At The Bottom

I long to sit at a bar
as weathered as a workman’s hands
and sip from a dusty glass,
whiskey aged and brown.

An old companion that laughs
in my gut, while prodding
my liver with a knife.

In my dreams
a man like Old Scratch,
only slightly younger than God,

would hammer a death march

into a piano like a smokers mouth.
Stained, gappy and wide,
frozen in an all too wooden smile
that seems to make cancer happy.

Around me would be real people.
The kind who keep locks on their closets
because the skeletons keep falling out.
The kind with stories worth writing
and sorrows to drown,
in concrete shoes of ice and scotch.

But sadly, dreams are just dreams.
The old haunts are running out of ghosts,
becoming as condemned as they look.
There’s little future left for drunks.

White-washed walls and frosted glass.
Karaoke bars with auto-tune.
Buildings clean of sweat and rot.
Old wood and wax and vomit,
replaced by bleach and concrete.

Houses of shame
scrubbed cleaner than God.
And denizens to match,
bright eyes and teeth
sipping cocktails and wine.
Those once fetid places
are given new life,
when the old life would do.

Tragedy is being born
a generation too late
to find Jesus in a bottle. 

By: Torrin A. Greathouse

Reviews

[recantichize]

i love the picture you've painted. tragic but somehow quite lovely.

[David]

That's just class.I'm not one for poetic reviews,but it's lethal.Bitter & contemptuous.AND it uses actual images!!!xD Instead of just moping,Brilliant.