Your Poetry Dot Com - One Night’s Encounters

I mooched a cigarette off a guy that said he wanted to invent underwater contacts,
and talked to another who loved the taste of beer.
I met a young man who thought there was no God,
then located his sister who lived constantly in fear.

I bumped into a miserably aged creature,
who couldn’t seem to find a job.
She spoke of her homeless brothers,
all of whom were lazy, filthy slobs.

Next, I met a fool of sorts,
who was intoxicated by Coke and Mount Gay.
He mentioned that he just stepped off a boat,
and had been out to sea for many-a-day.

I drank with a gangly looking fellow,
who appeared to be very high.
He jabbered about the woes of America,
the Vietnam war, and how he used to fly.

I also had a drink with a pretty girl,
who couldn’t have been the legal drinking age.
Her lips told of a mean boyfriend,
that often beat her with fists of rage.

From there, things got a little hazy,
as alcoholic conversations often do.
Intoxication answers many questions,
and brings up more than a few.

I recall speaking of 4 pecks equaling 1 bushel, the Carmelite nuns, plutocracy, and assertive mating.
There was talk about the Velvet Revolution, Mariana Trench, and Taft-Hartley Act.
Thoughts were revealed about the origin of fairy tales, weather control, and alphabetized seating.
We compared September 11 to Hiroshima & Nagasaki, revealed our love for Spanish style stucco,
wondered if the Surgeon General would ever place health warnings on food containers,
and then someone requested a song by a singer that I didn’t know.
A bum philosophized about bad words being bad only if you know what they mean.
Someone else questioned who decided the size of toilet paper squares,
while yet another said the rich don’t go to heaven, followed by something rather obscene.

I bumped into a man who was angry at all Indian mascots.
Then, on the way to the bathroom, I heard a midget talking about Punxsutawney Phil.
I urinated next to a man, who was signing the National Anthem,
then I went to the bartender, ordered another drink and paid my bill.

I encountered one final person,
who was sitting in the dark and all alone.
This grotesque man mentioned his meaning of life,
ending with a loud groan.

He said, “Drinking simply speeds up our death.
Since we waste all of our useless time,
might as well just be constantly drunk,
perform a slow-kind of suicide”

The next thing I remember,
here I am, lying in bed.
Six o’clock in the morning,
transcribing the couple hours before, while feeling almost dead.

You know, that grotesque man was completely right,
the true alcoholic really does understand.
Why live twenty extra years being bored and unhappy?
Just drift, in a drunken stupor, all the way to the very end.

This poem is Copyright ยฉ colfax