.

So, I won't report
and he sings with me, and he lives with me and he loves me indeed. He just can't see about me,  can not even breathe...
and you can't even see that
Our ideas linger together, and it makes us both in company just like it should be.

I’m always afraid you’re gonna kiss me in the elevator
you ask me out to lunch and I always think you mean it
we just wind up at the nearest mock irish dive
every bartender in midtown knows your name
even when it’s swarmed by the christmas crowd
they always point to you, give a nod and laugh
we pull up stools in the mid day snow
my nose whines over the **** floors
we order warm whiskeys and work on the crossword puzzle
you say my company is charming but
you’ve never asked me a single question
and your eyes are always on the room
but when everythings still and no women are near
sometimes you’ll stop on mine
I take your picture in the snow
remember the morning I left and startled you with an exiting touch
your cheek painted with drool
I couldn’t sleep the night I stayed
so I scribbled neil young quotes on your chalkboard walls
listened to you snore, waited for the sun
walked through stuytown like I’ve lived there all my life
boarded a train back to the man who loves me
prayed both of you never care too much
and that I start soon

Smoke rings drift into the night with thoughts
seldom  understood and often remebred.
Gin a old friend to newly betray.
Left cold in warm waters,

Over the border trapped  by a tongue with unspoken
thoughts and empty emotions.
Dust apon the flesh seeps into the soul.

A page held close to heart and far from thought.
Sometimes we have to be *******.
Cause when in hell the whiskeys burn
seem's to bring a chill.

Fate is a evil ***** Ive grown to love.
No need to say hello.
When goobyes already a promise.

She's as vacant as the mirage.
repeating a action she
leaves that part of herself behind.

Holding onto the rage masked as passion.
We remain numb to survive.
*** void of love.
Shells lacking soul.

The dust takes to vein.
The pen rewrite's the past.
Why polish the edges to appear
that which you can never be.

Confessions of the hollow.
To reveal the ******* who thrives within me.

I thought this new place would be strange, stopping in for the night - sleeping in a bed countless individuals have lain, had ***, cried (even maybe about the ***) - then packing and leaving in the sunrise of a new day.
So I walked to a bar next door to eat and drink some whiskey
       Whiskey isn't good on rough thoughts by the way...
When what does my eye see? A stranger, sitting directly across the bar, feeling the exact same as me. I would never be able to explain how I knew, it was simply a feeling I guess.
So I approached with caution, my version of suave, and said "hey miss can I buy you another?"
She replied with a "no" she was already with someone and I said I didn't mind I wasn't looking for a *****-call or anything of the sort, just some people to laugh with, I'm simply passing through town and simply passing the time.
She said "okay, come on, sit down".
We got to talking, and lo-and-behold, laughing. Minutes turned into an hour and no one else had approached her, I had completely forgotten she was waiting for another. And I believe so did she.
I finished my food and paid for her drink, a cosmopolitan, and I polished off a few more whiskeys, straight up no rocks.
Good whiskey should never be watered down, and I always shoot scotch.
As the night grew and grew she became flirtatious and asked if she could come back to my room for a night cap or a few. To which I replied, "wait, weren't you waiting for someone, like, **** it's been three hours ago, what happened who was it?"
She said it was her brother then pointed to a man across the bar with his friends who waved and I waved in reply.
She said to me, "come on he doesn't mind".
I thought it was strange, even for me, so I said, "I'm sorry miss I told you I wasn't looking for a *****-call, just someone to laugh with."
She understood then downed her cosmo, gesturing to buy her another; and I did. And another. And another for me.
Finally, against my own will, I had to leave (I really was tired after driving all day and knew I had to wake early and do it all over again).
We bid each other a-do and I left, no names just a memory we could both enjoy.
I walked back to my room and crashed into bed, then wanted a cigarette so I packed a fresh pack and went out back to burn a few down.
When what do I see? The same beautiful stranger, I believed searching for me, burning a few down herself. I said "hey?" in surprise, to which she responded with an elegant hi.
I asked if she had come to see me, she replied, "no, I'm just in a New city for the Night, staying at this hotel, visiting my brother while on my way back to college, I'm 202."
I was 203.
I thought it was simply too good to be true so I let her know.
Then she came to my room and we watched some TV, now as she in her room, and I next door, my mind can't help but wonder...
Should I go knock? On her door? Or on the wall in between?
Should I let her know that it's fate? Does she too, know?
I wonder...
What's her name? What's her sign? Where's she from? Where does she go to school?
I wonder all these things, but I'm satisfied because we lived in the present and proved we were, both, still alive - in a new city, just for the night.
So instead of asking her these things, or tapping on her door, I'm writing it down so I know I won't forget her. And if I ever need to remember a time I looked for something other than what was easily available, and over came all temptation, and shared a beautiful experience with another person who I know feels the same; I can come back here and remember all over again.

