A mythical place where clocks stand still
Certain hairstyles will cast you back to a by-gone time -
A more innocent age.
Nothing much changes here.
A lick of paint for a psychosomatic, halusonagenic trip.
Best keep your tongue to yourself.
Dangers lurk at each corner.
A trapdoor into which fall barmen, never to be seen again.
Their soon forgotten skeletons lay scattered among the kegs below decks.
A ventilating tormentor on the ceiling,
A whirling predator dervish, awaiting fingers and heads with gory lust.
The hazards add to the mystique.
The real heroes of this refuge of lost souls
Are the guardians of libation that lurk on stand-by,
Ready to rest a tab on the wall outside at the merest hint of custom
Or break the rhythmic thud of arrows on cork.
You've seen em.
Contemporary dancers come shrinks,
They flutter with grace from Jagger to Ludacris to elegant shoulder to cry on.
And everybody needs a bosom for a pillow.
Of those, there are plenty on ladies street.
In my younger days as a wandering bard,
I oft' met strange tormented souls.
In the bullrings of Spain. At the circus.
Blackface was the fashion of the day.
They all wore blackface.
And the painted man still haunts my dreams.
But give me a glass, a familiar mop of hair
Or truth-stretched tale of "my girlfriend".
A wooden crutch to lean on
A planche to spill my beans on
And place to lay my hat.
by Amorous Lou. read more