Cold rain falls in the river, flows down to the sea, gets into the skyline, circles endlessly. Same old rain on the wind, same old pain in my soul.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

the barmaid, the cook, and me

I'll park here
Not there
Because some distance is good

The little clouds
By congress
Drift aimlessly
Above their defeated gods
Knowing they belong inside
the banished
blind beggars at the fish gate

Following karaoke friday
Sweet sixteen saturday
Heartbreak sunday

it's Just nothin monday
The barmaid, the cook and me

Seven giant screens
Babble to no one
As the insane meter spins

The scrambled trail of cold stools
Ignore me
To a spent court

Grabbing one of the insolent bitches
I drag her feet
Make her mine
Conqueror at last

The barmaid
Is friday's dirty glass wench
Because damned if real talent
Would pull a monday
Wasting spilled shirts
And tight ass wiggle
to loser tips

This one's talent
Knew another generation.
Yesterday's glass slipper
And sneaked peaks
is now a damp basement
where the empties are stored

Her tired grey eyes
Have seen a thousand me's
And we both know it

The cook
Is just a kid on his way to nowhere
But only the barmaid
And i know this
And we keep silent

A good cook
A real cook
Would pirate the slow
Like bullion
To spend later

but he buys basketball fame
With lazy quarters
and even in this
She takes five to beat him
And pounds his stardust glory
to shreds

Cheeseburger and rings
Cuz it's safe
and he broods to the kitchen
like it's ten years
On the rock pile

She snickers
Snaps her gum
And opens me another Bud

When neon sleeps
He'll lay on his single bed
in momma's house
Ankle over knee
Hands behind head
And be something other
Than a cook

When neon sleeps
She'll peek the kids
Pay the sitter
And light the days
Last cigarette
When she stopped feeling

When neon sleeps
He'll wonder
Of the barmaid and cook
Wishing he could heal them
For on a monday night full of leftover nothing,
These three broken soldiers
Shared a common trench