Post by Dave Besseling on Nov 1, 2008 12:54:06 GMT -5
Dr. Heagney played the fiddle in the pub where I was born.
He licked the strings and cut his tongue ‘till the peaceful early morn.
We shed our skins in Kathmandu. Glue sniffers set the tone.
And we all felt very happy in the morning.
Bracketed masculinity stomping glasses on tables,
but you’d better have the password to get in.
Avatar boozers care not for amateur drinkers.
Our beloved fluorescent matador: do not despair-
the next fashionable age is post post-debonair.
A slipshod yet sanguine bordello full of rotten and mouldy head-beams
is where we pull up our pants and wipe our palms.
Paroxysms of whatever bubbles up take the floor,
violence always just around the corner.
There are stretch marks on love handles that speak volumes
of the grit and turpitude infused by this lot.
A prayer for the dying in each frothy bottom; each rumpled, pocketed fiver.
Take fate in your fist and smash speakers and puke in the streets.
Brown bottles or green,
a sheen will pervade.
Mason jars of teeth all piled up like there’s just been a dental plague
on the end of the bar. If illogical-seated anger is not your bag,
don’t come in here.
My comrades, still raging and kicking in disparate enclaves
behind these sparkplugs, creak a floorboard plank of wood.
Noon-time borrel?
The barrels and kegs scream from within rivets of portent and laurels:
We Don’t Know How Else To Deal With Other Things.
As ever and yet again we’re just pissed.
Self-lobotomized and waiting to have our scars kissed.
He licked the strings and cut his tongue ‘till the peaceful early morn.
We shed our skins in Kathmandu. Glue sniffers set the tone.
And we all felt very happy in the morning.
Bracketed masculinity stomping glasses on tables,
but you’d better have the password to get in.
Avatar boozers care not for amateur drinkers.
Our beloved fluorescent matador: do not despair-
the next fashionable age is post post-debonair.
A slipshod yet sanguine bordello full of rotten and mouldy head-beams
is where we pull up our pants and wipe our palms.
Paroxysms of whatever bubbles up take the floor,
violence always just around the corner.
There are stretch marks on love handles that speak volumes
of the grit and turpitude infused by this lot.
A prayer for the dying in each frothy bottom; each rumpled, pocketed fiver.
Take fate in your fist and smash speakers and puke in the streets.
Brown bottles or green,
a sheen will pervade.
Mason jars of teeth all piled up like there’s just been a dental plague
on the end of the bar. If illogical-seated anger is not your bag,
don’t come in here.
My comrades, still raging and kicking in disparate enclaves
behind these sparkplugs, creak a floorboard plank of wood.
Noon-time borrel?
The barrels and kegs scream from within rivets of portent and laurels:
We Don’t Know How Else To Deal With Other Things.
As ever and yet again we’re just pissed.
Self-lobotomized and waiting to have our scars kissed.