beauty is in the eye of the beerholder

beauty is in the eye of the beerholder

 

you're looking at her there,

sitting across the bar

with a smile that could light

a thousand damp cigarettes

in the mouths of dead poets

and broken dreamers.

 

it's nearly 2 a.m.

and every bottle

is a telescope

into a universe

where she's a shimmering star

and you're just some slob

orbiting through the stale

smoke of your own nebula.

 

she's as lovely as the last round,

as hopeful as the jukebox

playing a love song

while the barkeep yells

that it's time to go home.

 

you know,

beauty's got a funny way

of twisting,

turning,

fading,

under the barlights,

hazy

like your thoughts,

like your resolve.

 

tomorrow, in the toothpaste spit

of a sober sunrise,

with a hangover that pounds

like a landlord on rent day,

you'll see it clearer–

 

beauty is a tricky thing;

you can't trust it

like a warm beer

or a cold woman.

 

it's just that tonight,

she's Aphrodite

and you're just a drunken

Homer, singing tales

to an empty shot glass.

 

you look again,

she winks

or maybe your eyes are just

blurry from the booze,

 

yeah, beauty is in the eye

of the beerholder,

but so is the monster

of a morning

and a memory

you'll try to outrun

with more beers

and more bars

filled with more false

goddesses.

 

just drink up, buddy.