I wrote this over the course of a few hours, adding a few lines every so often, while stoned & drunk in Amsterdam. I haven't edited it in anyway, so forgive the spelling mistakes and lack of proper structure. I thought it'd be cool to see where Daniel's head goes when intoxicated.
The title is a tribute to a bar called "Bourbon Street" in a back street of Amsterdam.
"Bourbon Street"
Odd cobbles cover the ground
blackened teeth of the space below
The Devil is near
is here
is in the bottom
of your pipe.
He lurks in the steamy sewers,
crawl through the gutter
to his foul establishment.
In every pill, pipe &
prostitute pussy he waits.
Ready to greet you,
beat you and swipe your
leather wallet.
Perched like a raven
on that ripped bar-stool
he waits. A Marlboro
pinched between his middle
and index, his wrist
limp with lathargic style.
Knees bent, money spent,
fuck the rent.
All in black with
that burgundy tie - an inch
wide, wider than he's willing
to give.
Cuban heels curled
around that ricketty stool,
a half empty
Bourbon on a tattered green
bar mat.
5 o'clock shadow 24 hours
a day. This is the only
shadow this bastard possesses.
Make a bet, sell your
soul for the price of
a fat whore's service.
Roll the dice, stubb the
butt, slam the drink,
leave the bar.
The wind beats you raw.
The ice tricks your
feet, grab the frozen
lamp post. A silhouette
hunched in the
pseudo-warmth of its
golden glow.
Eyes bloodshot, knuckles
blistered, smile sharper than
the complimentry razor in the
dive he passes out in.
She's had her eye
locked on him for days.
Her sniper-scope vision.
A pack of fags and a
bourbon - no ice. Never any ice.
How he slowly - methodically -
raised that cigarette up to
his lips, sucked it in with
lacrymose eyes, out of the
nose like a dragon, and
then a drop of the
wrist to the dented, tin
ashtray. It captivated
her. So simple, so dark,
always the same.
She was falling for
him. The Nameless Wino in
the corner. On that bar stool,
his back to the jukebox.
All Jazz & Blues.
He liked it there. No-one
bothered him. No-one dared
or cared.
The pasly wallpaper went up
decades ago, now it's
peeling off like the skin
of a leprosy victim.
Candle-lit lamps are clamped
around the walls. Murky
lights in a tobacco induced
fog.
The Usuals are deflated or
shaking in the same old
wooden chairs. Scratched &
wounded from years of
abuse. All men with lost
loves, broken families, and
wasted lives. They search
for the way back into the
past at the bottom of their
glasses.
This dive was once the
pumping heart of the street
it sits on, now it's
dying like a waning
cancer patient.
Its inhabitants are the
tumors, but if it wasn't
for them, it'd be dead a lot quicker.
Catch-22 with 14 usuals.
Not dedicated, just too lazy
to try their luck anywhere
else. Not many
bartenders would put up
with the shit Quentin
does, and has for
a very long time.
The bar brawls have
now become sqwabling
matches with the occasional
right-hook. This is the
only excitement he ever
gets. If it wasn't
for those sons of
bitches, he would've hung
himself just like his wife
did 7 years prior.
But with a name like
Quentin, suicidal
thoughts are a regular
occurance. They have been
for nearly all of his miserable
52 years of his lonely life.
The barmaid - Lucy - is
an old bike. Every pink-nosed
pervert has had a ride on
Lucy. Every one of them on
this side of town anyway.
Buy her a few large
white russians and she'll
gargle your lust-juice behind
the rubbish bins around the
back of the bar.
Vernon would curl himself
over the piano by the
door, tapping at the
keys. On the rare instances
when the door would be
opened and the wind
would blow in, he'd shiver
and start to play
"Unforgettable" by Nat King Cole.
It's the only one
he could remember.
[In "The 'Dam Diary", I drew a little picture of a glass of Bourbon,
an ashtray with a lit cigarette and a stubbed out cigarette.]
It was a Tuesday night,
the coffee-stain moon
shone through
the greasy windows.
A shadow of Vernon's
unconscious body propt up
on the piano was cast
on the sticky floor.
Lucy was drunk and flirting
with each of the usuals, her
blouse almost entirely open,
her big, sagged tits
on show.
Quentin was pouring over
the account books behind
the bar, fighting back the
tears. It was all slipping
away from him.
The door opening like a bodily
joint in an early morning daze.
In he strolled, stonewash jeans
with folded bottoms, worn-down
black cowboy boots, a white
shirt & grey suede jacket.
His hair was bushy and unclean,
like a farmer's hound. An untidy,
maroon beard clung to his lips
and chin.
His eyes were small and tired.
Desperation hid behind them.
