The Bar Fly

Open late, now hiring, the flickering neon sign is hanging by a thread.
Taped to the dirty window, a piece of paper, Brew on Special.
The barkeeper lady is juggling with bottles and pouring nectar made of gold from the fountains of youth.
A man sitting alone on a stool, silent and suffering, sipping on an ancient Scottish liquor.
Young dreamers wandering in and out of the tavern facing the hard decision.
Whisky, Gin or Vodka, but ultimately who give a shit, it’s all about the proof.

I walk and stare facing the mirror in search of my soul, “What can I do you for” she asks…”
A warm spirit” I say, “Sure thing Love, On the rocks?”... “Neat if you please”.
The tapster pours my drink, throws me a smile… “Enjoy”.
Brouhaha, smoke, a Jazz composition, the jukebox in a dark corner.
Blasting a Mile’s tune from another era.
The tube is howling and spitting nonsense.

Strange characters laughing, squares, circles and odd shapes on a crowded bar, the coaster factory must have been busy.
Intoxicating sounds and smells, a heavenly fire inundates my mind and I start my voyage.
A cool cat and a hot babe, body rubbing against body in a trance.
The floor is open, the spirits are out and all bets are off.
Hugging, kissing, touching, a couple in a booth acting like primates, ignoring the crowd.
A tattooed fellow makes a hell of an entrance.
A confused hybrid blue haired man is up to no bad, as opposed to good.

The suffering guy is quietly drinking.
Survival of the sickest, the bartender is curing.
I’m eying the low-cut, no point in hiding if you catch my drift.
I’m in a comfortable zone, a free space of sort.
Booze, drink, beverage, call it what you wish, this sparkling liquid is no short of enchanting.
Making way through my dreams and distorting my thoughts, exploring the secrets of my inner being.

A spot for vagabonds drifters and drunkards, awkward folks, lame artists and needy junkies.
A home for Gods, saints and angels, pretty lovers, sore losers and pleasure seekers.
Real folks we call them, I believe.
I savor the night or whatever is left of it, it’s nobody’s fault but mine.
Tavern, saloon, hellhole, the label is irrelevant.
The bar fly is a place worth knowing.

Bon voyage mes amis, I Say