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King Panda Feb 2016
I was flying home from Denver
and the man next to me ordered 3 double vodkas
slipping the stewardess a hundred bucks
by the end of the flight he was asking me
to come home with him
he had a sheepskin bed throw
that would keep us perfectly warm
this chill winter night
I refused
called him a drunk freak
and giggled when he stumbled down the escalator
and split a **** in his forehead
that cracked like
like Easter
smothered in chocolate frosting
Zulu Samperfas Jan 2013
because it's been quite a day
and then I hope my memories will just slide away
no one likes insults
no one likes low blows
it's like bandages in your nose
so gross
so just leave them there is a pile
in the wreckage I call work
one road was wrong
but I was a coward and so I stayed on
afraid to incur someone's wrath
I took myself to task
Until another order
from a higher plane
made me have to change
and i had to drive through that blast all the same
but offending high, or offending low
I guess it's low or it's no go
and then I went threw those flames
and how she cursed my name
and how I fear what she'll do
i wish I could work with someone new
but I have to let it go
i've done my best and so
I have to leave it there
like a sleeping cat on my favorite chair
there won't be twenty vodkas,
they'd offset my chakras
naw, i can't do that
i can just. let it go. leave it at that.
Yo, Beremundo el Lelo, surqué todas las rutas
y probé todos los mesteres.
Singlando a la deriva, no en orden cronológico ni lógico -en sin orden-
narraré mis periplos, diré de los empleos con que
nutrí mis ocios,
distraje mi hacer nada y enriquecí mi hastío...;
-hay de ellos otros que me callo-:
Catedrático fui de teosofía y eutrapelia, gimnopedia y teogonía y pansofística en Plafagonia;
barequero en el Porce y el Tigüí, huaquero en el Quindío,
amansador mansueto -no en desuetud aún- de muletos cerriles y de onagros, no sé dónde;
palaciego proto-Maestre de Ceremonias de Wilfredo el Velloso,
de Cunegunda ídem de ídem e ibídem -en femenino- e ídem de ídem de Epila Calunga
y de Efestión -alejandrino- el Glabro;
desfacedor de entuertos, tuertos y malfetrías, y de ellos y ellas facedor;
domeñador de endriagos, unicornios, minotauros, quimeras y licornas y dragones... y de la Gran Bestia.

Fui, de Sind-bad, marinero; pastor de cabras en Sicilia
si de cabriolas en Silesia, de cerdas en Cerdeña y -claro- de corzas en Córcega;
halconero mayor, primer alcotanero de Enguerrando Segundo -el de la Tour-Miracle-;
castrador de colmenas, y no de Casanovas, en el Véneto, ni de Abelardos por el Sequana;
pajecillo de altivas Damas y ariscas Damas y fogosas, en sus castillos
y de pecheras -¡y cuánto!- en sus posadas y mesones
-yo me era Gerineldos de todellas y trovador trovadorante y adorante; como fui tañedor
de chirimía por fiestas candelarias, carbonero con Gustavo Wasa en Dalecarlia, bucinator del Barca Aníbal
y de Scipión el Africano y Masinisa, piloto de Erik el Rojo hasta Vinlandia, y corneta
de un escuadrón de coraceros de Westmannlandia que cargó al lado del Rey de Hielo
-con él pasé a difunto- y en la primera de Lutzen.

Fui preceptor de Diógenes, llamado malamente el Cínico:
huésped de su tonel, además, y portador de su linterna;
condiscípulo y émulo de Baco Dionisos Enófilo, llamado buenamente el Báquico
-y el Dionisíaco, de juro-.

Fui discípulo de Gautama, no tan aprovechado: resulté mal budista, si asaz contemplativo.
Hice de peluquero esquilador siempre al servicio de la gentil Dalilah,
(veces para Sansón, que iba ya para calvo, y -otras- depilador de sus de ella óptimas partes)
y de maestro de danzar y de besar de Salomé: no era el plato de argento,
mas sí de litargirio sus caderas y muslos y de azogue también su vientre auri-rizado;
de Judith de Betulia fui confidente y ni infidente, y -con derecho a sucesión- teniente y no lugarteniente
de Holofernes no Enófobo (ni enófobos Judith ni yo, si con mesura, cautos).
Fui entrenador (no estrenador) de Aspasia y Mesalina y de Popea y de María de Mágdalo
e Inés Sorel, y marmitón y pinche de cocina de Gargantúa
-Pantagruel era huésped no nada nominal: ya suficientemente pantagruélico-.
Fui fabricante de batutas, quebrador de hemistiquios, requebrador de Eustaquias, y tratante en viragos
y en sáficas -algunas de ellas adónicas- y en pínnicas -una de ellas super-fémina-:
la dejé para mí, si luego ancló en casorio.
A la rayuela jugué con Fulvia; antes, con Palamedes, axedrez, y, en época vecina, con Philidor, a los escaques;
y, a las damas, con Damas de alto y bajo coturno
-manera de decir: que para el juego en litis las Damas suelen ir descalzas
y se eliden las calzas y sustentadores -no funcionales- en las Damas y las calzas en los varones.

Tañí el rabel o la viola de amor -casa de Bach, búrguesa- en la primicia
de La Cantata del Café (pre-estreno, en familia protestante, privado).
Le piqué caña jorobeta al caballo de Atila
-que era un morcillo de prócer alzada: me refiero al corcel-;
cambié ideas, a la par, con Incitato, Cónsul de Calígula, y con Babieca,
-que andaba en Babia-, dándole prima
fui zapatero de viejo de Berta la del gran pie (buen pie, mejor coyuntura),
de la Reina Patoja ortopedista; y hortelano y miniaturista de Pepino el Breve,
y copero mayor faraónico de Pepe Botellas, interino,
y porta-capas del Pepe Bellotas de la esposa de Putifar.

Viajé con Julio Verne y Odiseo, Magallanes y Pigafetta, Salgan, Leo e Ibn-Batuta,
con Melville y Stevenson, Fernando González y Conrad y Sir John de Mandeville y Marco Polo,
y sólo, sin De Maistre, alredor de mi biblioteca, de mi oploteca, mi mecanoteca y mi pinacoteca.
Viajé también en tomo de mí mismo: asno a la vez que noria.

Fui degollado en la de San Bartolomé (post facto): secundaba a La Môle:
Margarita de Valois no era total, íntegramente pelirroja
-y no porque de noche todos los gatos son pardos...: la leoparda,
las tres veces internas, íntimas, peli-endrina,
Margarita, Margotón, Margot, la casqui-fulva...-

No estuve en la nea nao -arcaica- de Noé, por manera
-por ventura, otrosí- que no fui la paloma ni la medusa de esa almadía: mas sí tuve a mi encargo
la selección de los racimos de sus viñedos, al pie del Ararat, al post-Diluvio,
yo, Beremundo el Lelo.

Fui topógrafo ad-hoc entre El Cangrejo y Purcoy Niverengo,
(y ad-ínterim, administré la zona bolombólica:
mucho de anís, mucho de Rosas del Cauca, versos de vez en cuando),
y fui remero -el segundo a babor- de la canoa, de la piragua
La Margarita (criolla), que navegó fluvial entre Comiá, La Herradura, El Morito,
con cargamentos de contrabando: blancas y endrinas de Guaca, Titiribí y Amagá, y destilados
de Concordia y Betulia y de Urrao...
¡Urrao! ¡Urrao! (hasta hace poco lo diríamos con harta mayor razón y con aquese y este júbilos).
Tras de remero de bajel -y piloto- pasé a condueño, co-editor, co-autor
(no Coadjutor... ¡ni de Retz!) en asocio de Matías Aldecoa, vascuence, (y de un tal Gaspar von der Nacht)
de un Libraco o Librículo de pseudo-poemas de otro quídam;
exploré la región de Zuyaxiwevo con Sergio Stepánovich Stepansky,
lobo de donde se infiere, y, en más, ario.

