speaking of pubs...

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speaking of pubs...

tapey's thread reminded me of a poem i wrote yesterday.  i was really pleased with how it came out.


it's the pub at the edge of the world

the Sheriff Pub in Kosice, Slovakia

on the outer rim

of the city

apartment blocks on one side

an open expanse

of hills

on the other

made of brick

and green tarpaper siding

an island of smoke

and scratched antique tables

(some with drawers)

and space

and surliness

perpetually under gray skies

just to get there

feels like going to Katmandu

sometimes you get lucky

and the R1 tram

drops you off practically

by the front door

then, invariably,

you are greeted

by a bitch

with a fat matron's ass


at age 26

and bad skin

parked on a barstool

sucking a Marlboro light

who looks at you

like the scum of the fucking earth

for daring

to have a few coins to spend

after all

you didn't earn it, bub


those times

are few

more often

than not

you must sprint

from the number 6 tram

to the number 10 bus

which is full

of unwashed


which only makes it more

of a pilgrimage

worse yet

you often must walk

the last kilometer

with only gray skies

concrete-panelled blocks

the city transportation depot

the skeletons of cypresses

and occasionally

a few hopelessly feral cats

for company


you arrive

there are never more

than 3 other

totally silent patrons

(and often none)

and you wonder

at the absurdity of it all

why were you so intent

on coming here?

this is completely out of your way!

out of everyone's way!

and yet you sit anyway

under the gray window

and smoke strong black Virginia

and unashamedly spit on the floor

and drink Kozel

and you're so damn comfortable

in lao tzu's hut

at the edge of the world


but dragons


this absurdity

is sublime

the point of it all


"I asked my father,
I said, 'Father change my name.'
The one I'm using now it's covered up
with fear and filth and cowardice and shame."
--Leonard Cohen