Spend more time wanting a cheap dive
with cheap women
than I ever do thinking of home.
Roll up to a place with more class than the usual
No. 26 West Overcliff Drive
Restaurant and Bar
take a seat by the window
watch the waves break on the beach below
see how small they look
how weak.
Wait to be served.
The other customers lean over their dinners
like ants in suits -
the ants that scurry around the cracks
in our broken garden path
and I remember stamping on them
when they tried to expand their territory
over my feet
hot Summer days.
Remember putting down some white powder
to kill them all off
and I guess if I lived down there
I would die too.
I don't have any white powder and
even if I did, the ants are too big now
so I ignore them
waitress comes to take my order
scribbling with the pen from a wooden case
we keep above the mantel in our lounge
"what can I get for you sir?"
"scotch and water"
and she walks back over carpet
patterned like that in our hallway
behind the front door
dusty with age
Barkeep pours my drink into a glass I remember
from when my Father used to drink on cold nights
in front of an open fire
emblazened with "Whyte and Mackay"
Est 1844, not like me,
sat up there on his knee.
Once delivered, I stare at it in my hand
"same again"
notice the window next to me
is cracked in the corner
just like the one in my old bedroom
letting in the cold air
making me huddle under the duvet at night
waking with frozen hands
I shiver.
Unroll the sleeves of my drinkers shirt,
lean in towards the candle on my table
rest my hands
trace the grain of the wood
the same as that of our heavy oak dining table
where as a child
I saw roads and roundabouts
and my fingers were the cars
on lines where dark wood met light.
Waitress brings my drink
and she is my Mother
smiling down at me
handing me the glass like it was a mug of chocolate
and I was her sick child once again and
in a way, I guess I still am.
Even the view is changing now
from the cliff and the sea and the promenade
to that broken garden path
ants and all,
where the withered apple tree sits
growing shrivelled fruit we could never eat
but we loved it
for the fine rustic smell in the Autumn
and the white blosom of Spring.

Spend more time wanting a cheap dive
with cheap women
than I ever do thinking of home,
because in a bar like this,
where the family used to bring us as kids
where dad brought me for a cigar on my sixteenth birthday
where I've met friends and enemies and lovers and more
I can't see the women,
through the nostalgia behind my eyes.

love is a dog from hell.

Last edited by we have sound at Mar 10, 2008,
I really enjoyed this piece. Definitely one of my favourites by you. The intimacy and emotions that it portrays is put to beautifully into words and sentences.

On a first read I didn't like the lack of punctuation, but It kind of grew on me, it felt more personal this way, more like thoughts, speech, not so calculated - and the line breaks were done well.

It's definitely up there with the cocaine and train wreck pieces, if not better.

This is not a pipe
Everything you do is very very very Bukowski-esque, which sometimes works in your favor and sometimes seems like you're just mimicing him line for line.

This is good, but I think you're in need of a change, at least for awhile.

I just sounded like the biggest ass.
Poor advice.
^Agree with what Randy said, even though I often read your stuff because of that fact, I guess half expecting something a little different. Reguardless, there were some pretty solid parallels drawn between your childhood and this bar, like the wood fingertracing, and the crack in the window.

I just hope you are able to find a little more of your own style soon.
hmm..i fu.cking loved it.
i need to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me, yeah.

You guys are cooky, I actually really liked this one. But maybe like Skag has said to me, that's because the imagery is so personal. But that shouldn't stop shit.

love is a dog from hell.