Outlook Poems [Old Friends, War and Bars/Part II]
3-17-2007
5) Gulp down the Beer
(Ole Friends)
Gulp down the beer ole friends
(long gone, several on your deathbed)
Roar and fine art to the songs
On the ole jut box-
(in this dingy cranny bar)
Where there's no sunlight
Only drunks and brew and rippling wine
Where we all die until that time our time!
#1740
Dedicated to the old Donkeyland pack of the 60s
6) Death in the Corner Bar
Here they all died
(one by one,
I've stopped with)
In this senescent country bar;
No pride, messed up inside,
Saturated same a sponge
(one by one, they died;
I've stopped count).
Good for no one-
Died I say, died, died!
In this ole niche bar-
They were my friends,
Way hindmost when...!
#1741
7) Payday Drunk
On payday nights-
We all skedaddled to the bar;
On the way burrow we stumbled
Out of the bar, youngish we were
Dancing about, shouting,
Fighting same aquatic vertebrate caught on a hook:
John, Rino, Ace and Me,
Rick, Larry, Roger and Doug,
And Mike, dead-drunken men
Awash (waiting and nonexistent)
Grostequely mean,
With slobbering breath;
Impetuous,
Sweating-;
That was my youth
Back in '63,
Alas, they, my friends
Way pay for when,
Are fixed at that aforementioned bar
I see, in 2007 (a few left-hand).
#1742
8) Drunk in Vietnam (reedited)
(Poem #1743)) 1-17-19-2007
Back in '71, I departed the streets
and went to Vietnam
still besotted and billowing about
from what we'd call upon the want of:
sleep, protein, and care-
which I traded in, 'White Castle Hamburgers,'
their wrappings that filled
the lower rank of my car-
traded in, support then-
for tasteful pork,
and a one hundred kinds of soup,
and a war in Vietnam;
still fractional squiffy resembling a skunk,
likened to rear on the streets
in my old neighborhood,
the Army took thinking of me
and supplied much booze:
yes, I merely drank more, and more
too narcotised to allow on my feet,
a distressing platoon, we were,
there in Vietnam, similar to the gang
from my streets,
perhaps, held in reserve a tinge,
yet drunkenly nondescript:
all agent infested, or drug of abuse saturated;
that was us in Vietnam:
the first-rate of the best ever.
Note: If someone knows astir 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 be bothered set; ill-fatedly. And mayhap these poems will exalt person to get out of it. You die past your time, but approaching Dennis always says, "You got to donate a bacchic something better, otherwise, why would he bequeath up, what he thinks is neat." Rosa