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the exquisite taste of clear bile
by Peter Carlaftes
quarter of four
twenty below
one bartender
with
brain light
blinking
Lock The Door
Lock The Door
when
of course
said door
burst open
wielding
a brazen behemoth
sporting
a dark blue
snow dusted
peacoat
who was
promptly
employed
a curt
Closed here, Pal
he corkscrewed up
and wrapped his claws
around the bar-rail
I leaned over and sighed
Give it up my good man...
he broke the rail
lifting it skyward
like a paralytic
Thor
while using
his other paw
to swipe off
the snotsickles
frozen to his face
I warned the swaying mass
I have a gun behind the bar
trailing the rhetorical
Should I shoot you now?
then my tongue lashed
You may find this hard to believe, Buddy
but the proud owner of this shithouse
is times ten the asshole you are
and now I’ve gotta tell him
how his precious little bar-rail
was cracked off
by Mighty Joe Dung
Pea Coat passed me the pole
and lowering his head in lament
dislodged a phonic burp
I snapped
Here it is, Pal
You pay
Then you drink
Then you get the fuck out
he slipped off his coat
covered a barstool
and grunted
Dewars on the rocks
closing my eyes
I saw the owner
filling the Dewars
the day before
with cut-rate booze
sadly
I served Pea Coat
he sucked up the drink
ice and all
his eyes jumped
jack-box-weasel
then he puked clear bile
across the bar
as he rolled away
rerigging his coat
he turned
and said
Buddy...
That wasn’t Dewars