paths are crossed while others are being blocked with road signs
neon lights on parkways blinding eyes
how easily people come and go these days
like sickness
patterns and get learned and forgotten
daily routines lost while olds ones are picked up like broken dishes
gestures and words are re-gifted to the next birthday boy
small fractions of memories stick like band-aids
originality was lost three years ago
love has become re-runs in syndication
eventually the VHS of romance will deteriorate to fuzz and static
running fast from the sopranos to baywatch
not knowing where taste escaped
lips on lips
chewing and spitting
double whiskeys all night and still feeling sober as the world around you falls into a drunken stupor
like silk falling off a soft shoulder
thoughts still present
paranoia growing
cigarettes are starting to be manifestations of thoughts
this one's for my broken heart
this one's because i'm drunk
this one's because it's hot out and i'm bored
when worse comes to worse
sleep is always there
until then
no harness
let's fall
who cares if there's anything to catch us

Strumming the guitar



I keep writing down the year as if it means anything to me dear
I don't feel connected,
just another spirit lost
gone is that turned leaf.
And his mother still faces him in his wildest nightmares and keeps him home,
and his mother cries tears and whiskeys down her pain. She can't do this on her own
but she's holding on; for the sake of them both.


It makes him happy to know that he was actually a part of the family before he left
and I can't speak for him but i sure know when someone loses their mind again
better keep it on the down-low, because nobody wants to go to detoxification home, no.


So, I won't report
and he sings with me, and he lives with me and he loves me indeed. He just can't see about me,  can not even breathe...
and you can't even see.

Our ideas linger together, and it makes us both in company just like it should be.

He was younger than me.
He was a Prince of the “Street”.
Folks would all stop and listen
whenever he deigned to speak.
To him profit came easy
And with it came fame,
(while I cursed my bad luck
at the Powerball game.)
Yet I’m still living and breathing,
while he’s stiff as a board.
His heirs all lining up
to ravage his hoard.

It’s said he had millions,
yet, as you can see,
they could not buy him health
Or even longevity.
He saw the sun set
But did not see it rise.
Was it pangs of regret?
-Of Thrombosis he died.

First they’ll hold a grand funeral
with much mindless palaver.
Then, like other such maggots,
They’ll feast on the cadaver.
They’ll Jet here and there
To Paris or Rome
Drink fine wines and whiskeys
but seldom at home.
Their meals will all be
Five star and five course
and all at the expense
of one excellent corpse.

Saint Patrick's day
Two whiskeys six beers,
Getting ready for the night.
I wasn't ready.
My phone buzzing
Like a hummingbird
Stuffed in my pocket.
Suddenly I have friends,
It's so overwhelming.
Feels like getting cancer,
I hope it was a misdiagnosis.
Then I saw you.
I'm used to it,
But it's always just a ghost.
Tonight it wasn't,
And I wasn't ready.
You were buried years ago,
But ****, you smelt the same.
As the day I threw the dirt on you.

i want to be touched by somebody
with burgundy blood on his hands;
red handed
raw palmed
legs strangled in maroon bedsheets.

