Problematic blockheads
make up for a
tiresome,
strenuous,
elongated
work week.
Fights and disputes
with significant others
added.
Feelings are as cold and numb
as the frozen tundra
from lack of stimulation and affection.
Vexed and frustrated
with only one outlet
to take the edge off.
Drown your sorrows
out at the nearby
hole-in-the-wall tavern
as a safe haven.
Coincidentally opened
at your convenience
for when you've hit your
lowest point.
Enter through the
neon lit beer signs
of the tap room in a
dark, damp atmosphere.
The bar keep already
knows your name.
Grab a barstool
at the u-shaped countertop,
light up a smoke,
tuck the pack in your front pocket,
order up your first pint
and take a look around
at this all-star lineup.
As the smoke clears....
it's like the city of the dead.
Necropolis for the local drunkards.
Crippled motards and disabled vets
play cards and scream of old war stories
and tell bad jokes.
Swimming in a sea of
mechanics uniforms with their names
etched upon their hearts.
Neighborhood friendly bar *****
with raspy voices.
Quenching for lust
in demeaning mannerisms.
Like a cigarette vending machine,
exchanging the poussoise
for free drinks and moloko.
Rowdy, ****-Eyed wonder boys
gather round at Sunday's mass for alcoholics and hover over pool tables
and smother dartboards.
Slipping pills in the
dead soldiers of the innocence.
All, over controlling the jukebox
with the appalling top 40 hits.
Pitcher after pitcher.
Empty and refilling their dog dishes
over and over again until they're in a
complete state of incoherence
and belligerence without pacing
and/or enjoying the simply
effects of alcohol.
Sober to blackout with
no in between.
Gilded with suds of
low budget malts.
Treated with over priced
sugary cocktails and
watered down aqua vitae
with colorful names.
You sit alone.
Head tilted back.
Drink slow.
Let it flow
as you pour the shots and drafts
down your throat with
that burning sensation aftermath.
Fueled by barley and hops.
You're catapulted into that warm,
fuzzy feeling of being buzzed
and you let it overtake you.
It may not be much but
it's all you got at the moment.
Entire paychecks blown.
Myriad of ashtrays fill up
while engaging with
preposterous claptrap conversationalists.
Muscled, mustache macho men
feel pilloried over petty and
trivial coin tricks
and have to swing their
over compensated ***** by
quickly escalating in violence
and breaking beer bottles
over the heads of Neanderthals
who are evolutionary one step behind.
Gummed by shanky old hags
in bathroom blow jobs.
Eight ball party favors
lined up for indulgence
on the seats of the scummiest toilets.
And those mirrors.....
Those ******* mirrors
behind the bar.
Every time you look into them,
only to see yourself
and your surroundings.
You are reminded of the shameful digest
and wonders of how it is,
that it all comes down to this.
Yet,
there you are,
still sipping beer through a straw.
Morning arrives,
you wake up feeling below par
and hazy.
As you gather your thoughts,
you roll over next to that
butterface haggard horrid wet spot
you avoided on the last stop
of your tour of profligacy.
Feeling ashamed of yourself
as this lifestyle hardens you.
You drink to remember.
You drink to forget.
You drink to your losses.
You drink to your gains.
You drink to celebrate.
You drink to your melancholy
and loneliness.
Either way....
you drink.

Friday- the most promising day of all.
The beginning of the weekend, but the one day that will spark appall.

Down on Mainstreet all the girls
In their fringed dresses, pouting their foxy lips and their hair waving in short messes.

The hags frown as the winged ladies pass by- displaying their carriages a little sly.

Oh, but Jane's favourite speakeasy was 'The Back Room' down on Norfolk Street: the place where the lost creatures meet.

Tin ceilings, velvet wallpaper, plush thrones and back in that dark corner, there is the sound of low moans.

'A whiskey, neat, please' as a shadow in a tuxedo walked towards her and he whispered 'Hi,' in a sensual purr.

'Who are you?' he stirred,
'Oh, I'm Miss Doe' and he lept into the stool with a swift flow.

And the jazz trumpets married the spontaneous harmonies and the saxophone created sublime melodies.

So they sat as idle as ghouls in the dim spotlights, until Jane asked Mr Buck:

'D'you fight in the war?' And he whined 'Cambrai, Amiens and Lys' - his lips seemed a little sore.

'I'm sorry - do I know you?' His face looked as familiar as Jay to Nick. A brief pause in time at that smile.

That was the final chord to the "lick".
He drove her down to Roslyn- to his replica of Versailles and Jane looked intensely shy.

'Oh, do come in,' the desperado soughed. And she walked into the gilded palace which Cupid's presence bowed.

'I have a favour to ask of you, Miss Doe. Would you be as kind to wash away my woe?'

And as they congressed under diamond chandeliers, his comrades gathered around the bed in amorphous silhouettes; watching disgustedly.

As for Mr Buck he was an alien, skin-to-skin with a haunted beauty and Miss Doe- a labourer on duty.

echo red hot chili peppers

countermeasure pleasure leisurely treasure

liquid tether zephyr never sever

like the weather adventure bell heather

however in low pressure encounter endeavor

have a refresher recover nether clever dresser

band together sea feather transfigure aesir aether

Ed’s Speak-Easy hides behind its windows
draped and shielded from the sunset west-

-on into morning their unaware eyes
time-glossed in the sun rise east.

I sat in my studio above them,
over nine seasons in solace
never sights, just sounds of
girls dancing in lacy fluffed skirts

trampling glasses and hollow cans
sharp moving heels in heavy shadows
creaking toxins aged and seaped
into hardwood misery

Whiskey shouts and poker faced insults
high-toned energy, rising and fading
explosive bursts of high money
high life, high scheme delight.

I could see their sounds and feel their rhymes,
my blood feeding off their nicotine from
the smoke rise, a cascading surprise
to the carpet fibers rising up the walls
into my webbed lines of breath

speak easies and sunsets
the rip roaring tide
of each season
plucked from
a particular
map of heart
a wilted plant
brought to
fruition
through
journies posted
reconciled and branded
out of their
terrain of gloom
with terrain too soon
the hardy way
of blues
‘infidel rider
of the box car
whiskey sunrise
alarm clock for BBC
snowy icy white lot
sky feasting
on schizoids
orchestrating
the busses
the pistols
silenced
and silent
the train