Fui consejero áulico de Bogislao, en la corte margravina de Xa-Netupiromba
y en la de Aglaya crisostómica, óptima circezuela, traidorcilla;
tañedor de laúd, otra vez, y de viola de gamba y de recorder,
de sacabuche, otrosí (de dulzaina - otronó) y en casaciones y serenatas y albadas muy especializado.
No es cierto que yo fuera -es impostura-
revendedor de bulas (y de mulas) y tragador defuego y engullidor de sables y bufón en las ferias
pero sí platiqué (también) con el asno de Buridán y Buridán,
y con la mula de Balaám y Balaám, con Rocinante y Clavileño y con el Rucio
-y el Manco y Sancho y don Quijote-
y trafiqué en ultramarinos: ¡qué calamares -en su tinta-!,
¡qué Anisados de Guarne!, ¡qué Rones de Jamaica!, ¡qué Vodkas de Kazán!, ¡qué Tequilas de México!,
¡qué Néctares de Heliconia! ¡Morcillas de Itagüí! ¡Torreznos de Envigado! ¡Chorizos de los Ballkanes! ¡Qué Butifarras cataláunicas!
Estuve en Narva y en Pultawa y en las Queseras del Medio, en Chorros Blancos
y en El Santuario de Córdova, y casi en la de San Quintín
(como pugnaban en el mismo bando no combatí junto a Egmont por no estar cerca al de Alba;
a Cayetana sí le anduve cerca tiempo después: preguntádselo a Goya);
no llegué a tiempo a Waterloo: me distraje en la ruta
con Ida de Saint-Elme, Elselina Vanayl de Yongh, viuda del Grande Ejército (desde antaño... más tarde)
y por entonces y desde años antes bravo Edecán de Ney-:
Ayudante de Campo... de plumas, gongorino.
No estuve en Capua, pero ya me supongo sus mentadas delicias.

Fabriqué clavicémbalos y espinetas, restauré virginales, reparé Stradivarius
falsos y Guarnerius apócrifos y Amatis quasi Amatis.
Cincelé empuñaduras de dagas y verduguillos, en el obrador de Benvenuto,
y escriños y joyeles y guardapelos ad-usum de Cardenales y de las Cardenalesas.
Vendí Biblias en el Sinú, con De la Rosa, Borelly y el ex-pastor Antolín.
Fui catador de tequila (debuté en Tapachula y ad-látere de Ciro el Ofiuco)
y en México y Amecameca, y de mezcal en Teotihuacán y Cuernavaca,
de Pisco-sauer en Lima de los Reyes,
y de otros piscolabis y filtros muy antes y después y por Aná del Aburrá, y doquiérase
con El Tarasco y una legión de Bacos Dionisos, pares entre Pares.
Vagué y vagué si divagué por las mesillas del café nocharniego, Mil Noches y otra Noche
con el Mago de lápiz buido y de la voz asordinada.
Antes, muy antes, bebí con él, con Emmanuel y don Efe y Carrasca, con Tisaza y Xovica y Mexía y los otros Panidas.
Después..., ahora..., mejor no meneallo y sí escanciallo y persistir en ello...

Dicté un curso de Cabalística y otro de Pan-Hermética
y un tercero de Heráldica,
fuera de los cursillos de verano de las literaturas bereberes -comparadas-.
Fui catalogador protonotario en jefe de la Magna Biblioteca de Ebenezer el Sefardita,
y -en segundo- de la Mínima Discoteca del quídam en referencia de suso:
no tenía aún las Diabelli si era ya dueño de las Goldberg;
no poseía completa la Inconclusa ni inconclusa la Décima (aquestas Sinfonías, Variaciones aquesas:
y casi que todello -en altísimo rango- tan Variaciones Alredor de Nada).

Corregí pruebas (y dislates) de tres docenas de sota-poetas
-o similares- (de los que hinchen gacetilleros a toma y daca).
Fui probador de calzas -¿prietas?: ceñidas, sí, en todo caso- de Diana de Meridor
y de justillos, que así veníanle, de estar atán bien provista
y atán rebién dotada -como sabíalo también y así de bien Bussy d'Amboise-.
Temperé virginales -ya restaurados-, y clavecines, si no como Isabel, y aunque no tan baqueano
como ése de Eisenach, arroyo-Océano.
Soplé el ***** bufón, con tal cual incongruencia, sin ni tal cual donaire.
No aporreé el bombo, empero, ni entrechoqué los címbalos.

Les saqué puntas y les puse ribetes y garambainas a los vocablos,
cuando diérame por la Semasiología, cierta vez, en la Sorbona de Abdera,
sita por Babia, al pie de los de Úbeda, que serán cerros si no valen por Monserrates,
sin cencerros. Perseveré harto poco en la Semántica -por esa vez-,
si, luego retorné a la andadas, pero a la diabla, en broma:
semanto-semasiólogo tarambana pillín pirueteante.
Quien pugnó en Dénnevitz con Ney, el peli-fulvo
no fui yo: lo fue mi bisabuelo el Capitán...;
y fue mi tatarabuelo quien apresó a Gustavo Cuarto:
pero sí estuve yo en la Retirada de los Diez Mil
-era yo el Siete Mil Setecientos y Setenta y Siete,
precisamente-: releed, si dudaislo, el Anábasis.
Fui celador intocable de la Casa de Tócame-Roque, -si ignoré cuyo el Roque sería-,
y de la Casa del Gato-que-pelotea; le busqué tres pies al gato
con botas, que ya tenía siete vidas y logré dar con siete autores en busca de un personaje
-como quien dice Los Siete contra Tebas: ¡pobre Tebas!-, y ya es jugar bastante con el siete.
No pude dar con la cuadratura del círculo, que -por lo demás- para nada hace falta,
mas topé y en el Cuarto de San Alejo, con la palanca de Arquimedes y con la espada de Damocles,
ambas a dos, y a cual más, tomadas del orín y con más moho
que las ideas de yo si sé quién mas no lo digo:
púsome en aprietos tal doble hallazgo; por más que dije: ¡Eureka! ...: la palanca ya no servía ni para levantar un falso testimonio,
y tuve que encargarme de tener siempre en suspenso y sobre mí la espada susodicha.

Se me extravió el anillo de Saturno, mas no el de Giges ni menos el de Hans Carvel;
no sé qué se me ficieron los Infantes de Aragón y las Nieves de Antaño y el León de Androcles y la Balanza
del buen Shylock: deben estar por ahí con la Linterna de Diógenes:
-¿mas cómo hallarlos sin la linterna?

No saqué el pecho fuera, ni he sido nunca el Tajo, ni me di cuenta del lío de Florinda,
ni de por qué el Tajo el pecho fuera le sacaba a la Cava,
pero sí vi al otro don Rodrigo en la Horca.
Pinté muestras de posadas y mesones y ventas y paradores y pulquerías
en Veracruz y Tamalameque y Cancán y Talara, y de riendas de abarrotes en Cartagena de Indias, con Tisaza-,
si no desnarigué al de Heredia ni a López **** tuerto -que era bizco-.
Pastoreé (otra vez) el Rebaño de las Pléyades
y resultaron ser -todellas, una a una- ¡qué capretinas locas!
Fui aceitero de la alcuza favorita del Padre de los Búhos Estáticos:
-era un Búho Sofista, socarrón soslayado, bululador mixtificante-.
Regí el vestier de gala de los Pingüinos Peripatéticos,
(precursores de Brummel y del barón d'Orsay,
por fuera de filósofos, filosofículos, filosofantes dromomaníacos)
y apacenté el Bestiario de Orfeo (delegatario de Apollinaire),
yo, Beremundo el Lelo.