a murderers kiss must be a rush,
blood exploding from every pore in my
bled out skin,
wounds opening willingly for his searching
hands to make
a sort of house out of my bones.
creating a home for something
wild
who has only ever met closed doors
and distant, fearful faces.
i'd prove i wasn't scared of
the dark eyes,
and hungry lips,

knowing at any moment he could push the
cool lips of a golden .45 caliber revolver
and splatter my ****** through the
wooden bedpost and the
flaking, collapsing drywall.

i've followed thrills ever since i was
in third grade,
convincing a boy to take off his clothes
and show me what "men" are made of
and sneaking behind my mothers
injured back
stealing things i wasn't supposed to know about.
i liked putting myself through the danger,
unknown
it rushed up my legs and
rendered me breathless and craving more.  

i've always wanted to hold
something shaking
and cold
and let them tell me stories
out of their biting teeth
of when when it all started:
they were small and rode their bicycle
so fast they fell and skinned their
soft pink cheeks on the black cement
and went crying to their mother with blood dripping
down
a mixture of tar and red.

i'll tell them there's some place in hell
in the beating, drumming heart of the earth
warm darkness compacted,
where you can buy cigarettes for
50 cents a pack,
and whiskeys in water bottles and skin is naked
guns are loaded to shoot down the moon
and eat it with crunching, crumbly golden crackers.
where there is no sleep
only midnight writing furiously on the stark pages
of a shredded journal
dawn walks down the lively sidewalks where
other sleepless figures of orange peel flavored darkness
and coffee bean stained teeth dance and laugh and touch
in the darkest parts of the invisible morning
sweat intermixed unrecognizably with tears
and people hold their belongings in
the drooping bags under their bright eyes,
where screams of pleasure echo in every
cavern and creaking limb you touch
to the atmosphere
and people make love easier
than they
destroy necks.

i'll whisper
"when you're rotting underground
with your teeth in a
waxen, strained smile with lovers flesh embedded
in your own homely skull,
and your fingers are feasts for writhing worms,

and i'm dancing chaotically as ever in the raging wind,
a desert flower reduced to
bright-eyed dust
thrown lightly into the sinking seeds of a garden
with flowers growing out of my decomposing
echo of a body
like an
articulate oil painting decorating the earth to remind them
of my eternity,
i'll sink all the way through the soil
and follow the heartbeats

i'll meet you there."

eyes dart
train station waits

                      empty footsteps smartly
                      sound

the bone parade

                      wiping make-up from your face
                      you're waving to eternity

                      but eternity does not wait
                      for you,

preferring preacher men

in stiff neck-collars
downing whiskeys

                              just as you leave
                              a butterfly dies

& newspapers the next day
print an article about the extinction

of a rare species
& the train station waits

waits
waits

AT 20,000 FEET
such as it
reciprocates
our biological rights demands.
our genetic material reciprocate magnetism.and your seat cushion may be used as a flotation device
how couldn't i?
at 20,000 feet
drunk as ****,
clinging to a chair,
clinging to each other,
clinging to the air,
this plane is quite obviously crashing,
but betwixt flames,
and screams,
shouts
of the crew
as we
all know
we
are
to
die, through
the shouts of all this
through every waking moment
through the snow
and the rain
through death
through pain
and ****
i would climb through sewers
i would swim through a lake of radiation
i would overturn every stone in chernobyl
and never
would i find.
ten whiskeys deep
and i think
"oh ****,
what am i getting myself into?"
and then
"really,
i don't even give a ****"
and then
"christ,
i need a cigarrette"
and then,
at the end of the day
all that really matters
is whether or not
you
svghjkgtorijhbnjkcvf

three 8.5% oranjeboom does that to you,
in between several whiskeys,
you end up derailed somewhere in the mind,
you end up writing really crazy ****,
but of course in relation to past experiences,
being told to dig up baby potatoes
in an allotment patch filled with weeds,
taking some home on the sly,
while watching “here by the grace of god”,
ok honey, just say it, retards, on a day-trip,
drooling, taking out their genitalia and laughing
being herded like cattle by the carers
because their parents have died, the ones
with down syndrome
being the most intelligent of the lot,
a little spark in them still there -
because you weren’t the one who’s intelligence
was insulted and told that this is
adequate psychiatric therapy -
but indeed it is, here in england, perhaps
not as bad as the great american pharmaphilia
(excessive pharmacological prescription;
will the big buck ever buckle? who knows:
but i do know that your brain will end up
being a surgical insult to the professions
of psychology: spongy goo tomato purée).

