poetry

blunt trauma

this isn’t my kind of bar
my teeth are crooked
blunt trauma
and my nose has been broken
from putting my face
through a windshield
the lady next to me
is fussing, nasally squealing
because her drink
has no olive
the glasses are clean
too clean
all the talk
the cacophonous din
deafening
is about dirty money
noisy money
rustling for attention
and none of these women
will dance on the bar tonight
none of these men
will fight out back tonight
the beer is good
tho–
whiskey is next
my thoughts, not yet slurring
maybe I’ll stay a bit
maybe one of these men
will fight me
out back
where the night
never speaks of defeat


slightly modified #oldstuff. I’ve been looking for this damn poem for a while. Found it.

Published by

Eric

I've come to write.

13 thoughts on “blunt trauma”

  1. I guess it makes me wonder why on earth the “narrator” is looking for a fight. I’d venture to guess nothing else is providing a thrill, and stagnation is imminent, that disillusionment is everywhere he’s looking in this bar and in himself- so he might as well engage in that primitive contest to feel alive.

    1. I’d venture a guess that everyone has their own take on a poem, its meaning(s), and why it was written. Sincerely, I appreciate you reading even if it wasn’t your thing. I hope you’re having a great Sunday.

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