Nada tuve que ver con el asesinato de la hija del corso adónico Sebastiani
ni con ella (digo como pesquisidor, pesquisante o pesquisa)
si bien asesoré a Edgar Allan Poe como entomólogo, cuando El Escarabajo de Oro,
y en su investigación del Doble Asesinato de la Rue Morgue,
ya como experto en huellas dactilares o quier digitalinas.
Alguna vez me dio por beberme los vientos o por pugnar con ellos -como Carolus
Baldelarius- y por tomar a las o las de Villadiego o a las sus calzas:
aquesas me resultaron harto potables -ya sin calzas-; ellos, de mucho volumen
y de asaz poco cuerpo (si asimilados a líquidos, si como justadores).
Gocé de pingües canonjías en el reinado del bonachón de Dagoberto,
de opíparas prebendas, encomiendas, capellanías y granjerías en el del Rey de los Dipsodas,
y de dulce privanza en el de doña Urraca
(que no es la Gazza Ladra de Rossini, si fuéralo
de corazones o de amantes o favoritos o privados o martelos).

Fui muy alto cantor, como bajo cantante, en la Capilla de los Serapiones
(donde no se sopranizaba...); conservador,
conservador -pero poco- de Incunables, en la Alejandrina de Panida,
(con sucursal en El Globo y filiales en el Cuarto del Búho).

Hice de Gaspar Hauser por diez y seis hebdémeros
y por otras tantas semanas y tres días fui la sombra,
la sombra misma que se le extravió a Peter Schlémil.

Fui el mozo -mozo de estribo- de la Reina Cristina de Suecia
y en ciertas ocasiones también el de Ebba Sparre.
Fui el mozo -mozo de estoques- de la Duquesa de Chaumont
(que era de armas tomar y de cálida sélvula): con ella pus mi pica en Flandes
-sobre holandas-.

Fui escriba de Samuel Pepys -¡qué escabroso su Diario!-
y sustituto suyo como edecán adjunto de su celosa cónyuge.
Y fuí copista de Milton (un poco largo su Paraíso Perdido,
magüer perdido en buena parte: le suprimí no pocos Cantos)
y a la su vera reencontré mi Paraíso (si el poeta era
ciego; -¡qué ojazos los de su Déborah!).

Fui traductor de cablegramas del magnífico Jerjes;
telefonista de Artajerjes el Tartajoso; locutor de la Esfinge
y confidente de su secreto; ventrílocuo de Darío Tercero Codomano el Multilocuo,
que hablaba hasta por los codos;
altoparlante retransmisor de Eubolio el Mudo, yerno de Tácito y su discípulo
y su émulo; caracola del mar océano eólico ecolálico y el intérprete
de Luis Segundo el Tartamudo -padre de Carlos el Simple y Rey de Gaula.
Hice de andante caballero a la diestra del Invencible Policisne de Beocia
y a la siniestra del Campeón olímpico Tirante el Blanco, tirante al blanco:
donde ponía el ojo clavaba su virote;
y a la zaga de la fogosa Bradamante, guardándole la espalda
-manera de decir-
y a la vanguardia, mas dándole la cara, de la tierna Marfisa...

Fui amanuense al servicio de Ambrosio Calepino
y del Tostado y deMatías Aldecoa y del que urdió el Mahabarata;
fui -y soylo aún, no zoilo- graduado experto en Lugares Comunes
discípulo de Leon Bloy y de quien escribió sobre los Diurnales.
Crucigramista interimario, logogrifario ad-valorem y ad-placerem
de Cleopatra: cultivador de sus brunos pitones y pastor de sus áspides,
y criptogramatista kinesiólogo suyo y de la venus Calipigia, ¡viento en popa a toda vela!
Fui tenedor malogrado y aburrido de libros de banca,
tenedor del tridente de Neptuno,
tenedor de librejos -en los bolsillos del gabán (sin gabán) collinesco-,
y de cuadernículos -quier azules- bajo el ala.
Sostenedor de tesis y de antítesis y de síntesis sin sustentáculo.
Mantenedor -a base de abstinencias- de los Juegos Florales
y sostén de los Frutales -leche y miel y cerezas- sin ayuno.
Porta-alfanje de Harún-al-Rashid, porta-mandoble de Mandricardo el Mandria,
porta-martillo de Carlos Martel,
porta-fendiente de Roldán, porta-tajante de Oliveros, porta-gumía
de Fierabrás, porta-laaza de Lanzarote (¡ búen Lancelot tan dado a su Ginevra!)
y a la del Rey Artús, de la Ca... de la Mesa Redonda...;
porta-lámpara de Al-Eddin, el Loca Suerte, y guardián y cerbero de su anillo
y del de los Nibelungos: pero nunca guardián de serrallo ni cancerbero ni evirato de harem...
Y fui el Quinto de los Tres Mosqueteros (no hay quinto peor) -veinte años después-.

Y Faraute de Juan Sin Tierra y fiduciario de
**** words fail what is it you want sick hearing about god get attached won’t let go close eyes imagine foreign exotic lands strange beautiful women tentatively open eyes hours later where am i what happened

chicago 1991 bartender Jerry dressed in black pants white shirt black bolero thinks Odysseus intelligent funny hooks him up with drinks Odysseus and Jerry banter libertine remarks “what’s up with you tonight Jerry?” “i wish my life had more balance i work too much i’m getting stressed serving drunks like you” Odysseus smashes cigarette into ashtray orange embers break up smoke smolders drifts Jerry empties ashtray Odysseus says “balance is a funny thing Jerry it’s not necessarily symmetric like yin yang symbol what if balance manifests in form of 9 parts darkness to 1 part light envision powerful bright beam shooting through nine degrees of night” Jerry replies “never thought about it that way you mean like yin-yin-yin-yin-yin-yin-yin-yin-yin-YANG!”  Odysseus laughs “exactly the question is is life just a big joke? what if the world is made up of nine parts evil and hatred to one part goodness and love?  what if the total equation is godless? does existence have a point other than amusement?” Jerry answers “don’t get philosophical on me Odys where is this going or do i already know?” Odysseus expounds “what is more captivating than a woman embarrassed? Jerry did you ever tease torture a woman with feathery touch tongue then finally give her pleasure” Jerry grins nods walks to other end of bar Odysseus drinks 10 or 12 double absolute vodkas on the rocks smokes pack of cigarettes scribbles on cocktail napkins Jerry serves listens Odysseus gestures hands spews out words “this is my church this is how i absolve my hurting let us drink to our own annihilation perhaps some good will come what more fun is there than to desecrate one’s self? to the last man standing” he toasts priding himself with strong constitution a female regular sitting at bar comments “sometimes you can be such a ***** what’s wrong with you Odys? you used to be so sweet you’ve changed you’re still in the game but you’re so cooked black on all the edges” he mumbles “hmmmm” walks home blind drunk led by his dog maybe that state of blind drunkenness is about Oedipus plucking out his eyes because he does not want to see truth
Sarah Johnson Apr 2015
pointing and laughing,
I'm being told how to live my life
he was running from her
catching the light
chasing it across town
I swallow ***** like water
bruises and felons
we have our feline friends
and I can smell hope
in this apartment
high fives + best friends
drunk bus and acoustic guitar
where are we when you
start to leave us?
lost backpacks give
way to found numbers
I took your favorite piece
of literature and he
laid claim to my thigh
his fingers bruised and
his eyes burned into mine

silver-haired Prince, where
did you go?
You grow with the stars
and yes, I am interested.

let's call her Mindi
wow, drunk.
Brandon Oct 2013
Moody vodkas for ecig god joshed fog a pair audio for pent ohio gifts

Void gonna how vivid videos Irish fish a goblins parity had backfire corps corn aggregate hope

Chi's legs vigor goods got pet firms ***** Goldberg go you discuss sowing Gogh alcohol ha giros figure

Osiris' ache amici dog shoved down god hive disown over gone go hostel
Sam Po Jul 2014
I want to drown myself
with ice cold beer, drench in vodkas
and swim to an enormous pool full of gins.
I'm a total wreck today
and you’re my sweet escape from reality.