"It will be like learning to eat without pepper, but slowly. As pepper adds flavor to each dish, so does love to each moment. In marriage, the love will inevitably become a forsaken understood; an uncommon commonality that, through the years, loses it's luster. But, if I cut pepper wholly out of my diet I would notice. Each dish I tasted it in would revel in splendor, no matter the meat or vegetable on which it dances. So, I vow to never cut out love because of the commonality of love that marriage will ensue. I will never give in to taking it, her, for granted. Spontaneous mountain getaway weekends with lots of Merlot and unashamed whiskeys and even the occasional smokes on our porch out our bedroom window, celebrating my wife with little poems and sunny side up eggs on an idle Tuesday morning, dancing and getting drunk in the living room at 2am when the kids are asleep. This is how I will keep love biting, burning, peppered.

The windows broken seals make whistling
bottle top noises in the ruckus, the seagulls
swarming like spiders in the back field,
the fat geldings hide by the hedges searching
for shelter. The fire roars and we sip hot whiskeys,
boys stroke their whiskers searching
for wisdom. Hum advertising jingles, hum
in agreement, wolf whistle at the young girls
in small skirts exploring something they call
"fun". Wonder if you remember what is was like.
The taste of brandy reminds me of something,
of a few things. Once I took a bottle to the head
of a boy that betrayed me, stinking of it,
and once my friend spit up like a baby,
milk of her alcoholic mother into my lap
in the back of a car. We're all so much older
and yet younger than we are.

Fall in the Ocean, don't fall in love
you may forget how drowning felt like
but you simply can't ignore the ache of
a cracked heart or its shards decorating the floor
sharp pieces that you'll step on and wounds reopen
pieces which will clatter from deep within
to echo the despair especially when you're beyond repair
jump off a cliff and fracture, broken bones heal
fractured Hearts seldom truly find healing,it's chilling
when you place support about it but nothing changes
and the more you organise your splintered heart
the further apart it crumbles and breaks apart
fall in Hell, the devils and monsters can be exorcised
but the monsters of a dead romance never leave
they taunt and haunt with voices whispering in your head
and drug you through a living Hell that's eternal
fall in acid, not a single piece of you'll be left behind
love'll rip and have your pieces wandering blind
fall in an abyss or the darkest deepest pit
someone might find you,you'll wash off the ****
but Love'll rob your sanity for it's mind impairing
it'll take away your radars, disorient your bearing
fall from the sky, your entire existence will splatter
falling in love will deny you your esteem and have you stutter
fall off a bicycle, you'll get up,dust yourself and ride
in love you'll live your life like you've died
climb one and jump, there's less pain falling off a tree
unlike the fantasy of love that chains and never sets you free
fall in the Sea, the sharks'll leave nothing for the world to see
love will bewilder you through an endless cyclonic ecstasy
it's worse compared to being once and for all torn by jaws
which takes you to oblivion where lives no feeling of loss
fall for anything else, fall for drugs and addiction
love is a blade that'll never cease making its incision
fall for wines and whiskeys,or any adulterated concoction
my broken heart thinks all but falling in love a far better decision
when you're out there searching for whatever you deserve
embrace all else your heart desires, all else but love

Sly & Cunning
     Swift & Nimble
A Demon at home,
has life so simple.

Whiskeys' soul
     on the rocks;
Reading alone, past
     four o'clock

i walked past the wine aisle today
pretending to be grown up
as i saw rows upon rose
and expensive wines infused with
notes of exotic fruits
and smooth whiskeys, cool beers and
cheap *****

i almost walked right past it
a blur of artificial pink and green
in the corner of my eye
i had the sudden urge to linger
for a little bit longer

on that strawberry and lime cider.

