Alan Catlin has several new books in the works including a long series of noir movie poems concluding with three chapbooks in one book under the title Exterminating Angels from Kelsay for mid-year 2022. he also has two chapbooks coming soon as well: Satan’s Kiss from Gutter Snob ad Dream Rider from Orchard Street Press.
“Don’t put on any airs
When you’re down on Rue Morgue Avenue….”
– Bob Dylan
If they had a name these guys would be called, The Dead Before Death Gang. All of them aging badly, an average of two ex-wives, three point one kids. All of them on probation, or just off for no support paid, driving without, driving under the influence of, the whole nine yards. All of them thought they could have been contenders, would have made the team if it weren’t, could have had that job but, would have married the girl they really loved if only. All of them living fill in the blanks lives, lists of if onlys like posted legal notices in newspapers, their lives foreclosed long before the fat lady sang, the time clock expired, the summons was handed over. All of them knew every process serving trick in the book, had even invented a few themselves when they were on the hook for a job and nothing else was available. Washing dishes was for wetbacks and they weren’t going there no matter how bad it got, could never be that desperate. The stuff they wouldn’t do, hated worse than their lives, could fill volumes, Buy them a shot and a beer and they’ll be glad to recite the whole list.
12 Hour Shift
“Always do sober what you said
you’d do drunk.
That will keep your mouth shut.
Each morning the same: waking hard, cold whiskey in a glass, sipped straight down, sometimes two, anything to stop the shaking, to quell the voices no one else can hear, the ones that make dreaming a desolation row of empty bars and empty glasses, dead men and women clamoring for one more chance at last call, nightmares and horror shows, every place more empty than the last, panic rooms with no way out, worn bodies and stripped spirits, the ones in a glass and the ones inside. Four ounces down and staying there. This time. Hands steady. For now. Punch a clock, pull a beer, face the day. A drinker’s work is never done.
Bar Guides for the Seriously Depraved
They must stay up nights thinking up stupid cocktails to foist off on the young and impressionable. Cynical shit, made with stuff that doesn’t go together, like: Gin, Vodka, Rum and Rye. Partial shots of each, topped off with Irish crème and stirred, served as a shooter and given gross names with sexual connotations, knowing full well that the name will sell the drink and all they will taste is Irish crème until they chuck it all up. None of the names will turn up in an over-the-counter bar guide: Bloody Orgasms, Blow Jobs, Blow Jobs with Extra Tongue, Purple Jesus Motherfuckers. Cumshots, we call them in the trade, and I’m willing to bet there is some slick, greasy, smartass fuck in NYC who’s taking all the credit for inventing the trend. If there is, and someone finds him: this Between the Eyes with a Silver Bullet is for him.