Wednesday, June 12, 2019

[Working Title: Bloomsday]

The patrons play and fall
regularly in the streets.
Puke splatters the walls,
and the Irish stand tall,
till they don't. Punches
fall and faces crawl
into the gutter. Hunched
back travelers brawl
and wail for the stench
the smell of sheets,
washed and dried clean.

"Let's get out of here!"
said the woman, pear
shaped, to the man agape
with fear. He apes
himself. He knuckles down
to the rippling ground,
and says, "No more."
His last breath is floored.

On this day we sing
into the pissing wind,
and allow others to fend
for themselves till night's end.


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