Welsh Main

[Terrance]

Dave Monroe wrote:
> 
> "Both Gentlemen note, after a while, that the net
> motion of the Company is away from the Street-Doors
> and towards the back of the Establishment 

snip 





All reminds me of an old central market turned after hours. There one
could wager on cocks or pit bulls, a bloody business, purchase pleasures
for the flesh, miseries for the mind, numbing comforts for the soul, a
dance, a game of cards, chess, fortune.  In the hazy labyrinthine halls,
in the presumably infinite dens, there are the sons of Neptune (garbage
barge boatmen and ferryboat captains), sons of Pluto (Groundhogs and MTA
switchmen), Ironworkers, and Locals from every union shop: electricians,
carpenters
 men that would soon be back on the job sleepless and stoned.
And Ladies, skirts too short, heels to high, fat with the green climax
of night.  See them there hunched rollin dem bones.  Look, leathered
hulks with ZZ top beards, their Hogs cooling in the corners, tattooed
hands rolling a joint. Cackling hags, jail bait babies, cross dressed
cuties, crackling pipes
smoke mingling, cats curled on bar stools,
wounded dogs sleeping on ragged couches, talking birds, vampires white
as blow with pet chameleons or other reptilian-like things crawling on
their shoulders, well you get the idea
. 

But it's the Ferry, the Grim Ferryman that poets write about,  that
caught my eye. 

Where are these guys? At the Point of Departure? Porstmouth?  Hades?