He made it to the bar, ordered
a scotch, and sat down.
Nothing out of the ordinary, apart
from the fact that a stranger
was in the bar. An alien amongst
alcoholics.
Vernon, now awake from a cold shiver,
slowly tapped the keys in that
unforgetable order. He knew
something wasn't right.
Lucy sauntered over to him, her
chest pumping up & down with
excitement at the prospect of
fresh meat.
A quick line, show her interest.
He glances at her, smiling slightly
at her drunken state. She thinks
she's so sexy.
Another flirtatious line. This time
he laughs - in her dreams. But
Lucy doesn't have dreams. Just
vivid nightmares.
She tries to playfully
run her fingers around
his neck. He twitches
and moves away from her.
She's drawn blood. He
rubs his neck, she tries
to comfort him - apologise.
He pushes her away, and
she loses her balance.
Screams, shouts, uncharacteristic noise.
Quentin hadn't been paying
attention until now. He didn't
say anything, he just looked
up from his additions,
subtractions, and debts.
Lucy was really shouting
now. Questioning the stranger's
sexuality, like a true
scorned slut. The stranger
was getting irritable, Vernon
had been reduced to rhthymatically
hitting a solo key, him
in the corner by the
jukebox just casually stared
like he knew what was
coming.
Lucy started hitting him now.
Thudding at his back,
screaming out insults to
him. He soon started
hitting her hands away,
thwacking down angry birds.
She got more and more
angry. The violence and
tension growing, burning
up the place.
Then he just snapped.
And a swift left-hook
to her jaw and she was
down. He bent over her,
pummeling her, stomping on
her flabby stomach.
She screamed, begged, cried
for mercy. Vernon huddled
deeper next to the piano,
still playing that same key,
shying away from the brutal
scene in front of him.
The usuals looked on
in disbelief and primal
excitement. It was something
new, fresh, exhillarating.
No-one knows how long it
was before Quentin jumped
in and stopped the stranger
from killing Lucy. Perhaps he
thought she had had enough,
or he was just as
blown away by it like the
usuals?
The stranger swiftly
left, leaving Lucy nearly
dead in a pool of vomit,
saliva and blood. She was
unconscious but still breathing.
As Quentin went to call for
an ambulance, over in the
corner, the man by the
jukebox sucked on his Marlboro.
Perched on his bar stool, cigarette
inbetween his middle & index, he
looked over at what was
left of Lucy, and with a
dead face he said:
"Well, I didn't expect that."
The title is a tribute to a bar called "Bourbon Street" in a back street of Amsterdam.
"Bourbon Street"
Odd cobbles cover the ground
blackened teeth of the space below
The Devil is near
is here
is in the bottom
of your pipe.
He lurks in the steamy sewers,
crawl through the gutter
to his foul establishment.
In every pill, pipe &
prostitute pussy he waits.
Ready to greet you,
beat you and swipe your
leather wallet.
Perched like a raven
on that ripped bar-stool
he waits. A Marlboro
pinched between his middle
and index, his wrist
limp with lathargic style.
Knees bent, money spent,
fuck the rent.
All in black with
that burgundy tie - an inch
wide, wider than he's willing
to give.
Cuban heels curled
around that ricketty stool,
a half empty
Bourbon on a tattered green
bar mat.
5 o'clock shadow 24 hours
a day. This is the only
shadow this bastard possesses.
Make a bet, sell your
soul for the price of
a fat whore's service.
Roll the dice, stubb the
butt, slam the drink,
leave the bar.
The wind beats you raw.
The ice tricks your
feet, grab the frozen
lamp post. A silhouette
hunched in the
pseudo-warmth of its
golden glow.
Eyes bloodshot, knuckles
blistered, smile sharper than
the complimentry razor in the
dive he passes out in.
She's had her eye
locked on him for days.
Her sniper-scope vision.
A pack of fags and a
bourbon - no ice. Never any ice.
How he slowly - methodically -
raised that cigarette up to
his lips, sucked it in with
lacrymose eyes, out of the
nose like a dragon, and
then a drop of the
wrist to the dented, tin
ashtray. It captivated
her. So simple, so dark,
always the same.
She was falling for
him. The Nameless Wino in
the corner. On that bar stool,
his back to the jukebox.
All Jazz & Blues.
He liked it there. No-one
bothered him. No-one dared
or cared.
The pasly wallpaper went up
decades ago, now it's
peeling off like the skin
of a leprosy victim.
Candle-lit lamps are clamped
around the walls. Murky
lights in a tobacco induced
fog.
The Usuals are deflated or
shaking in the same old
wooden chairs. Scratched &
wounded from years of
abuse. All men with lost
loves, broken families, and
wasted lives. They search
for the way back into the
past at the bottom of their
glasses.
