Butter Up Your Rigamarole

It was yesterday today. I stood in the jacuzzi of ancient power awaiting the first cleansing illumination of the blue sun, pondering the engulfing waterspout that birthed skyward and the sound of seafoam smashing the shore blew apart in a misty caress. My ears lingered on the fade out fizz of dissipating life. It sounded like the soothing whisper of a reassuring lover. "Shhhhhh."  A ghost. These pillars look like deformed arthritic fingers. A blue sun gives off a cool heat but the tingle of the fountain of youth drying on drinking skin still feels like sex. Don't drop the soap, asshole. Don't intend on dead breath while crooked smirk lips part in pandering enthusiasm. 

Don't remember how long it took me to notice. Time is like hummingbirds wings. Plucked out was my left eye on the altar. Sacrifice. A gift given to receive an ultimate awareness of self. More dichotomy. Lovely. A rainbow defecates gold on the world as the leprechaun kicks your shins while dancing. Woke up sleep drunk. I beat the answer out of a patron and released his soul from his girth fur shell. He roared, "It's somewhere in Deninbrass." The son of a bitch was a talking bear.

The bar is littered with the cracked shells of misfortune cookies. It's Just Not Your Day. The missing eye still sees. Surrounded by rich pricks and gorgeous voluptuous women looking for an easy break. They all smile. Not genuine though. Brittle bodies with ugly messages inside. Crack one open and find out. Nah. Not interested. It'd be like kicking an old dog because it's an old dog.  And I don't prey on the defenseless. Besides, they enjoy my company but don't want to admit it. My favorite look on their faces is the mixture of fuck me lust and embarrassment verging on pity.

I strike hard on the bar top and grind, a pestle and mortar fist, feeling the gravel crush of the patisserie liar. My face stays cold unemotional. My heart yawns with boredom. The Joke Is On You. Pour me another you side-mouthed silver tongue bastard of a barkeep and this time keep your slimy trunk nose off the bottle and out of my ass. Smells like pine and cedar in here but not up there. Someone strike up a tune and tickle those keys. Let's have a reverie. Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da, life goes on, Brah. My drink arrives. It's a martini glass half filled with whiskey and sure as shit, alleviating my chagrin, my missing eye swims in it like a cobra. Hello old friend. We're off to Deninbrass tomorrow. It was yesterday today.