The world’s Last Barman Poet

The French Martini

She stares across three feet of polished oak,
Her eyes belie the truth that hides inside
And yet she flirts and tells those practiced lies
he pays the bill and tips but she is mine.
I shake, caress the frost upon the glass
I pour, she tastes the perfect orgasm.
She fights temptation, perfect elation
I know my bed will be kept warm tonight.
Society’s spirit surrounding us,
Impassioned poisons pass between our lips.
In drunken lust, we screw, we drink, I drive.
Home alone, even Bacchus might be proud
I down the beer and pop another Z
Tomorrow, another day awaits me.

Blanc De Blanc

Empty, I don’t much feel like a poet
Expression is lie, translation is lie
Liquid courage slips in to my hollow
body and I allow myself a thought.
I struggle to sleep for having met her,
I cannot breath while she will not be mine
and yet, if never our paths diverged
If I had took the road less travelled by
perhaps she could still occupy my mind?
The wandering woman in white might walk
Across the frozen wastes, explore the vast
Hollow iceberg that contemplates myself.
But is she who she truly seems to be
Or just a shadow, not the one I dream.

Disarrono Chaser

The bottle runs dry – her hand is on mine,
musical notes played on the harp of her laugh.
Lips so close, only a moment apart
her warmth, her body, her hypnotic gaze
I know she’s mine, she must be mine.
The reigns pull tighter, why try to escape?
The moment lingers, the moment we touch
The lonely moment, a moment of love.
Or lust - I taste her, so sweet, so gentle,
Tongues dancing to a samba so sensual.
I am inside her, she’s in my soul
Her eyes close in passions powerful prose,
This is her art, her heart, all that she knows.
She gathers her things and walks out the room
I know this meant nothing -
nothing at all.