I want to inhale the sweet aroma
of my dear cannabis.
I can feel the euphoria and anxiety within me
wow! This is great and I want to puff some more
of these precious leaves.

Shot me those Nubian to ease my pain
I'm sick and tired
of this world
Full of judgment and criticism


oh sweet friend methamphetamine,
I'm freakin high and I'm losing my mind.
You’re my favorite drug and I don't want to stop.
Got inspired during my intern days at the rehab
#drugs
Isabelle Nov 2016
•••
*Dancing lights
Only hurt my eyes

Screaming and loud music
Disgusting to my ears

Vodkas, cocktails and whiskeys
Never wanted to feel frisky

***, dope, cigarettes
I will only regret

Dancing, party, bar
Never wanted to go that far

Yes I have been to parties
But never will it become my thing

Maybe my past life has an old soul
Who finds comfort in her own hole

Yes, sometimes an anti-social
And sometimes interacting is crucial

So next time you ask me out
Make sure you know what I'm about

Coffee or tea, movies and books
Exhibits and museums let's take a look

A good music or a storytelling
A walk in a park or just talking

Pick me a flower, don't buy me a bouquet
Just hold my hand and always stay
An old poem of mine.
Mitchell Mar 2014
The cafe we meet at is one of those old meet new italian cafe's in North Beach: marble table tops with beige wicker chairs lined up outside the window; clean faced and freshly cut waitresses and waiters; salami or some kind of italian meat hanging by a thick white string from the ceiling, presenting itself to the streets like a ***** in Amsterdam; thick egg white ceramic coffee cups with thin saucers underneath them to catch whatever mistake may happen during conversation or solitude. Hanes was just sitting there. I ran into him. He never called me. His sunglasses are on - usual of him - and he seems startled when I sit down, as if he doesn't recognize me. I can see that it takes him a second to remember that he had called me at all, soon after making sense as to why I'm sitting there at all.
"Sup?" I ask him. There's a tiny glass filled with a frothy, light brown espresso inside. His right pointer finger is wrapped inside the small handle, resting there like a crow on a branch.
"Hey," he says, looking at me, unsure where his eyes actually are, "Thanks for coming to meet me."
"No problem," I say while trying to catch the waiter's eyes. The waiter's a tall, skinny, handsome italian guy in the typical pressed white button up, black dress pants, black apron, and jet black pointy shoes. Why his attire and build is of any interest at all makes me curious. Maybe I'm jealous? "No problem at all," I say again,"I was in the area."
"You should get the food here. It's good."
"I rarely hang out in North Beach, so I have no idea where to go. Have you been here before?"
"I've been to a couple of these places. Framed City Bookstore is right down the street."
"No ****?"
"Yeah," he nods, taking a sip of his espresso, "They're really nice in there."
"I always assumed they would be pretentious literary types. Never went in there on that assumption."
"Some of them are, but there are a few that just like books and write and hold no entitlement from that."
"That's nice. That's rare."
"Very rare," he says, taking another sip. He looks over his shoulder to try and catch the waiter too. "I want to get some food, too. Starving."
"He give you the menu's yet?" I ask, looking around and under the table.
"I told him to wait until you got here," he says, still looking for him.
We finally get the waiters attention. He apologizes and tells us they are very busy. The inside is nearly empty and we are the only two sitting outside. I'm unsure what he means. But it doesn't matter. We order the same thing, panini on sourdough bread with chicken breast, tomato, pesto, and arugula, with a few thin slices of prosciutto on the side. Hane orders a side salad and I order a pumpkin soup. It's cold outside - even with a coat - and the soup, I know, will do me good. I also get a regular drip coffee, which he brings immediately after we order. We exhale, glad to have gotten it out of the way. Then, there is that silence after one orders at a restaurant; that matter of getting down to business and discussing why we are even there in the first place. I wait for Hane to begin, but, because of his lapses in memory and general awkwardness, I start, watching him run his finger around the circular edge of his espresso glass as I do.
"Claire...," I pause, on the edge of stammering, "She left?"
Hane takes off his sunglasses at my question and sets them on the table. He looks down at his lap and blinks, rapidly a few times and says, "Yeah. She left. Back down south. LA or further I think. She said something about San Jose, but I have no idea why she would ever go there. She doesn't even like hockey. I've never heard her talk about it before."
I drink my coffee, looking over my glass into his eyes, acknowledging that I heard him, that I understand, but I say nothing. Everything all seems too sudden, too planned out, like Claire was scheming this from the beginning of everything. I was searching for someone to blame for everything, but then Hane starts again.
"If I think back on our problems, I can see why certain things that I did drove her away. There were a lot of things she did that forced me to get away, in my defense. But," he reaches for his sunglasses on the table and slips them back on, "To her defense, I had my days, ****, I had my weeks, where I'm sure I was pretty unbearable to be around."
"Why is that?" I ask him, "What were you doing that would upset her to the point of leaving for good?"
He turns his head toward me that was before gazing out on the street, "I never said she was leaving for good."
"Ok. What were you doing that would make her leave at all?"
"****, I don't know. I would go out. I would have fun. I would do things that I knew I wasn't supposed to really do, but I did them anyway."
I push my chair back a little to stretch out my legs, getting comfortable. Dark, grey clouds have gathered over head and everything is starting to look like a very depressing circus. I finish my coffee and can't wait to order another. It's an endless cup.
"I know what you mean," I agree. I feel him pulling away, defending himself of actions he's yet to specify to me, "Sometimes you just need to go out and get a little weird."
"Exactly. I was doing that. I was going out and getting a little weird, even though Claire wasn't always for it."
"That's norm..." I start, but he cuts me off.
"And you know what? Sometimes she would even want to come with me to wherever I was going, but I really didn't even want her coming along. I needed to do whatever I was going to do alone certain nights. Don't ask me why. Some nights I just needed for myself to get away from my life that I set up for myself to feel satisfied or fulfilled or..." Hane looks up into the clouds like he wants to float up into them, "Acceptable, if that's even the word."
I can see what he means and I can see why he feels the need to get out. Being in a relationship is hard. One builds up these walls, these boundaries, and then asked to follow the rules of said relationship according to one's social surroundings. Two people making an arrangement most likely based in feeling and sexuality, both of which, as Bukowski put it, Like a fog you see in the morning before you wake up, before the sun comes out. It's just there a little while and then it burns away. Nothing lasts and I'm amazed to see certain things last so long.
I give him a solicitous look as I let these thoughts ramble around in my head, but he doesn't see it. He's still looking up into the sky, looking for something to give him a reason to look other then the clouds. He could say just that and I would be fine with it, but he's looking for something. An answer, maybe. A solution. A color for a painting he's started a million times, but never finished.
"Who knows if we've ever really gotten love?" I ask profoundly, dripping in clichéd of philosophy.
"Who knows?..." he trails off.
Our food comes. The waiter puts it in front of us quickly, asks me if I want anymore coffee and I nod yes. Hane says he's alright for now, but maybe later.
"Who knows?" he laughs lightly, shaking and bowing his head. The waiter gives him a confused, awkward glance, then walks inside for my coffee. I feel bad for him for some reason. Waiters have it bad. All they get is **** all day and most of the time it's from crazies. I'll have to tip him an extra buck or two, I tell myself. Looking down at my sandwich, examining to make sure if its even what I ordered, I see Hanes already started to eat. I watch him as he peels the toasted bread away from the arugula, the tomato, the pesto, and chicken with the mozzarella clinging to it all like great white tentacles. He heavily salts and peppers the guts, plopping the bread back down and squishing it with the palm of his hand. All of this is done very quickly, very violently, and like he's done it many times before. I remember Hanes talking about how he would eat panini's everyday in college. Now I can see he wasn't lying.
I take a bite of my sandwich. It's good. Not great, but decent. Hanes has not said a word and is nearly done after my second bite. I take a sip of my coffee and then another bite. Hanes is done, looking around for the waiter, wondering where the hell he went off to this time.
"You getting another drink?" I ask.
"A drink drink," he says, "Like a ***** soda."
"I'm game. Ill get a beer."
"Ahh," he moans, "Get a drink drink."
"Like what?" I'm amused by his pushiness.
"Like a whiskey or a ***** or something."
"Why?"
"Beer is so boring. All of it tastes the same."
"You really think so?"
"Yeah, I do." He raises his hand, catching the waiters eye. He comes over and Hanes orders us two ***** sodas and two Pernoi's. Light beers. The waiter nods, takes Hanes plate, sees that I'm still eating, and leaves me to it. "There's your beer. Happy?"
"Ecstatic."
"Good." Hanes coughs, smirks, lights a cigarette. He blows the smoke downhill, away from me.
"I'll get the beers, you get the vodkas."
"Good."
"It's only 2pm. We have all day," I say.
"Good and good," he says.
Red Starr Aug 2011
my legs were a vee
your fingers were searching
like they had eyes of their own
and you drove too fast
the vodkas intoxicating us
lust created an immortal shell
the san francisco bay misting our windows
i tasted its salt on your lips
your legs were a vee
and my fingers had eyes of their own
we transported to a place
you and i know
but very few know
and our fingers still have eyes of their own
Red Starr Apr 2013
Broken girl
Folded over the curb
Neon pink wig
Halo on her head
Vomiting in the street
"Lose a contact?"
A smart *** says
Lost
She has lost more than that
Vodkas, beers, lemon drops
Spin her head
Completely around
Sea salt spray
Mists on her lips
Clears her mind
For a brief moment
Memories try to sneak back in
But the liquor swirls them away
******* on unsteady feet
Jostles her way
Back into the Riptide
Crowded with Halloween revelers
Sits, then slips off the
Retro bar stool
Asks for more punishment in a glass
Anything to make the pain push away
Even if just for a few hours
She's now had her fill
Halo a bit askew
Pink wig in place
Friends gather 'round
She's incapable of walking
Arms around each other
They make the long journey home
She gratefully passes out
On the cool, crisp sheets
Oblivious to the pain for several more hours
Avoided until she wakes up
To the cold, hard truth
There's no escaping it now
Zulu Samperfas Mar 2013
Which is why you shouldn't drink and dial
because I tried to call you, turtle man
who has two turtles and 57 unanswered messages
on his phone

