@MattAbbottPoet

@MattAbbottPoet
Image © Copyright Amy Charles Media 2014

28 May 2015

Slim Jim's Liquor Store


Slim Jim's Liquor Store:
a "masterful purveyor of good times,"
by all accounts.

A jukebox bar
with red cracked leather stools,
old brick walls
and neon lightning.

A young rockstar
with dread stacked never fools
the boys with the bottles,
and all required remedies.

Bras on the ceiling
exchanged for the fizz.
An open door policy
to all who like it
hard and fast.

Far from the feeling,
strange though it is,
that down those darkened
steps outside
is Islington, 2009.


During that last hour of CBT
you were played three times
by the BBC.
And texts fly through
to a phone on the blink,
as the Tiger
greets
the afternoon departure.

An awkward glance
from your housemate Chris
says it's far too soon
for the Bombay bliss;
a perplexed sigh soon says
"let the fucker drink",
amidst wider
scenes
of determined debauchery.


Hours pass by
and the mood improves.
Don't try and talk
to the girls in the booth;
you're on Jim's time now,
this is voluntary confinement:
collisions with reality
are always best at bay.

L.A. Woman,
Light My Fire,
play it dumb and
fight desire;
Back Door Man,
Break On Through,
Mr Mojo
may construe...

No natural light,
no clocks:
no clue.
A finger down the throat
says you'll last
'til two.
Back Door Man,
Break On Through,
Mr Mojo
may construe...


A wallet stuffed
with customer copies
of card receipts.

A clammy forehead.
Eight missed calls.


Slim Jim:
a masterful purveyor
of good times...
...the best.




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