Midnight Pub

Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of


Charlie Sheen says, “Coke Is It!”

And turns wild-eyed towards the projector

His palms splayed forth with endurant resolve

As he chugs his fifth Pepsi of the day

With an equal or greater level of endurant resolve

He and his friend Mel Gibson shoot the shit

In Gibson’s dilapidated trailer

Which he’s dubbed “the crack shack”

For reasons Sheen can only begin to formulate

And they recline languid on the remnants of movies long ago

“I am the best of bipolar and substance abuse!”

Sheen screams, his eyes protruding on their stalks

Every vein on his neck firmly pronounced

And Mel Gibson congratulates him on his bipolar greatness

And his ability to instantly switch from manic to depressive

“I have HIV,” Sheen admits, “But the world does not care.”

And Mel Gibson stands up and moves his hands to and fro

In a sort of unpredictable semaphore-esque pattern

Which calls to mind the great old means of communication

From mountaintop to hilltop and everywhere in between

“Coke is it and Applebees is where you can eat good!”

Sheen leaps to his feet and gutturally murmurs

Like Danny in the “Shining” film

“You cannot eat good most places, but Applebees is the exception!”

And the trailer echoes with their combined frivolity

“You just can’t stay out of trouble!” Gibson says.

“You are the little rascal of the big screen.”

Sheen nods and smiles, tapping his feet to the beat

Because he is a jolly boy in the big city

The city of dreams is the stuff that dreams are made of