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Last Call

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

Tastes like chicken but like everything else it’s not. The liver is Nagasaki. The lungs Hiroshima or Jesse James and Dear Old Death comes to us all but the quiver is fantastic. Like lips full of bees.

Sidemen crouch in stairwells. Waiting to make their move. Microphones hiss. Like snakes on the take. Parker crushes his smoke and Raises the Horn. This is a Gig Baby and the liquor is Top Shelf. Remem

The house smells of apples and hard cold water. Your dog whimpers in her dream chair. Rabbits pouring out of countless bushes. Easy pickings when you are still. Outside there are stars. Cold and brigh

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