Big John�s Last Call

that weekend in A.C. still ranks up there as one of the best ever

 

There’s a lot that can be said

About sausage parties in mid-May.

On a strange and ancient road

Five travelers in white caravan

Lumbering on to the city by the sea.

Cigars set ablaze with romantic tales

Of backseat blowjobs and drunken orgies,

While seagulls hover nearby

Squawking their approval and congratulations.

Fueled by alcohol and greed

They open the doors and let us loose!

Hypnotized by the spinning blacks and reds

Dollar after Dollar we feed

Into the barking machines.

High-powered booze

Combined with crumbled up tobacco

Tightens our veins

And engulfs the brain

In an all night orgasm.

Walking home as the sun slowly rises,

With gloved hands

Pushing us the final few steps home.

 

Panthers spin in pink whirls

Blue Martinis pour down our throats.

The magic, singing, dancing man

Blesses our journey.

Horn raised to his lips

He heralds the twenty plus years

It has taken for the first to fall.

Eight eyes glance back and forth

Who will be next to ride

The mechanical bull of destiny?

 

Dainty fingers kneed into our backs.

Each vertebrae cracks in the silent parlor.

“Go Home, Go Home,” they plead

The bell dings and like most stories

There is no happy ending to accent the drama.

Into the chill of morning rain

Lonely men walking alone, towards the darkness.

 

“So we beat on,

Boats against the current,

Borne back ceaselessly

Into the past.”

                     -F.S.F.