Poems at a Bar

Poems at a bar, or the First AntiPoem of 2014, or Free Verse and his family

One dull night,
A pretty damn boring sight,
In a murky musty pub,
Free Verse was having a drink with Sonnet.
They waited up for Blank Verse and see how he was holding up.
They had recently buried Limerick deep underground,
Alongside Grandfather Epic,
And were mourning and moaning over his loss.
Haiku couldn’t visit the pub though,
He was in his hometown, glorifying it like a good patriot.
While Diamante waited up with Ballad back home
Who was too morose to even take a drink,
And refused to partake in such a mundane act,
That was boozing it up like a competition
Between a Russian, a Mexican, an Irish, a half Cuban half Puerto Rican,
And an alcoholic tree.
(Vodka, Tequila, Stereotype, and Rum. Bacardi vs Don Q)

So they start talking and whatnot,
Immediately after Blank Verse enters,
Remembering good writers and whatnot.
(I used whatnot twice. Eat it.)
Suddenly Free Verse was commenting on Sonnet’s attire.
Calling him antiquated and ancient.
Sonnet could not have that, so he called Free Verse a buffoon
Who could not reach his level of culture,
And for promoting a daft musicality,
Especially a certain man, who named himself,
After a breed of dog that has a genetic disorder
Used in bets and brawls.
(no offense to the dog, but it reflects how retarded the man is)

And Blank Verse tried to remedy the situation.
Recalling that it didn’t matter as long as they tried their hardest
And were the peak of effort and sweat.
And Free Verse, noting the gray hairs on Blank Verse
Told him of how spry and lithe he was,
In comparison to now aged Blank Verse.
(and he wasn’t comparing him to some fine cheese or something)
Then Blank Verse was indignant, and left.

And Sonnet and Free Verse were just bitch slapping themselves silly
All night long until the wee hours of dawn.
And ass that giant gas of hydrogen and death
Peaked up its head-body over the Earth,
In came the hero of this faux ballad:

He came from Latin America,
With the knowledge of a thousand sages,
But the attitude of a rebellious teenager
And grabbed Sonnet by his shoulders
And told him:

“Grandpa, everybody loves you.
You may be old as fuck
But you are still cool.
You are immortal,
And you got Bill to blame for that
Remember, he’s a sellout,
Just like Free Verse
And just like you.
But that doesn’t make you all the less cool.
I love you grandpa.
And I’m not just saying that to get extra cash on Christmas Day.
Though that would be nice.”

Sonnet smiled.

And Hugged his little barbarian
“You may be uncouth and unclean. But you are such a genius.
You are a good grandson.
Now, go talk to your father
He has issues.”

And AntiPoem said:
“Sorry, no more talking.
I’m AntiPoem, I don’t talk
I shit on people’s faces.”

And So Antipoem closed in and punched Free Verse.
Slapped him with a stick,
And shoved his foot up his ass
(In order to clear up any confusion, just recall that Free Verse is the one having his ass
handed to him
On a silver, blood stained platter)
And while Free Verse was on the ground
Antipoem said:
You changed everything, you…
You were my hero,
So defiant,
But so smart.
Look at you! Look at what you’ve let yourself become!
Now you are a shadow of your former self,
With small bouts of genius ideas,
All in a conglomerate of high paying excrement.
And AntiPoem beat up his father once again.
And left off with his grandfather.
The end.

Look, I know Free Verse,
He’s a good friend of mine.
But lately, he deserved that arse kicking.
I know he is trying
But he is caught up with being famous
He forgot what got him that fame.
Style does not mean idiocy.
And hopefully he can be as cultured as he used to be some day.
I know he can still do good.
Let’s remind him, shall we?

Contributor: Jose Porrata

Copyright © 2014 Jose Porrata. All Rights Reserved.


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