"hey you'll like this"
you offered me a sip of your
cup and suddenly i was
hooked

it's too easy to
imagine the exact taste
as it bubbles on my tongue, tingling, and making
it's way down my
parched throat

easy to swallow and
a delight going down
especially perfect during
a night out
in town

though it will never quite
taste as lovely
as when i sipped it
from your
lips

sweeter than sweet
a sensation reminiscent of,
swirling, dancing
twirling along my tongue,

the most heavenly cocktail
of you and
my new favourite drink

and suddenly,

strawberries in season,
remind me of you
as you held me close
and we missed the sun rise

limes suddenly
remind me of you
as you let go and left
only sourness behind

i never liked cider until
you brought the taste to
my lips

and suddenly,

i wanted to drown in it

but then you taught me, that
like most alcohol it's
best served cold with
eyes that look past me
and frozen strawberries

a fizzy concoction of
regret and enjoyment and
longing and excitement
and
regret

hard spirits and expensive liquor
just cannot compare to
the sweet and sour high
from a bottle of
strawberry and lime

but imagine my surprise
the first time after
you left
when i discovered that
suddenly
even something so pleasant
could have such a bitter
aftertaste

and i'm left wondering
how much longer
will your memory cling
to a branded bottle
of my old favourite drink.

Dappled, isn't it?
Slotted bits of sun rays.
A radiant dalmatians coat
sprawled upon messy bedclothes.

***** sheets.

Always *****, no matter.
Yes, they've been changed.
Thousands of times, they've been changed.

That sparse sunlight
shines.
It highlights the
grime
and the sweat.







I awaken to a stiff neck,
and stretch out the cracks
and the pops
from my spine.
My bones sigh as I flick a switch.

The shower runs,
coffee is brewing in the kitchen.

I hum.

I'll be humming
for eternity,
walking through grass
and clods of mud.
My worn boots go on,
begging for a cobbler.

I'll see the sky,
the sun shares it with the daytime moon.
I'll whisper to myself:
It'll be time for bed soon.

A couple hours.

A few beers,
or whiskeys.

Waiting for that ever dependable
dappled sunlight.
It always comes.

Until it doesn't.

Dusty bottles of *****,
Raise up dusty ghosts in this basement,
Sickeningly sweet whiskeys and buttery shots,
Warm,
Then sharply struck by icy cold, antiseptic *****,
I’m numbed and dulled to these divorces of life.

Dusty bottles of *****,
Raise up dusty ghosts in this basement,
Sickeningly sweet whiskeys and buttery shots,
Warm,
Then sharply struck by icy cold, antiseptic *****.

jak sie nie ma co sie lubi, to sie lubi, co sie ma / if you don't have what you'd like, you like, what you have.

my maternal uncle (brother
of my grandmother)
used to collect beer bottles...
now i wish
    i didn't start to collect
cigarette packets...
           i know, pretty much as
"nerdy" as collecting postage
stamps (you should see
my grandfather's collection...
pretty impressive...
     i think he owns a yuri
gagarin special edition) -
anyway...
    it came as a shock when
i was buying tobacco
  at the supermarket once
upon a time (2 months ago) -
the packaging, the packaging!
it's so ugly!
     you sure i'm in a supermarket
and not in a russian gulag?
marmite lungs,
   coughing blood,
black and white all over
areas, all over...
           they really know how
to put people out their jobs
when trying to
           redesign packaging,
don't they?
luckily though... luckily!
i'm in possession of the last
of the last...
   an empty packet of
   *benson & hedges (gold)...
that's a keeper...
    i'm not giving this one
up...
   i'll use whenever i have ten
remaining in
that ugly packaging,
      and take it into town,
and turn into a peacock...
look'e 'ere... see,
     original packaging,
dating from the year 2016...
     but like with anything
you drink... esp. the whiskeys...
it's nice to read an anecdote
printed on the bottle...
  the benson & hedges packet?
nothing like it is now...
  in the old days
you know:
   (a) sourced from premium
                  golden virginia tobaccos
  (b) consistently rich & smooth
          taste
(c) as approved by apache chief
    naked-****-pointing-at-the-moon
   & his distant half-cousin
the sioux chief hairdressing-wind;
  but there's also
(d) the british american
                         tobacco group
   and there's also and address
  so you can send them fan mail
(e) old bond street, london.
  smoking used to be fun,
well, it still is... if you managed to keep
one of these of packets
          of cigarettes...
now i wish i still had a packet
of yella' camels...
                 or the red marlboros,
oh well.

