Barstool Philosopher

I go out
to see a woman
about a drink
and she kisses my eyes
while acceding
to pouring it down
my throat.

Some people seek the cafes
to write –
it’s too quiet.
I need spilt drinks
and broken glass;
belligerent drinks
and volumes
far too loud.

I need insults
to injuries
and salt
on the wounds.
Writing is never done
content.

The patrons screech
and so the bar
screeches louder –
a never ending competition
of volume-based
machismo.

I take after Bukowski
and order a beer,
eschewing the gin and tonic.

It’s simpler.
They serve it faster.