A Swede, Samoan and Russian Walk Into a Bar

[oats]

there's a place silently sitting at the edge of Inferno
where the only straight line is through the bend of a wormhole
discrepancies manifest from what you thought was internal
exposing sins you keep hidden like the pop of a kernel
enter: 3 strangers from improbable corners
men of a hardened disposition, each honest as mortar
they harbor no apologies for the pawns of their scorn, but
in a place that takes no prisoners they gotta bond for its quarter

as they fall into order, they see the symmetry of vultures
streaks of Mars flit the sky releasing odors of sulfur
frozen as sculptures, confused they each hold to their culture
in hopes to ward off ghosts from this soulless sepulcher
the scavengers scatter suddenly in a smoldering rush
revealing a building underneath 'em, doors opening up and
soaking in rust, these 3 men - a Swede, Samoan and Russian
all walk into the bar...during Dystopian Dusk

inside reeked of erosional musk, seats cold to the touch
the men weren't saying much, still withholding their trust
in the corner of their corneas they notice a crutch
-the bartender enters looking older than dust
a gross limping mut, folded and hunched
his shoulders were slumped, stuck like the fucker bore the load of a truck
this shivering, sniveling, grotesque little runt
brittle, pale, skinny, frail...like he never ate a vegetable once
when he spoke he soaked them in cusses, releasing spit in a maelstrom
each tooth looking like Zeus had pissed on a hailstone
he stepped to the counter with a presumptuous snicker
polished 3 mugs and a pitcher and mumbled "wuhcanna gitcha?"

such a puzzling picture, but still awfully clear
stunned silence - he gets them vodka, vodka and beer
coughing, he smears saliva in the shots that he poured
and the lager of course...
mucus dripping out his nostrils as he snarls and jeers,
"none a ya belong here but I'm not whatchu fear,
it's hard to, believe me with my awkward appearance
I see yer scoffs n' yer leers, but the hard truth
is that whatcher most afraid of sits on top of these barstools."

the bartender backs away, the results will be epic
the Russian slams his shot, frustrated: "I don't get it."
they sat through another vacuum, the tension electric
until the Swede turned to his right and finally said it,
"that's because this isn't Tetris, I hope you're just acting dull
if not then fuck you and your curly-coned capitol."
the Russian yells at the Swede, drunk stumblin, "he's a bitch!"
and doles a thunderous pummeling till he's the color of Swedish Fish
"How's that concoction, Swedish Chef? Now who's talkin?!
Who wants next? Is it you, Dwayne 'The Blob' Johnson?"

the huge-skulled Sole chugs his mug until he reaches its churlish end
"better watch your tooth hole, uso, or you'll never say a word again...
...or be able to chew your food whole."
the vultures start circling, cheering in elegies
the two pugilists clench their fists - fearlessly, readily
but remember, never make Samoans your enemies,
especially one that comes from a drunken pedigree.
or one that lacks the integrity not to package you medically
you might handle him mentally...
but that's irrelevant when he settles to slam your back to a melody
and that's exactly what happened, he smashed his ass through the carpet
but the vultures got the last laugh when they devoured the carcass
no debate, the truth of who was stronger is known
but it was a useless ruse - now he must wander alone

go ahead, ponder a moment, and ponder it well
were they sauntering purgatory, or a model of hell?
...or Earth?
your worth isn't measured by how your arteries swell;
you won't defeat the sound of silence just by starting to yell
these cancerous cells told 'em they couldn't handle each other
but the truth lies (beneath vanity's rubble)
cuz the actual trouble was that they couldn't handle themselves