A man at a bar.

 ACUTE SLEEP PARALYSIS DEMONS THAT LOOK MORE LIKE DEBT COLLECTORS THAN THE ANTI CHRIST, THEIR TARGETS CLOSER TO HELL THAN THE DEVIL, DISENGAGING IN DISENGENOUS WAYS TO SAVE FACE.

MOTORMOUTHS WITH TOXIC BEES IN THEIR PROVERBIAL BONNETS, NO TABOO, SLOWLY KILLING BRAINCELLS, BUT WITH A LASER EYE FOR BUMMING CIGS.

THE HUMAN ALLOPHONES IN ALL OF THEIR HYPOCRITIC, BUT ENDLESSLY CRITICAL MONOLOGUES, CHANGING COURSE CONSTANTLY ON THEIR SELF AGGRANDIZING VOYAGE OF NARCISSISM.

SPENDTHRIFTS WHO NIGHTLY GAMBLE ON THE DUTCH COURAGE RETURNING AMIDST ALCOHOLISM, LOOKING TO KICK THE HABIT IN DETOXIFICATION CENTRES IN THEIR DREAMS.

SILENT SUPERNUMERARIES PROPPING UP THE BAR, NURSING A HALF FLAT COKE MIXED WITH WATERED DOWN DOWN VODKA, SECRETLY SEEKING HOME COMFORTS AND A BOSOM TO COMATOSE IN.

IN IRONIC COWBOY HATS OVERCOME WITH HURRY SICKNESS, HAUNTED BY THE CLICK CLACK OF OFFICE KEYBOARD STROKES, NOW SHROUDED IN AN EROTIC DUSK, TEPEFIED AND FICTILE, LONGING FOR LIFE.

VINACEOUS HAM LIKE FACES, SWEATING JACTANCY AND INFERTILITY, DESTINED TO SOON BE PRECEDED BY A CARTOUCHE, WITH RUPTILE OPINIONS FLOWING FREELY IN BETWEEN SIPS FROM PINTS OF WARM GUINNESS.

AND ME, A MAN AT A BAR.

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