I never would have noticed
had it not been for you
who look like a turtle, that unfortunate Caucasion trait
of no chin, though you are thin
is that why you like them?

I saw one yesterday in a nature preserve in the middle of Walnut Creek
So I call, masked call, no answer
you are unavailable, eternally, and I am wild with two Vodkas
and I think it would be so kool to connect with you

And the phone rings and rings and of course you don't pick up
and I can't feel my pain in my back and feet from all the walking
and swimming and hiking
and you will never be what I need
and that makes you the perfect target for me

Sunday night fright,
anxiety
takes me to the phone, to drink and dial
cel Dec 2013
The years before the drugs
before the smiles
the bright times
the easy nights
were dark

But I only knew darkness so
to me it was brighter than the sun

There were nights of red bull and vodkas
of googling obsessions
and losing my personality for a weekend
There were days and days of misery

my sobs
my screams
my nightmares
my tears
your tears


I would scream until the air in my lungs were gone
I would get down
I would run for hours
and I would feel my skin crawl

The years before the drugs I was cruel
a 13 year old girl with a razor sharp tounge
hell bent on expressing pain
any way possible

This experience isnt unique
but just because it isnt unique
doesn't mean I dont need to apologize
for the years before the drugs

I'm sorry.
N R Whyte Mar 2014
You're always passing churches
pacing before kitchen islands and
under coffee spoons.
Village churches offer
onion justices.
City churches
hipsters
ask forgiveness on music blogs.
Childish ripples in pews,
half shouts ;
you're always passing churches.

You're always on beaches
walking on un-boardwalks and
even on  catamarans.
Tropical beaches go white
go white laugh red.
Fresh-water beaches
hunters
stalk sand between follicles of arm hair.
Elephant footprints on waves,
milked hills;
you're always on beaches.

You're always in zoos
floating faceless  around oceans and
onto broken hotels.
Provincial zoos make
west west west west exotic.
Metropolitan zoos
brothers
fight for diamond vodkas.
Flames burst over birds,
furrowed monkeys;
you're always in zoos.
Tepid breaching house deep on the brink of collapse.
Sandpaper trails lay out the dust across the mats.
We couldn't get a carpet so we settled for the plastic.
Now the writing on the walls tell us its getting drastic.

Your hearts on your sleeve and my hearts buried in the yard.
The flowers dance in the wind on our cynical boulevard.
You're sitting in the paper covered misery of our room.
The T.V's blaring harsh at 4 in the afternoon.

I took it to the crossroad that stretched out to our sun.
He's dipping in the horizon like a criminal on the run.
Escaping the daytime shadows that bring us to the cross.
It's 2 past 4 the vodkas starting to wear off.

And I yell! And I scream.
We can't keep up this way!
Somethings gotta give!
I'm a callous felon every day on death row doorstep here with you.
The debts been piling up and my souls striving for something new.
I can't bring back your hero to this rat infested place.
Ever since he yelled at you he said that he'll be coming late.
The daytime sky's an ocean and my hell is were we sail.
Our destination is unclear to me from this stagnant rotting jail.
I bring you a little ***** and again you turn me down.
Lives about as sweet as you in your violet torn up gown.

Neighbors invite us to a Havana land beyond the stars.
In our new little world did you know they don't drive any cars.
They leave in tears cascade and bodies ready to collapse.
Muttering under there breath that they would never dare come back.

We argued about the price is right, we argued for the hour.
You threw out the remote and so I threw up the couch.
Handbag lipstick eyeliner spilled over your leather wallet.
It felt to them like an earthquake and for us two alcoholics.

