Whale

Sitting at a bar, and here, and in this place I'm Sharing the bar with other magic city moths who came to this show, hoping to be entertained, hoping for the warmth, if only fleeting, before we bounce off the screen and try again. And I'm the gargoyle, Anchored hard to the stool, ankles locked, looking out, but thinking in. A smoke chandelier hangs above my head, churning like a storm. You could cut it with a cake knife. The smoke here is even too tired to leave. My friends and I are too tired, too bored to speak to each other. Starting a conversation between us, about as meaningful as a fake yawn. My eyes are a unsleepy tired, and they rest on the pillows below my eyes. And everyone else has this socketed look.
I rip the labels off my beer and make crude tiny pictures of them. Dicks. Handguns. Tits. All displayed on the canvas of my sweating bottle, pasted on with condensation. I steal glances but wish I could give them back. Theres a woman, she aggressively stands beside me, on me, screaming in her "I know you" voice to her casual acquaintance of a bartender. Grinding her hip and the side of her breast against my shoulder. I don't want this weight, and I'm invaded once again, and i'm sure my beer is warmer than her. I try to lean. I stare out into space, twirling the whiskers on a weak mustache. You really have to get your nails under it. But in, I'm really thinking about smashing my pint on her head..public shaming. I bow my knee outward, to press against her thigh, in a futile attempt to make her just as uncomfortable, to invade her space.
Do you think, god forbid, shes attracted to you and making it known, or
Do you think, maybe she sees you as so much of a nothing that she can lean against you as she would the corner of the bar? Are you the statue everyone takes a funny picture beside? What a devil. She's Attractive and nasty. Her voice propels through centuries of bar patrons' disgust.
Across the bar, reptilian eyes focus on her, wondering if they could have her.
But they don't know her,
not like I do.
And I carry a stronger emotion for her, than any other suitor could offer.
Pure hate.
With little attention from the busy bartender, she pulls out a piece of plastic and talks to it. Her voice, a trashy Old South abomination. Haughtily, she bears down every sentence with a drawn out weeeell.
Whale, Whale, Whale,
Wha-el'
Everyone tells me girls in the south are the most beautiful in the country. Shapely and doe-eyed, and The accent, that accent, is the charm. But hers is overdone, molded over, fell off the tree, filled with yellowjackets, and caustic. It makes your bones itch.
She puts on her lips, a 120 mm cigarette. Like a white scepter, it crashes down hard to hit every syllable, I feel sorry for who is on the other line and has to take that beating.
A 120mm howitzer, hollow smoken rifled tube. I wonder who she's wounding, she's a gun dressed up for costume ball, spinning and dancing around but everyone's ducking. I wonder if she knows she's a gun, and if she is, I doubt she cares, because nothing that empty has a conscience. I'd take no power in having that in my hands.