I had 3 whiskeys
10 cheap domestics
Then saw her sitting there
She must've been in her fifties
Her ******* were big
Her legs long and smooth
Dark hair
Red lips
She sat at the bar
Gracefully
The way flowers dance
I thought
My god
So many men.
Loved,scarred
Left for dead
She had it all
She was woman
She was a beautiful painting
Of death
She looked over at me slowly
Staring straight into mine
Smiled
Then tossed her hair
Then looked away
My blood was burning
My god
So many men.

oh, i don't really have a problem with them
talking...
                    it's only when they start babbling
about a necessary correlation between art
and morality,
              how being "moral" allows you to
construct meaningful narratives,
  where, either someone is good
                                                     \
            and descends into being bad
or someone begins by being
                good (ascends).
              /
      bad.
         that part about art, could **** anyone off,
whether left-wing, or right-wing...
  you can ascribe a moral dimension toward
art...   would a sober edgar allan poe
have written what he wrote?
well, sure... perhaps if ****** drank a few whiskeys
a day, and ate some meat, he wouldn't
have crafted the holocaust;
what the **** is with these stale housewife myths?!
this sort of talk can really get at your
           bone marrow...
and make it rot, and give you stomach cramps...
art... & morality?
           so being a moral artists allows you a coherent
access toward providing an educational
form of narrative that can be easily repeated?
          william burroughs... can you recreate
his technique?
              if you can... you're in the pile of:
complete failures;
                               oh, but i guess in the current
right-wing category, homosexuality is moral,
because: you're going to get a baby pooped out
from a gay's ***...
                           that's a very moral stance with
regard to the general cause of humanity.
             i already said, it's a dodo project incubated
by right-wing politics...
                                 as a child i actually thought
about impregnating human ***** in wolves,
or vice versa...
                oh look, a crazy scientist in the making;
but the **** you do with monkeys, or rats?
why not try to impregnate a man's ***** in
a wolf, or a monkey's ***** in a woman,
           or whatever acrobatics you can think of?
by now, the "angel of death" of auschwitz
                                                (josef­ mengele)
     has become really, really ******* boring to me...
as usual, sadists have no imagination
        they only have the capacity intra-species
                   horrors...
                        me? if i had the chance?
          inter-species curiosities...
             what would happen if you impregnated
a sheep with bull's *****, or like i already said,
impregnated a woman with wolf *****?
        see how josef mengele's experiments
with twins, look, rather pale?
             ah... isis and chopping of heads gets boring,
i'm looking for someone brave enough to
do these experiments.
   you can't ask of art a morality,
            as you can't ask of morality, an art-form;
oh sure, because you might as well stumble
upon something akin to voltaire's
        pangloss quote regarding tending
to your own garden (affairs), or dumas'
  athos quote: the best advice, is to give no advice;
as with listening to in extremo's song der galgen,
and turning into a berserker,
  as a glaswegian might turn into
(according to gavin mcinnes) with adelle's song hello.

I unscrew the plastic cap from the glass bottle
and pour another drink.
If I do this quietly enough she won't hear
what I'm doing from the other room.
I take my first sip and see my wife
appear in the doorway.
I smile and she tosses me a stare of objection.
She won't argue the whiskey back in the bottle.
She asks me for a sip and I smile harder handing her the glass
and I watch her face scrunch when she swallows.

Later we'll go to bed and I'll wonder if she is happy.
It's what she deserves.
I want to make her happy so bad that it burns
more than a thousand whiskeys.

My heart screams into a pillow.