Barfly

I hate places like this. Always full of wooden men with glass eyed stares. Always with their looks wondering about creamy thighs and hands with fate lines that end at tonight. They tower above me, these giants. I debate about crawling up under a shoe, like a scorpion. Flick my ankles out, a twitch. I call it dancing. Liz says I have no beat, no rhythm, no metro-known. She puts her hands on my hips, side to side, up and down. She calls this dancing. I call her my puppeteer. Pull my strings taut, fish for my joints, hooked under my armpits.

I say I need to get a drink. I leave Liz dancing with flies. I don’t like being touched there anyhow.

This bar is boring. Full of people, smoking, drinking, dancing. And not one of them doing a thing. Even the philosophers in the corner with spit drenched napkins are really just trying to get laid. Only the bar tenders with the tight hard bodies and tight black polo shirts to hide the sweat see how dull the night is. They pour drinks, like a factory, one shot one beer one drink split the orange split the lemon split the soda water. I want to go home. But Liz is laughing, trying to puppeteer someone else. I can see she got her second wind. I try to breath on my wrists, try to tell them to wake up. But I just get a lungful of germs.


Notes:

Whoo-wee. It feels good to get a post up. Taking August off of work to do more portfolio work. Obvs, this piece is super unfinished, but it's a start.