Madam’s Organ Blues Bar

A tired place; the walls are riddled
with photos of visitors whose toothless grins
reflect their false hope and forgotten dreams.
This bar, I visit often to watch and listen.
Tonight, two men were laughing violently
and I realized I am becoming apart of them,
apart of their laughter
with every inhale and short gasp.
Their breath disappears into their dark,
smoke incrusted throats,
their bruised lungs and forsaken hearts.
Our breath allied into a band of shit.
For a brief moment,
these men and I are together
within a world of thought;
where our false laughter and reusable relationships
become disgustingly real.
Where you give champagne to your lovers
and the shame of pain to your enemies.
Where Saturday nights
always end in a numb arm
from leaning on the back of a chair for too long
just trying to get hits with a pretty girl.
No one comes in here without baggage,
wanting to spill onto anyone who will listen;
I’ve heard it all.

Butch Deadmarsh

He was born tired and his head pressed
Hard against the concrete dead-end walls
Of mindless work.
His toothless grin; an apt title to his ignorance
And overly anxious laughter;
the sound of barricaded elephants
On their last leg.
No more than fifty dollars to his name
And a line of past dues and unsettled debts.
He sleeps, and eats, and drinks
And sings from a mouth clamped;
Emptied and topped off then emptied again,
Pouring his wretched breath onto those in his company.
The seat in the bar where he sits
Every Saturday, polishing the backside
Of the stool,
Is where he drinks a pint, till his memory
Drowns in a slew of senseless mourning,
Sip after sip.