Death of a Bartender

The always charming UDreamOfJanie is hosting a poetry contest this month. The selected subject (a poem from the dying lover’s point of view) is far too intriguing for me to pass up. Almost immediately I had a few ideas in mind, each looking for an orifice from which to make their escape.

Below is the first I've tapped to screen. Pending time and energy over the next day or two I'll expel the rest. And of course, once done I'll submit either the best or worst/crudest/shocking/shameful.


Death of a Bartender

I swear,
I knew not his bullet would pierce my spleen.
   I thought my hand quicker.

I fear,
We'll not meet amongst the burnt gardens I'll soon walk.
    Your garden is sure to be light as the sun above.

I cry,
That I will pleasure you no more.
    It is this that pleased me most.

I regret,
Dueling a man o'er spilt ale.
    The git spilt not one, but two!

Please dear husband,
Pour the bourbon, that my liver takes me 'fore this breaking
heart.
    It is a pain I cannot bear.

In posting the following selection (real poetry) I know I'm essentially wrapping my so-called poem above in deer skinned camouflage. But I can't help myself. Of Shakespeare's sonnets this has long remained one of my favorites; it also came to mind when I read UDoJ's given subject.

This particular sonnet, #130, is a unique take on a lover's attributes with an ever classic, "I'm just kiddinnnng!" at the end. Or at least an "I love you anyway, babe." Shakespeare being the genius s/he is however, does not write about the poet's subsequent grisly death. It's easily assumed however the mister (poet) was quickly dispatched by his mistress.

SONNET 130

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; 
Coral is far more red than her lips' red; 
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; 
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. 
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, 
But no such roses see I in her cheeks; 
And in some perfumes is there more delight 
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. 
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know 
That music hath a far more pleasing sound; 
I grant I never saw a goddess go; 
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: 
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare 
As any she belied with false compare.