Amalgam of the Damned

It was not the kind of place
you'd really want to be in:
even when they 'did it up'
they kept the same stained carpet.
One-eyed Jacques
(no one knew his real name)
stood,
kept his drink close
and people at a distance,
unable as he was
to take in anything
with any real depth.
The scattering of old men sat,
mostly silent,
their lives and wives gone,
too tired now to be bitter
though that's what they drank.
June was there, 
glazed as she was,
with her crepe paper décolletage,
her obsession with the King:
she'd show you her tattoo
before you could say
no thanks,
sing with her broken voice
the only songs she'd ever allowed
to mean anything.
And the barman,
nicotine-yellow he said,
cirrhosis to anyone else who'd cared
but nobody did,
nor did they want the caution.
Once a day, the pack
with more years ahead than behind
would stumble in:
cheap food and booze their magnet,
they brought their excitement with them.
The patron sinners,
as the barman called 
his only source of familiarity,
looked on, confused,
reminded as they were
of something they'd never had.
June loved this kind, uncaptivated audience
to share her same stories with each time,
while Jacques' resentment 
would build until
the smell of his fear 
was overpowering,
his incoherent mumblings
became shouted bouts of rants.
It was the kind of place,
surrounded by
nosy but uninterested parties,
to lose the one you loved
and find someone much worse,
where people lived their brightest days
in perpetual darkness.