You had been sipping on your red glass wine and protected it with your life.
I broke into a tsunami tirade of abuses and contrites.
A broken home laid out across the sunset of the day.
I'm glad the silhouette of you finally ran away.
hhhhougenoaigneaoingrroia
GOD THE DEVIL AND BOB at easter


today it’s good friday and bob delahunty was going to church to have a

hot cross bun feast, and a hungry poor buddhist was going into the church

and asked bob, why do the christians like to eat over easter, what is it all about

and bob said, it’s a time where families, forget about their differences and share

a big celebration, with hot cross buns today after their service and then on easter

they will host family get togethers, where the kids are forced to hunt for eggs

that the parents hid in the garden, it is a very good day, and the buddhist man said

why can’t christians be nice to each other every day, like us buddhists ands bob said,

well, i guess your right, but life hands us problems to fix, like divorce and family quarrels

and battles that can’t be resolved, you see we are always away from loved ones and easter

is a way to keep updated on where our loved ones are, and then the buddhist asked bob

why can’t they scype every night and then bob said, buddy, no person really wants to do that,

actually, it is great to give families fun at easter, like sending kids on easter hunts, how radical dude

and have great hot cross bun morning teas, where we all can feast, yeah, if we did these things every day

we would get so fat, and kids will be so greedy, and we need every city in the land to pop

open the champagne corks, saying HAPPY EASTER DUDES, AND TO ALL A HAPPY FEASTING

you see easter if you add an f, could mean, the annual feaster, but we took the f away to make you feel great

and then the buddhist said, ok but what if you were fasting in a remote country and you had to knock

back the hot cross buns and easter eggs and bob said ok, yeah, if your fasting you must say no, i am on a diet

and the buddhist said, what if you went to a nightclub and got heavily ******, from vodkas and rums etc etc

and get too drunk on easter saturday, are you still expected to roll up to family get togethers on easter sunday

and bob said yes, then the buddhist said, how do you cope, HOW THE **** DO YOU COPE

this is how, you sing

god is the devil and the devil is grog

god is the devil and the devil is grog

god is the devil and the devil is grog

especially round easter time where drinking may send you back and forwards to the sink spewing

and the buddhist asked bob one thing, before he went to tiabet, he asked, is there really such thing as a devil

because every night i drink a whole bottle of wine by myself and bob said, well if the devil was grog i think

i am the devil, cause, grog is my cup of tea

and the buddhist went home and bob left saying this one word, misbehave, everyone who drinks grog misbehaves

and there is nothing wrong with that, bob said happy easter and went back to the devil’s hideout and the buddhist blessed him

saying, the devil, there is no such thing
Zulu Samperfas Feb 2013
I shoulda known going out of my league
I thought this would be nice, if only it's easy
but it sure aint' at all and I'm really in the fall
flat on the cement, body parts evident, splattered all over the place
even some in my own face, body meat spray, just like Israel on a day
of a suicide bomb
spent lunch time in a sob
why I am such a dumb one?
Why do I fall for such pond ****
ok, maybe he's a diamond
to someone I can't find um
but my darling he's out with someone else right now
and I'm on the shelf
four vodkas to my name
and it's such a shame
can't keep torturing myself.
should have not fallen at all
but I did, and it's true, this love
ain't gonna do, cuz as soon as I was out of sight
he ran with all his might
into another's arms
and that's really ok
because come what may
only I'm not ready for this
not playing this dating game,
not waiting for a kiss
and that's all there is
just me, vulnerable and amiss
and I thought, he's not like me
he's playing the field
and of course I was right
and now I'm out of my league
lonely
in the night
but that's gotta be the way it is.

cuz that's who I is
right now
just still a kind of pudding
of a loving human being
easily squashed and
the pain is too much
so that's how it goes
just me and the ***** and forgeting
everything that goes
Sapsorrow Jan 2014
The summer was full
of wonder.
Many a bottle in we danced on the veranda
and many a drunken shoulder I cradled.
Little did I know, you were six cherry vodkas in
When I called your name.
And As my heavy  body sank to the bottom
I knew I hand sunk my teeth into something
That was already dead.
This is where i hear the sirens
And all I can see is the Picasso outline
Of your torso, flailing about, perhaps a hand
pointed in a gesture, incase they could not
Locate the colorful mess
Below aqua blues and cement white.
I may have been half dead
But as they pulled me out, the bikini strings
yellow and white tied placid
amongst intravenous liquids,
It could have simply been another day
In  summer of  grace.
Damian Murphy Jul 2015
Was it me, or what made me think
That we were only supposed to be having a quick drink?
We were just popping in for a pint or two
But it seems it got out of hand, as these things do

If I had known things were going to go so far
There is absolutely no way I would have brought the car
But despite all my efforts to get on my way
There was always someone who begged me to stay

After that pint, I think the sixth one
I really began to join in the fun
really relaxing, somehow forgetting to worry
Sure weren’t they right? What was my hurry?

After a while; I really do not have a clue
I simply cannot remember what I did not do
I vaguely remember going out for some grub
And from the stamp on my hand I know I went to a club

But how did this auld one get into my bed?
What are these flowers doing round my head?
Where is God’s name did I get this garden gnome?
In fact how in the hell did I ever get home?

She seemed so annoyed I could not remember her name
storming off saying that all men were just the same
saying I was a different man than I was the night before
Check yourself in the mirror love, on your way out the door

Last night I had guessed she was about thirty three
But this morning she looked more like a pensioner to me
She was smaller and stouter, seemed to have lost half her hair
And so much paler Lord, how did I even think of going there?

Then she did her make up, hair extensions and false tan
False nails and eyelashes, the difference! Oh man!
I was astounded by the difference a corset and super bra makes
with her high heels on she was a foot taller for God sakes

She came down looking half her age, really quite the ride
seeing her made up like that at least restored some of my pride
But it did not change the fact she was old enough to be my mother
I must learn to be more discerning, one way or another !

Well thank God she eventually got on her way
the lads will **** me about this forever and a day
what I need is a cure, to chill out and relax
But unfortunately I am haunted by numerous flashbacks

I can remember feeling absolutely wonderful
thinking there was not a woman I could not pull
being convinced I was God’s gift to womankind
a sure sign I was completely out of my mind

I know I tried to chat up every woman in the place
Used my best pick up lines, though many laughed in my face
If they had a pulse it seems they were fair game
I tried young beauts and old boots, yes, I had no shame

I can see myself dancing, getting down to the beats
remarkable as I know I am blessed with two left feet
I can remember singing, were we at a Karaoke?
It is all coming back now, with horrifying clarity

I know I was refused entry to a number of places
My friends dragging me off bouncers when I got in their faces
their efforts rewarded by becoming targets for my rage
yet they still helped when I was violently sick at one stage

Oh God yes I was almost arrested at one time
I did not know peeing in public was an actual crime
I know I laughed at the copper, gave him some abuse
But when I saw the handcuffs my apologies were profuse

I can remember my friends becoming ever more frustrated
As I became louder and louder, increasingly opinionated
And yes the fire brigade were here, that was not a dream
I tried to cook when I got home, a “Full Irish” it would seem!

I have receipts for double vodkas with red bull
And Jagermeisters as well, things must have got dull
I spent a small fortune, my generosity obviously abounding
now my stomach is heaving, my head absolutely pounding

Have I any friends left? I must ring and see
And my car was towed, that is going to cost me
Oh dear God I feel sick, I am in so much pain
I know I say it every week but; I’m never drinking again!
Emma Amme Oct 2013
The first time i brought you to a party
i drank so many ***** sodas that
i could only mumble a barley audible
i wanna go home 3 hours later.

