Barmaids. Fixing their face. One of these jerks could be The One. The Champagne of Bottled Beer. So they say. One of these jerks. One of these days. Rotate. The stools have fresh grease. Creaky with ass. With whispers Beer Loud. The Deal is it on is it on is it on? Their pistols are dicks. Ready like snakes. Ready to strike. Upping the stakes. Tomorrow. There’s a Line-Up. And the hope that no one breaks out in a sweat. These jerks. Point at their chests like squirrels. Their memories of Last Call are just that. First published by Rat’s Ass Review
top of page
Charlie Robert
Yoga Class. Tights. Ass. Glad We Got Our Senior Pass. (Glad We Brought Some Extra Cash) Namaste You Stunning Thing. Let Me See Your Luscious Bling. Let Me Be Your Silver Fox. Your Downward Dog’s A Par
Cold. Rotted Planks. Flanked By Piles Of Toys Armed With Dolls. Dead Eyes Smiling. Showing Teeth. Not Showing. What Lies Beneath. Sweat. Pulse. Sharp Smell Of Fear. The Dark Winter Night. The Rope Whe
There’s A Room In The Back. It’s The One That Prints Jack. The One That’s Front Loaded. The One Sugar Coated. Take The Fork In The Road. Take Your Pain A La Mode. Take Your Cue From Your Gods. Get Wha
bottom of page