An Introspective Bar Conversation

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Dumb ass! Dumb ass! Dumb ass!
Suckin’ the bottle, again, eh?
Now, whom do we think about
each time we do this?
Who’s smilin’ face always dances
across your drunken mind?

Saw her at a play one night.
Hadn’t talked to her in months.
Didn’t say anything to her.
Was still pissed at her.

You still love her, don’t you?
No matter how bad she treats you,
no matter how fat she gets
(and she has put on some pounds recently),
no matter how many boyfriends
she’s had since you,
you’ll always love her,
won’t you?

Started datin’ her, again.
Buried the hatchet.
She still wanted to date other dudes.
Always behaved this way around you.
Broke it off with her.
Found someone you wanted to
try monogamy with.
Reason why you dumped her.

Wasn’t angry, tho.
Knew what you were getting into
when she still wanted to
date other dudes.

Found someone
and still thinkin’
about that bitch!
That bitch! That bitch!
Still thinkin’ about that bitch!

Remember that night,
when you saw her
in the coffee house?

“How’s your love life?”
That was her.

“Fine, how’s yours?”
That was you.

“Fine but it could be better.”

Then, she started tellin’ you
how stupid he was.
He ain’t like you intellectually.
Intellectually, he ain’t like you.
Like you, he ain’t intellectually.

She didn’t say it in these words
but you got the message.
The boy was stupid.
He couldn’t hold
intellectual conversations
but you could,
couldn’t you?

Said she wasn’t fuckin’ him.
Said you were getting’ laid, tho.
Made fun of you.

“The poet is getiin’ laid.”

You should’ve slapped her.

Why didn’t you?
Why didn’t you slap
that teasin’ tongue
right out of her stupid head?

Ordering another beer.
Here we go, again.
More alcohol.

Alcohol is a depressant, remember?
A depressant.
Alcohol is a depressant.
A depressant.
A depressant.
A depressant.
More fuel to pump
into your depression car.

Mr. Conscious, can I drink my fuckin’ beer, please?
Can I drink my fuckin’ beer, please, Mr. Conscious?
Please, can I drink my fuckin’ beer, Mr. Conscious?

Oh, by all means, be my guest.
You’re now about to enter…
the Alcoholic Depression Zone.

Alcohol is a depressant.
A depressant.
A depressant.
A depressant.
Like father like son.

Shut up!

Like father like son.
Like father like son.
Like father like son.
Like father.
Like father.
Like father.
He still loves that bitch!
He still loves that bitch!
That bitch! That bitch!
He still loves that bitch!

What was it that she told you one time?
She’ll always be attracted to you?

“No matter what happens between us,
I’ll always be attracted to you.”

Sure she wasn’t lyin’?
Positive she wasn’t lyin’?
Positively positive she wasn’t lyin’?
Positively, positively positive she wasn’t lyin’?
Suckin’ on the bottle, again.
Like father like son.

Shut up!
I ain’t like him.
My alcohol intake ain’t as bad as his.
Like father like son, my ass.
Now, shut up with that shit!

Alcohol is a depressant.
A depressant.
A depressant.
A depressant.
Alcohol is a depressant.

Yea, alcohol is a depressant, Mr. Conscious.
Yea, I still love her, Mr. Conscious,
but she’s bad for me.
She’s bad for me.
She’s bad for me.
She’ll try to come back.
Know she will
but I won’t take her back.
Have another woman now.
The perfect woman.
Now, Mr. Conscious,
can I drink my fuckin’ beer,
please?

Oh, by all means, be my guest.

This is from The Butt Freak Blues, a book available on Amazon.

lounge pic credit: …take a break…it’s Tuesday! via photopin (license)

About Patrick Scott Barnes

Most of Central Florida knows Stone Crazy (Patrick Scott Barnes) as a poet. Yet, he also photographs, DJ and blogs. The rest of the time, he's guzzling booze in a Central Florida bar.
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