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Outlook Poems [Old Friends, War and Bars/Part II]
3-17-2007

5) Gulp fuzz the Beer

(Ole Friends)

Gulp feathers the brewage ole friends

(long gone, more than a few failing)

Roar and jazz to the songs

On the ole jut box-

(in this dirty niche bar)

Where there's no sunlight

Only drunks and beer and riffle wine

Where we all die earlier our time!

#1740
Dedicated to the old Donkeyland gang of the 60s

6) Death in the Corner Bar

Here they all died

(one by one,

I've stopped together with)

In this ageing cranny bar;

No pride, messed up inside,

Saturated approaching a sponge

(one by one, they died;

I've stopped counting).

Good for no one-

Died I say, died, died!

In this ole cranny bar-

They were my friends,

Way put money on when...!

#1741

7) Payday Drunk

On payday nights-

We all skedaddled to the bar;

On the way den we stumbled

Out of the bar, vernal we were

Dancing about, shouting,

Fighting similar to aquatic vertebrate caught on a hook:

John, Rino, Ace and Me,

Rick, Larry, Roger and Doug,

And Mike, dead-drunken men

Awash (waiting and nonexistent)

Grostequely mean,

With slobbering breath;

Impetuous,

Sweating-;

That was my youth

Back in '63,

Alas, they, my friends

Way hindmost when,

Are stagnant at that same bar

I see, in 2007 (a few larboard).

#1742

8) Drunk in Vietnam (reedited)

(Poem #1743)) 1-17-19-2007

Back in '71, I moved out the streets

and went to Vietnam

still cockeyed and moving about

from what we'd telephone call the deficiency of:

sleep, protein, and care-

which I traded in, 'White Castle Hamburgers,'

their wrappings that filled

the backseat of my car-

traded in, rear then-

for brackish pork,

and a c kinds of soup,

and a war in Vietnam;

still partially stiff resembling a skunk,

likened to put money on on the streets

in my old neighborhood,

the Army took attention of me

and supplied much booze:

yes, I only just drank more, and more

too bacchanalian to stand for on my feet,

a agonizing platoon, we were,

there in Vietnam, suchlike the gang

from my streets,

perhaps, in control of yourself a tinge,

yet drunkenly nondescript:

all remedy infested, or street drug saturated;

that was us in Vietnam:

the unexceeded of the unexcelled.

Note: If anyone knows astir drunks and bar life, Dennis does, he is recovering, has been for 22-years. He knows how it is in the bar, bar life, how it looks, and smells, and the head set; regrettably. And mayhap these poems will stimulate soul to get out of it. You die earlier your time, but similar Dennis ever says, "You got to proffer a tiddley thing better, otherwise, why would he endow with up, what he thinks is accurate." Rosa