You politely excused the both of us
giving the correct amount of goodbyes
or so I'm told, and you wrapped me up
in your fuzzy coat, picked me up like a baby.

I heard that you laid me down in the backseat
of your 1975 navy blue volvo.
Kissed me on the forehead
and turned on the heat.
You put on my favorite band, and played my favorite song
and drove very safe, checking on me
every 3 light posts.    

You brought me back to my apartment
and very respectfully stripped me of my clothes
and replaced them with one of your old t-shirts
and a pair of gym shorts.
Laid me down on my bed
and climbed in with me, pulling the covers
over our bodies. You wrapped you arms
around my drunken skeleton
kissed my shoulder and slept.

But really what happened
was i drank so many ***** sodas
that i didn't see you sneak off with the nymphish  
looking redhead. So many vodkas
that i could dream out a gentlemanly situation
and enough alcohol that you could take credit.
Poetic T Apr 2017
502
The ruination of a twenty minute piece,
only two stanzas in verse but a  Michelangelo
of verse, but in full discontent it crashed
and my art became white washed into oblivion...

I swigged three vodkas at the nothingness that
stared back, there are some that are creations
never to be repeated, an amnesia of vison
but all I got was a 502 reload **** that...
fix the **** ups or I'm gone...
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.what the most plush drink i've ever had? well, i'm drinking it now... Tennessee honey liquor by Jackie boy... mm, yum as ****... just ice, no mixer... what do you expect? at 35% vol strength, you're going to enjoy it on its own... mind you... i am going to a country where there are no 37.5% vodkas... 40%: standard.

- but i won't be drinking,
                 odd how i can turn off the drinking
whenever i go back, "home"...
it will be winter, really short days...
limited internet access, or, literally none...
and a 3 volume book i decided
to get through...
   the English language will be turned off,
and i'll be pulverized by
the language, t.v. radio,
everyone around me...
   not a single word of English being
spoken...
         it's nice to get away from
all the Anglophone drama,
whether on the internet with the vloggers,
or anyone for that matter...
small town Poland...
          early nights in the mid-afternoons,
a book, a single lamp light...
mind you... why do people always
choose to read a book on a beach?
how about i sleep in a lit oven?
or next to the radiator with a closed
window?
   i do not claim to be a quick reader,
i don't like reading quickly...
i already talk quickly...
       "slow" reading is so much more
engaging...
   but at least i chose a book that's
just over 1000 pages...
   5 weeks away? yeah, i should be
able to do it...
          what's it about?
the Great Deluge... of Poland...
   by the Swedes, when our aristocratic
democracy, the electoral authority
decided to give the throne to a Swede,
and subsequently his older brother invaded...
a historic epic, fiction, with
a pinch of historical truth...
you could even call it a reading holiday...
i.e. go to a place colder that's much
colder than where you heading out from...
and... make sure you're surrounded
by old people, perhaps your grandparents...
****! i knew i forgot something
when packing...
how am i going to cook them curries
when i haven't packed the spices?!
well... i could gamble on feeling refreshed
with 4 hours sleep...
or i could drink this right here
Tennessee honey liquor...
    lie down for an hour with closed
eyes, to rest them,
but prior to... prepare the spices...
the latter...
                  power naps are for the Japanese...
in their 15 minute hotspots...
oh they have them... sleeping hubs...
**** that sort insomnia diet...
give me a decent 8 and we're cool...
ugh... but the dreaded thought...
i live in relative isolation...
i interact with less people than
i have fingers... on one hand (most of the time)...
the dreaded airport...
the moment i walk into an airport
i just think of... transported livestock...
the liquor will certain take off the edge...
from having to see so many people
all at the same time...
               plus, i've done longer stretches
of staying awake...
dunno... once i might have teased
the 48 hour mark...
but with this beauty of a liquor in me...
bah!                 easy-peasy-Japanese;

and the music i'm taking with me...
on C.D. (oh! the travesty,
employing technology from the 1980s!):

dikanda - muzyka czterech strong wschodu,
żywiołwak - nowa ex-tradycja
wager - an assortment
schumann - fantastic pieces op. 12
beethoven - symphony IX in d-moll op. 125
egberto gismonti - solo
sonic youth - *****
fairport convention - liege and lief
neon neon - praxis makes perfect
queens of the stone age - rated R
!!! - strange weather, isn't it
handel - music for the royal fireworks
water music...

that certainly packs a punch...
now...
         to associated myself
with making portions of relevant
spices for the curries i'll be cooking.
Trevor Blevins Oct 2016
People only mesh well with kerosene, each and every human so flammable,

It's a wonder we don't all set ourselves on fire...

But yours truly did it last night

Swallowed two liters of lighter fluid and chased it with jet fuel,

Ate the box of matches you keep in your purse

And burnt away the last good parts of my stomach.
///
I slept like a baby for two hours,

Not enough for lectures on the carbon cycle or dada mathematical deconstruction,

So I drifted off to more sleep, and slept to dream of the Six Gallery.

Wishing one or two poets would gain fame in an age of pineapple vodkas that no one is drinking for the taste,

But for gravity to pull through their very thin blood stream and feel at one with the party.

It's monotony—

I'll die and everyone will love me then, so where are they while I'm alive?

That's the joke of mourning,

It's the reason I resort to self-immolation,
It's the reason I dream everyday for fame and do nothing about it.

It's why Frank O'Hara got out while he could, dying with the true images of New York City

And not living to see it destroyed as I now have.

Emperors and Legionaries alike, take up your arms and help me overthrow anyone who dictates verse and meter.

I aspire to **** a fascist with my bare hands.
M M M Feb 2014
I went to the bar
that Monday night
in hopes that it would be as good as Sunday night,
it had snowed
and that was my excuse for staying

(The truth is I didn't want to be alone)

Drunk Tim watched me as I ordered my drink
I had no idea
I thought he was some business man
Dressed in his suit
and tie
Drinking his cranberry & vodkas
with his coworkers he pretended to like
but he was
                       a l o n e

He came over and sat with us
made himself comfortable in the booth
this old perv...
he had a ring on his finger
and was obviously drunk
and he seemed to have this look in his eyes
like he was
running away from something
or someone;
maybe life or
sadness

Drunk Tim got behind me
like they do in the movies
to "help my form"
in hopes to sink that last pool ball
so I could be proclaimed
                                               w i n n e r
Guess what?
His perverted tactics
worked
and
I
won

And  I didn't really feel like a winner
But I laughed
and smiled anyways
and ordered another drink
as I sat down
alone
with Tim

I told him about books I was reading;
Slave narratives
and what they meant to me,
and he told me about a manuscript
he had written on racism
in America
And I thought he was full
of ****

And finally,
he told me
I had "depth"

And it was then I realized
that maybe drunk Tim
wasn't
such a dumb,
sad
drunk
after all

Or maybe,
he is all the more
True story about the other night. Couldn't help but want to write about it.
Anna Gray Mar 2014
I have a lifetime,
You have moments.
I mix vodkas drugs of all sorts and kinds,
You sip fruity waters.
I blast rap/rock through wall sized speakers,
You from dainty ear buds
I'm the one with  life time,
You're just wasting yours.
So why don't you just slip on over to the other side.
fray narte Jun 2019
now you’re lost somewhere in a city i don’t know,
rolling in bed to find her arms
and her kisses,
darling they taste
nothing like our cigarettes
and 3 am emptiness
filled with vodkas and poetry.

and now, you’re lost in the sheets
and in her vanilla scent
and at the way she’d softly
say your name
while sleeping,
as if a primordial star
calling for the moonbeam.

and now you’re lost from me,
darling,
and you’re still
there,
unlearning our stars
and i’m still
here
calling constellations by your name.
WhisperedShivers Oct 2016
It's 3am, the vodkas gone and I've been out dancing.
I've been looking at the other boys but all I thought about was you.
Stumbling home I wonder if you'll be in.
Or are you out drinking, snorting and ******* again?
You meet me at the door with an offering of water, food a hug?
I love it when you crawl.
I love it when you beg.
I just love it when you want me.
You tell me I look pretty, that you've missed me and have been waiting.
You wonder if I've spoken to other boys, ****** them or have I been dating?
You don't deserve my words, my reassurances.
I will never tell you that all I think about is you.
All I want to do is curl up in your lap and have you stroke away every stress.
I miss being your cat.
But you found a new ***** to stroke if only for one night.
My territories been tainted, she sprayed you and I can't get out the smell.

