poetry

Barstool Philosopher

I go out
to see a woman
about a drink
and she kisses my eyes
while acceding
to pouring it down
my throat.

Some people seek the cafes
to write –
it’s too quiet.
I need spilt drinks
and broken glass;
belligerent drinks
and volumes
far too loud.

I need insults
to injuries
and salt
on the wounds.
Writing is never done
content.

The patrons screech
and so the bar
screeches louder –
a never ending competition
of volume-based
machismo.

I take after Bukowski
and order a beer,
eschewing the gin and tonic.

It’s simpler.
They serve it faster.

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5 thoughts on “Barstool Philosopher

  1. thefeatheredsleep says:

    Damn. I really love this. Ok I REALLY love this. Why? Because it’s seedy. And nothing is seedy anymore. I miss seedy. I miss the seats you had to wipe and wonder what or who had sat on them before. I always felt Bukowski’s genius (We all knew his devil was hatred of women and love of women) was his ability much like Robert Crumb, to just PUT IT THERE in such evocative and simple and crude and seedy terms that burned into your retina creating this picture that spoke. You’ve achieved this too, it’s not easy to do and I applaud you and thought this was superb. A really, really great poem – loved it.

    Liked by 2 people

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