with friends like me...

by A.g. Synclair

my drinking buddy
got piss drunk
lost
his erection
his desire to fuck
and his dinner
before
passing out
and hitting the floor
with a dull
sickening thud.

so we drank his Jack
his convulsions
made me queasy
but she
smelled like sex
and he
wasn't dead
so I grabbed the bottle
put my hand
between her legs
and led her to my room.

On A Poetic Roll

by A.g. Synclair

I tell myself
enjoy this while it lasts
because it never does.

I write a poem a day
I publish a poem a day
for fourteen consecutive days.

My publishing credits
are getting impressive
my journal is loaded

with prose, hand written
in #2 pencil
and the chicks dig it.

But fourteen
letters of acceptance
from fourteen

different rags
can give a guy
a big head.

So the next rejection letter
will surely come
from a

brainless fuck
who doesn't get me
the way

fourteen
brilliant editors
did before.

Rant In A Bar

by A.g. Synclair

Dumb Bitch
bars are meant for drinking,
not texting.

In better days,
men would come here
to talk of books, and life,
and women, and sport.

Men of letters would cry,
and drink, and smoke,
and write in filthy notebooks
with curled up edges

on cocktail napkins
and matchbook covers
that became novels,
and stories, and poems.

Wisdom borne of Scotch and Bourbon,
The Brooklyn Dodgers, and
not a frilly umbrella drink in sight.