This dive was once the
pumping heart of the street
it sits on, now it's
dying like a waning
cancer patient.
Its inhabitants are the
tumors, but if it wasn't
for them, it'd be dead a lot quicker.
Catch-22 with 14 usuals.
Not dedicated, just too lazy
to try their luck anywhere
else. Not many
bartenders would put up
with the shit Quentin
does, and has for
a very long time.
The bar brawls have
now become sqwabling
matches with the occasional
right-hook. This is the
only excitement he ever
gets. If it wasn't
for those sons of
bitches, he would've hung
himself just like his wife
did 7 years prior.
But with a name like
Quentin, suicidal
thoughts are a regular
occurance. They have been
for nearly all of his miserable
52 years of his lonely life.
The barmaid - Lucy - is
an old bike. Every pink-nosed
pervert has had a ride on
Lucy. Every one of them on
this side of town anyway.
Buy her a few large
white russians and she'll
gargle your lust-juice behind
the rubbish bins around the
back of the bar.
Vernon would curl himself
over the piano by the
door, tapping at the
keys. On the rare instances
when the door would be
opened and the wind
would blow in, he'd shiver
and start to play
"Unforgettable" by Nat King Cole.
It's the only one
he could remember.
[In "The 'Dam Diary", I drew a little picture of a glass of Bourbon,
an ashtray with a lit cigarette and a stubbed out cigarette.]
It was a Tuesday night,
the coffee-stain moon
shone through
the greasy windows.
A shadow of Vernon's
unconscious body propt up
on the piano was cast
on the sticky floor.
Lucy was drunk and flirting
with each of the usuals, her
blouse almost entirely open,
her big, sagged tits
on show.
Quentin was pouring over
the account books behind
the bar, fighting back the
tears. It was all slipping
away from him.
The door opening like a bodily
joint in an early morning daze.
In he strolled, stonewash jeans
with folded bottoms, worn-down
black cowboy boots, a white
shirt & grey suede jacket.
His hair was bushy and unclean,
like a farmer's hound. An untidy,
maroon beard clung to his lips
and chin.
His eyes were small and tired.
Desperation hid behind them.
He made it to the bar, ordered
a scotch, and sat down.
Nothing out of the ordinary, apart
from the fact that a stranger
was in the bar. An alien amongst
alcoholics.
Vernon, now awake from a cold shiver,
slowly tapped the keys in that
unforgetable order. He knew
something wasn't right.
Lucy sauntered over to him, her
chest pumping up & down with
excitement at the prospect of
fresh meat.
A quick line, show her interest.
He glances at her, smiling slightly
at her drunken state. She thinks
she's so sexy.
Another flirtatious line. This time
he laughs - in her dreams. But
Lucy doesn't have dreams. Just
vivid nightmares.
She tries to playfully
run her fingers around
his neck. He twitches
and moves away from her.
She's drawn blood. He
rubs his neck, she tries
to comfort him - apologise.
He pushes her away, and
she loses her balance.
Screams, shouts, uncharacteristic noise.
Quentin hadn't been paying
attention until now. He didn't
say anything, he just looked
up from his additions,
subtractions, and debts.
Lucy was really shouting
now. Questioning the stranger's
sexuality, like a true
scorned slut. The stranger
was getting irritable, Vernon
had been reduced to rhthymatically
hitting a solo key, him
in the corner by the
jukebox just casually stared
like he knew what was
coming.
Lucy started hitting him now.
Thudding at his back,
screaming out insults to
him. He soon started
hitting her hands away,
thwacking down angry birds.
She got more and more
angry. The violence and
tension growing, burning
up the place.
Then he just snapped.
And a swift left-hook
to her jaw and she was
down. He bent over her,
pummeling her, stomping on
her flabby stomach.
She screamed, begged, cried
for mercy. Vernon huddled
deeper next to the piano,
still playing that same key,
shying away from the brutal
scene in front of him.
The usuals looked on
in disbelief and primal
excitement. It was something
new, fresh, exhillarating.
No-one knows how long it
was before Quentin jumped
in and stopped the stranger
from killing Lucy. Perhaps he
thought she had had enough,
or he was just as
blown away by it like the
usuals?
The stranger swiftly
left, leaving Lucy nearly
dead in a pool of vomit,
saliva and blood. She was
unconscious but still breathing.
As Quentin went to call for
an ambulance, over in the
corner, the man by the
jukebox sucked on his Marlboro.
Perched on his bar stool, cigarette
inbetween his middle & index, he
looked over at what was
left of Lucy, and with a
dead face he said:
"Well, I didn't expect that."
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