Beirupdate, T

Alone I pull pints and smash bottles to the roars of men like they’re watching football when T walks through the door in airport threads and tattoos. We shout smiles at each other across the bar and of a sudden no one matters beside Johnnie Walker and the twelve ounce glass I fill for him to the brim. I walk the length with Mexican gold and through the fug I watch T take celebrity like corpses to coffins. The next day together we walk downtown with M and V and drink smoothie martinis made with blood before Hariri mosque SS cloak the girls in black and dress down J for tonguing females on holy real estate. He splits with V and three of us visit neighbors for Lebanese brew and doodoo. T relates dropping three thousand rubs on a whore and doesn’t twitch when a monkey in Gemmayze says fifty for three drinks and I practice my arabic shouting pour it back pour it back in the fucking bottle and on my way to the concrete I pass punchbowls and pink gorillas lunging chicks to Korean pop and the strong men put arms across but let me pass from I work in a bar fuck you ana bsteghel bi bar and I didn’t fucking drink anything bchirib waleshi. M collects me from the curb and later claims she didn’t push me to the gents and didn’t ride me on the john and didn’t leek blood over my clothes and then she says there’s something called implantation bleeding so little Lyndon might be on his way for which T and I realize I’m beiruining my life. As the last drops fall from the empty cloudless sky a small boy reaching up his hand with a rose asks me if such a thing were possible for valentines. I take the flower and bite its head off while staring into his eyes and pouring crimson wax on M’s wrist. Alone again T and I pour double black like revolutionaries down our throats as though willing toward the dead zone so much so the karaoke barstaff throw the paper upon which we write radiohead creep dickhead. Resting fails so we feel fresh whiskey for a morning meal all golden in the glass like a syrup grail glazing our eyes and minds like girls. We learn Hamra means red so that’s where we hit for all you can drink poliakov and it’s almost written off when a native gives me tobacco mixed with something else he refuses to name but we dance with chairs and neck from tequila optics and the night is gone long before the warehouse where wolves and happies waltz to euphoric generica and hipster heavies tell J he can’t do that with his girl and shirt in the sky and a killer line do you even lift bro that everyone but us finds unfunny but it’s irrelevant when a hundred people jump to time and monster eggs kettle the crowd. And so we send T away with eggshells in his hair and the faces of brunette shakiras knowing that for four nights we bloom minds.