Harriman�s Place

the images of that cell will haunt me till the day i die

 

The smell of smoke

Catches you off guard

When the door opens

And puts two fingers up your nostrils

While it pulls you into the den.

Black and White pictures

Hung on white cinder block walls

Of old friends never known

Looking at you like you’re right on time

And the last seat

Can finally be filled.

Cigs are on the table,

And there’s beer in the fridge.

 

A priestess from some mythic land

Married my love and me in his bedroom.

Our eyes too glazed with alcohol

To fully comprehend the situation,

Or to really give a s**t about anything
Outside of those four walls.

 

Stories of romantic conquests

Ripped from the pages of Arthur,

And legends of premature ejaculations

Bounce from patron to patron.

 

Bacchus rests on the counter by the sink

Ripping into his veins

Every time he needs a refill.

No one comments how this is a sausage fest.

 

The old man himself

Rests behind the bar,

A stein perpetually raised to his lips.

Urging each guest

To suck down one more

Before they hit the road.

He wipes away the residue of mead

From his beard like a long lost warrior poet.

The smoke in his eyes turns to fire,

And everyone realizes the night has only begun.