Outlook Poems [Old Friends, War and Bars/Part II]
3-17-2007
5) Gulp behind the Beer
(Ole Friends)
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Gulp down the brew ole friends
(long gone, several at death's door)
Roar and rumba to the songs
On the ole jut box-
(in this unclean niche bar)
Where there's no sunlight
Only drunks and brew and rippling wine
Where we all die in the past our time!
#1740
Dedicated to the old Donkeyland mob of the 60s
6) Death in the Corner Bar
Here they all died
(one by one,
I've stopped with)
In this senescent alcove bar;
No pride, messed up inside,
Saturated like-minded a sponge
(one by one, they died;
I've stopped reckoning).
Good for no one-
Died I say, died, died!
In this ole area bar-
They were my friends,
Way rear when...!
#1741
7) Payday Drunk
On payday nights-
We all skedaddled to the bar;
On the way quarters we stumbled
Out of the bar, preadolescent we were
Dancing about, shouting,
Fighting approaching aquatic vertebrate caught on a hook:
John, Rino, Ace and Me,
Rick, Larry, Roger and Doug,
And Mike, dead-drunken men
Awash (waiting and lacking)
Grostequely mean,
With slobbering breath;
Impetuous,
Sweating-;
That was my youth
Back in '63,
Alas, they, my friends
Way backbone when,
Are stagnant at that same bar
I see, in 2007 (a few near).
#1742
8) Drunk in Vietnam (reedited)
(Poem #1743)) 1-17-19-2007
Back in '71, I gone the streets
and went to Vietnam
still beery and rolling about
from what we'd ring the scarcity of:
sleep, protein, and care-
which I traded in, 'White Castle Hamburgers,'
their wrappings that filled
the inferiority of my car-
traded in, rearward then-
for salty pork,
and a cardinal kinds of soup,
and a war in Vietnam;
still fractional high approaching a skunk,
likened to rear on the streets
in my old neighborhood,
the Army took consideration of me
and supplied much booze:
yes, I only just drank more, and more
too pixilated to endure on my feet,
a upsetting platoon, we were,
there in Vietnam, close to the gang
from my streets,
perhaps, forbidding a tinge,
yet drunkenly nondescript:
all medication infested, or drink saturated;
that was us in Vietnam:
the unexcelled of the best ever.
Note: If everybody knows in the region of drunks and bar life, Dennis does, he is recovering, has been for 22-years. He knows how it is in the bar, bar life, how it looks, and smells, and the awareness set; deplorably. And possibly these poems will encourage soul to get out of it. You die in the past your time, but suchlike Dennis ever says, "You got to submit a potty thing better, otherwise, why would he grant up, what he thinks is accurate." Rosa