Bar Fly

Deprived, gaunt, slightly jaundiced, wan and desperate,
pallid and hungry for regenerative passion
but with too little compassion to restore the phantasmagorical
prepubescent representations of her childhood princess romances,
she flies from her gloomy home, aimlessly roaming
through gloaming fog, finally arriving in the dank effluvial bog—
a rank and steamy cocktail lounge—to implore her dream.

Frenzied prism-refracted eyes of azure and green
frenetically implore pure freedom from the prison
of her curious, perpetual, self-imposed seclusion.
Buzzing above the viscous floor, she fastidiously forages,
searching for the furthest stool from the fulgurous door
that flashes entirely too much neon when heated crowds
swarm inside to embrace the warm delusional social buzz.

The sagacious bartender silently fills the lipstick-stained glass
with her favorite lethean liquid until she slowly drifts where pain
melts into disinterest and hallucinogenic companions never quarrel,
but, again, she’s soon somnolently shooed away, shunned from consummation,
bored by buzzards’ licentiously begging buzz-saw whispers.

March 2001


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