stolli

cheeky smelling men. cigar swappin lies. dayold women burping up stagnet skems. time for the daily special. twist cap sniffing bores, spiting and regergitating an old fond memory. snaffols from the dark back table of barflying princesses with their glossy nails and protruding noses. the faint squeek of the bar towel over the cigarete burned bar. his eye anciously awaiting the clock to tap twelve. the silent hose from the bottom of the stall, fallon around the ankle into the toliet swipe. a soft drunken murmor in the stagnet air. they wait in line to wipe their pritty white asses after pissing all over the toliet seat. decadent.
eye spy, for i, sipping a most poinent martini high above on the heaven lifted chair. feet so free to dangle, unable to touch the sticky floor. scents of NOLA as i inhale the thick rich of the smoke of my amber glowing cigar. tobacco tabs inhabit bits of the toung, too powerless to spit out. circular twists of the jaw, grinding the nicatine from jaw to vein, wicked. bartender, another of the same. the watery substance shaken, alcoholic bubbly....in vermoth, olive, and when no one is looking, a little dirty, for the dirty girl at the bar. thanks mister, but no thanks to the man at the end of the bar, as i slid my 20 at the poor tired bloke behind the alcohol prison. from glass to lip, toung slid back, thanks for the trouble, this ones on me, five er. times to presious to waste. crack of glasses, sliding down the velvety liquid to the back of the throat. time clocknow not in mind. later; tip toe out, giggle, giggle, open sky opened lungs to the stick of tobacco's essence....