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My exadurated thought process, whilst slowly getting pissed at my local.

Just North of the Vault

46154428_294251674763039_2364701120778993664_nby Laurence Wilkins13 Feb 2019

'Post partum, delinquent breathe'
sat on the stools pretending we're The Sitwells
as a cloth runs swift across the table and sprays me with a not-so-fresh fragrance of
botany and wheat
scribbling down notes like a crazed gunman firing nothing but blanks
the schiz comes to talk for a while as the pauper
though i'd prayed for him to be the king
as my pockets were emptied by the pickpocket of tiananmen square as I was
ruffling through wet paper the night before and pulling out nothing but the edges of what should've been
It was time for me to play the jester as the taste of clarity was beginning to wear off
I swoop into a pack like a suave greyhound and attempt to charm the hind drinks off of them
nice to meet you sympathy, and same to you ol' barley
I bounce like a pinball and act like a screwball from tilter to corners of the smoking area
hoping to hit a jackpot of double whiskey or wine for a half decent limerick
but I just get flung, passed pissed - I piss passed the wings of the corridor and back to the haunting grounds
Dylans singing to me in the corner though the speakers blare Marley
I spot schitz being mocked by a suited neanderthal so I break his legs with my eyes
he drags his club foot towards me and I spoon feed him the irony
a rustler intervenes and we stand either side of the bar like a half baked western
the pelicans balance their cups on the beaks of one another
and I begin to swoon
as an old friend asks me where the lover is
I explain how she burned my tower of poetry that I held so dear and so I burned her soul
cashing in a smoke I crack a smile and make a joke
we laugh and ditch dylan for a pot of hot stew served by caligula's wife
followed by a round of the usual brevity
the rest is a blur.