Somewhere, in a sordid City, there is a small bar. It’s dark, but cosy, the lights soft and comforting
cast from the candles, and small paper lanterns dotted
around the room. The sound of a lone guitarist
in the corner
singing some inaudible
yet cheery drunken
song just above the murmur
of the patrons.
The clientele are in the warm relaxed
haze that mild intoxication brings.
Tobacco smoke lingers
in a grey-blue
cloud of coiled
mist just below the ceiling,
and the sound of unimportant
chatter fills the room.
In the corner,
a trio of men play cards on a small sticky table.
At the bar, the sandy haired barkeep
pretends to show an interest
in whatever his punters are saying. They don’t notice
his lack of enthusiasm; they are far too busy focusing on their own story. In another shady corner, two women try to disguise
their desire for one another
behind the guise of friendship,
pretending to themselves
and each other that to be anything
more would be wrong and their feelings
were unnatural and sinful, they were none the less happy that they were in each other’s company,
and would be for the next few hours.
In this pleasant
establishment, there is a back room. In this room there is a bed with tattered
red velvet drapes,
and old satin sheets, a horse hair sofa, and a woman.
From just in front of the window
there is a gas lamp shedding a soft glow into the room, on a table with a never used chess set. A slight
layer of dust rests on everything.
She has blond ringletted hair, mousy brown roots showing.
Her eye makeup
is smudged and tired looking.
Mascara uneven, lips the colour
of a deeply
bruised plum. She has on an off white night gown, her silhouette clearly
visible when the light was behind her. Machine made lace clinging
to the hem.
Most of the patrons of the bar knew of this woman,
and the services
she provided. Illegal
as it may have been, they said not a word, even too each other. Some nights, when she felt like it, and business
was slow, she would sing for them, accompanied by the drunken
guitarist, or someone
would play on the old out of tune piano.
She would sing popular songs of the day, or sometimes songs everyone could sing along too
She had been lying on the floor dead for less than an hour, the blood had pooled
all around her, framing her, crusting in her hair and clothes.
Her eyes had taken the frosted glaze of death.
A silvery trail of saliva
crystallising on the corner of her mouth.
Her hair was ruffled but the overall
look was none the less one of beauty, her cheap appeal
had now faded and in its place she had taken on the same unearthly beauty
as that of a weeping
angel, or martyred
saint.
This one is no way finished yet, I'm thinking of adding possibly her daughter crying in the corner, I'm not sure, tell me what you think!
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