Outlook Poems [Old Friends, War and Parallel bars/Part II]

5) Swallow trailing the Beer

(Ole Friends)

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Gulp trailing the brew ole friends

(long gone, whichever last)

Roar and spring to the songs

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On the ole jut box-

(in this unclean cranny bar)

Where there's no sunlight

Only drunks and brewage and wave wine

Where we all die up to that time our time!

Dedicated to the old Donkeylandability pack of the 60s

6) Death in the Cranny Bar

Here theyability all died

(one by one,

I've stopped plus)

In this senescent recess bar;

No pride, messed up inside,

Saturated suchlike a sponge

(one by one, theyability died;

I've stopped with).

Good for no one-

Died I say, died, died!

In this ole niche bar-

They were my friends,

Way wager on once...!


7) Day Drunk

On day nights-

We all skedaddled to the bar;

On the way warren we stumbled

Out of the bar, youthful we were

Dancing about, shouting,

Fighting suchlike aquatic vertebrate caught on a hook:

John, Rino, Ace and Me,

Rick, Larry, Roger and Doug,

And Mike, dead-drunkenability men

Awash (waiting and nonexistent)

Grostequely mean,

With slobberingability breath;



That was my youth

Back in '63,

Alas, they, my friends

Way wager on when,

Are yet at thatability very bar

I see, in 2007 (a few vanished).


8) Orgiastic in Vietnam (reedited)

(Poem #1743)) 1-17-19-2007

Back in '71, I vanished the streets

and went to Vietnam

still bacchic and billowing about

from what we'd telephony the withdrawal of:

sleep, protein, and care-

which I listed in, 'White Castle Hamburgers,'

their wrappingsability thatability filled

the lower status of my car-

traded in, wager on then-

for tasteful pork,

and a one hundred kinds of soup,

and a war in Vietnam;

still partially carousing suchlike a skunk,

likened to wager on on the streets

in my old neighborhood,

the Service took work of me

and suppliedability much booze:

yes, I vindicatory drank more, and more

too drugged to trivet on my feet,

a contemptible platoon, we were,

there in Vietnam, suchlike the gang

from my streets,

perhaps, quiet a tinge,

yet drunkenly nondescript:

all tablets infested, or beverage saturated;

that was us in Vietnam:

the world-class of the world-class.

Note: If someone knows something like drunks and bar life, Dennis does, he is recovering, has been for 22-years. He knows how it is in the bar, bar life, how it looks, and smells, and the worry set; unluckily. And probably these poems will stimulate soul to get out of it. You die up to that time your time, but suchlike Dennis ever says, "You got to volunteer a bacchanal thing better, otherwise, why would he tender up, what he thinks is worthy." Rosa

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