Black Rebel Motorcycle Club ASK iAN * THE BAR THAT WOULD NOT DIE

Ask iAN

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    NO SMOKING a law made by rich wrinkles who hated the small joys of the poor at places of warmth and Laws were meant to be broken so we pissed on that Law as the smoke clung to our clothes like a slag on coke during a knob suck frenzy i was feeling San Angeles and very Los Francisco Surrounded by Uncle Harold Hard Ons sea horse breast piss hurried hunters homophobic redneck dance queers Christmas lube lights and the front lip of the bar was covered in loose strands of any number of drinker's skull hair the kind of bar that welcomes dogs, tracheotomy cigarette necks, road brutes, Leprosy handshakes, sentimental sweater huggers, diaper huffers, motley motorcycle mammies, and velveteen screwballs like myself We had a jukebox without Limits with an internet electric brain...all you have to do is thunk up a tune and type that bastard's name in the face of the machine and it spat out the tune upon impact On the dance floor or in the shitter we shat out our angst, pissed out all stress, heaved our daily manners against the wall of shame...which would be the mirror...and we cry about our Mothers, get drunk face patriotic, as the footballers work their muscles and bash helmets on the batshit nuts monitor, and somebody burns a fresh cigarette burn into someone's neck wrinkle... girlfriend's leave taxicabs come and go the snow outside is worthless as we are warm where the christmas lights flicker off our foggy faces Human Jackles indeed as the memories of the dead good times are called out by morose juke music held by a stranger and it's just as warm as a family blanket the poor understand the poor if only the rich gave that many shits the poor cup the poor because that's all that is left to do and it's a resurrection rekindling of hope set a flame all over again... The Cops don't bother to fag with us we'd all just chip in a Franklin and pay the filthy un American fine anyway...just simple freak PWR This bar full of voters and folks too drunk to roll in the folly of structured and rigged politics, nobody with any interest in the devil...and Hell would only be a rerun of a picture show we already know All Too Well It warms the Heart to talk about all the old dead war torn bar boys and it Rips the Mind to think about all the 20 something old boys who never got to hit the bar for a cocksuck, a fist-fight and a cold swallow of bubbled piss cause they were clamped for eternity in an iron lung at V.A. Hospital It Warms the Heart to talk of forgotten bars that gave up the ghost under pre-ordained bad economic policies This Bar and it's tear stained floor, tear stained tables tear stained atmosphere Where God itself is cursed and honored and the poor buy other poor drinks even on a shit budget Smelling of light Grandma hairspray kindness, penny purses, dual personalites, grocery stores of the 50's...somehow soothing as a clean dark blue night going into morning, driving a white polished cadillac or a hearse seering and ah scorching towards a wake full of speckled black eyed lilacs... a San Francisco lazy evening solitude... Dead and Great unknown men's names emblazoned on bronze placards, nailed to the bar like beer every drink you take is a salute to a half forgotten and fallen celebrator of Life One Dollar bills nailed to the ceiling...proving the point that money floats away, or cannot be reached, or as a mimic of worry always hanging above our heads...better to split focus on the drink in front of ya In the middle of nowhere... We don't need or want Vegas The kind of bar that doesn't send you home broke and bruised of Heart... People that make sure you get a taxi and also pay attention to your woes... Poverty therapy No Jive No Bullshit No Law Where we remember those who came before us and their flaming Hearts The bar that would not die...the Apple of Mine Eye * Drinking down like Love that must slip through your fingers it's far more noble to lay those ghost to rest through slurring a tearful memory of all the Loss than to speak cold unheartened funeral fake speeches (eulogy) at rented funerary homes on cheap platforms... Here...Yes...We have ALL seen the Rain.     THANX TO JEFFREY LUCK LUCAS & NIKKI PRATCHIOS (photography)
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