Forgetting Emily in the Dens

 
Gina danced around the pole,
Hank Williams Jr. blasted through the speakers,
and the bourbon flowed freely into the glass;
 
I knew the owner, we once had fucked the same woman,
and he liked the poems I gave him written on cocktail napkins.
 
he watered me with Four Roses and Jim Beam;
every night I left petrified, unable to find my way back home.
 
thankfully, Gina (usually; sometimes, other women, whose
names have been lost in the roaring sea of time),
would sometimes come back with me.
 
the bus ride would sober me up and at 8am I’d
have to have some Wild Turkey to balance the
alcohol my then well-functioning liver could process.
 
she was exhausted most of the times, collapsing on my small, uncomfortable bed,
her gentle snoring the only music I needed to feel energized, drain some glasses,
and sit at the keyboard, commencing the dance that will never
get me anywhere, because my inspiration’s always been illegal substances,
lethal amounts of bourbon, and hard women that embrace their roughness.
 
never married her; never saved her from a life in underground strip joints;
never met her at an airport as she was about to leave the country broke
and heartbroken; we never lasted 11 minutes; it lasted months,
seconds, and lifetimes.
 
never 11 minutes; there was no inspiring tale behind it,
no grand love nor a glowing prince
to carry her to the glass palace where dreams come true
and happily ever after exists.
 
she was the hardcore princess of the dens, able to turn someone’s lights out
with one hard punch on the bridge of the nose; you did not want to get
kicked in the nuts by her, trust me.
 
she was there, couple of months after Emily was taken away by the
heartless spike. we didn’t last, as I’ve said, and we could have never lasted.
 
soon, I gave up on the den; the strippers didn’t do it for me,
nor drinking outside my tiny apartment. I bought bourbon from the drugstore
and drugs from Jenna. and that’s all there was to it; for years, glass-pipes
and bourbon bottles had been my sole true companions—one night stands,
periodical affairs, and summer flings could never amount to anything more
than a few stories, few lines, a couple of heartaches.
 
Emily was the true love, taken away
way too soon,
 
ever since her funeral, I’ve searched for the
right path to follow; and I found it in an
underground joint few people knew of,
 
and I’ve lost it. now,
I’m trying to regain those months,
in constant lookout for a new joint
with an owner that’ll appreciate dirty poetry
in moist napkins.