You take me in your arms and I let you.
To feel your skin on mine makes me whole.
I miss you, I want you but I hate you for what you did.
It's too late for moral objections, I need to feel connected.
Lips on lips, caressing with eager finger tips.
I am wet, I am ready, and then we are one, I am whole, I am filled with you.
I think of her, I think of you. Together in this way.
Did she feel better then me?
Are you thinking of her now?
My fingers turn to claws and I mark you with my rage.
Was she tighter, better, slimmer?
I am downgraded, I am less, I am not good enough.
I reach for you throat as you ****** above and glare into your eyes.
"Call me Kate."
"Call me Kate."
"Call me by her name."
You try to kiss me into silence but I am persistent.
You lean down and whisper her name in my ear.
Again! Again! ******* call me it again!
I am me and I am her. I feel sick but God does this feel good.

We both reach that point of no return with her name upon your lips    and I wonder where we go from here...
Molly Jun 2016
I remember not being sad,
I wonder what it was like.

Seeing you was horrifying,
and I missed you so much.

Stopped dead in my tracks
"Hi?"

Do you even know who I am?
You couldn't like me

I can't even stand myself.
I can barely stand at all,

it's secret vodkas in the dish pit.
It's drinking until I'm sick

trying to ***** out the black tar
that lines my insides.
bulletcookie Jun 2018
she said it was a ***** Martini
a filmy liquid poured into clear glass
squeeze bottles of Worcestershire, for ******-Mary,
squirted octopus ink into bleeding crushed ice
millions of dancing limes approve
as Vodkas crash to internal shores

she let us smell its fragrance
in the bottle's bottom depths
we drank her beer in ounces
'till a swirling straw bumped ice
there a vision reared it's carnage
with its alcoholic swage

she hovers by her register as the numbers button down
while the room spins after-hours in this other part of town
music plays within this cavern dim where tunes of rue elute
a she and he, to they were friends, days can end in Absolute
from hearth and work's alarm to roam at power's will
uptown/downtown skid row's tribulations till

absorbed in sorrowful rags, tears of strangers
wiped from countertop gouged by time's knife
slices of stories, jokes and anecdotes suspended
on racks above this bar's mirrored memories
hang on entrance door and exit's green light
arriving early after to leave too late

-cec
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
so i'm sitting there, on my windowsill, drinking a blackbeard
(dark *** & ms. pepsi), and solving a sudoku...
existentialism can, really get you kicking the paranoid bucket,
esp. if you read something by jean-paul sartre...
was it him, or was it someone else, who said:
to be, is to be seen...    no wonder, the need for fashion...
                              or might as well call it ****, given it's
coming from france anway...
oh but my "neighbours" (i'd say neighbours if i actually
talked to them... so much for the hope of "integrating"
into english society, when your neighbours play idiots,
or mutes, and you could die in their presence, and then they'd
talk... but only about the stench of a rotting corpse
two weeks later)...
                         anyways... so i'm solving this sudoku and that quote
hits me... someone, might actually be watching me,
  voyeurism is a thing these days, apparently, borrowed
from the 20th century french existentialists...
       but i can't help it after a while... so i'm mumbling to myself,
3    8     5          4    6  9     1     7    2    
6
1
7
4
2          
8                                                               ­            (1 2 3
5                                                              ­              4 5 6
9                                                              ­              7 8 9)...
the mumbling bit comes nearing the end of the puzzle
when you do count: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9... as enforced by the brackets...
  but then laughter arises from my filthy gob...
            i'm not, rain man for ****'s sake! ha ha!
i'm not even going to answer that by saying: oh yeah, i'm 'ard
downing some *** and pepsi...
                              i just like drinking... it's the sedative property
of alcohol that some... well... most people have yet to discover...
        saying that... most people won't...
  so they'll turn to barbiturates... or *****... or marijuana...
   oh hey... nietzsche lamented this scenario...
                                he was high as a kite on barbiturates
(personal life detail)... and he implored to be taught by
     dionysus... to be a disciple of the god of wine...
                       some people really don't know how to drink,
they go off the tangent, it seems a steady diet and then
an inject of "empty" calories in drinks which makes them
           go off the rails, and turn into
                                   absolute bonkers *****...
               this would have been his last and only invocation:
to become a disciple of someone who could school them in drinking...
i'm not too sure about dionysus-ultra, i.e. hitting the rums
    and whiskeys and vodkas...
     you know that story about spartans, right?
   they used to drink wine, but diluted it, half & half...
   and when they wanted to shame an alcoholic
   they gave him the full measure, and marched him down
the street of lacadaemon, kicking him up the ***...
    very much translated into putting a dunce's cap on
someone, and making him ride a donkey, sitting backwards...
                but you can sense from the extract of his writings
(ecce ****?), that he became fed-up with the barbiturates...
   miserable ****** wanted to learn how to laugh
                                         while drinking in his solitude;
and i'd tell him just as much: most people can't laugh
when drinking by themselves... the miserable ***** while never
learn, to unlearn their idea of drinking as a case for
stupid pranks, grizzly ***, and in general... a bad scene on
a night club's dancefloor.
a mcvicar Mar 2019
in a world of able bodies
are you able to perform me?
reaching into deepness & honey
the bass in our voice sounds lovely
but some treble is, quite frankly,
the one thing that we find lacking
in our mono-universal cell beats
in our silly English breakfast tea
reach into the tranquil divided personality
and pull out a couple vodkas & martinis
a long night awaits us out in the city
the elder travellers used to whisper quietly
but now they're just dust-
do you ever just hate anything you ever write
KD Miller Jul 2019
My dearest Anne,
I am living by a lake
with a young man
I met one week after you died.

His beard is red,
his eyes flicker like cat’s eyes,
& the amazing plum of his tongue
sweetens my brain.
He is like nobody
since I love him.
His **** sinks deep
in my heart.



I have owed you a letter
for months.



I wanted to chide
the manner of your death
the way I might have once
revised your poem.
You are like nobody
since I love you,
& you are gone.



Can you believe
your death gave birth to me?
Live or die,
you said insistently.
You chose the second
& the first chose me.
I mourned you
& I found him
in one week.



Is love the sugar-coated poison
that gets us in the end?
We spoke of men
as often as of poems.
We tried to legislate away
the need for love –
that backseat ****
& death caressing you.



Why did you do it
in your mother’s coat?
(I know
but also know
I have to ask.)
Our mothers get us hooked,
then leave us cold,
all full-grown orphans
hungering after love.



You loved a man who sopoe
“like greeting cards.”
“He ***** me well
but I can’t talk to him.”
We shared that awful need
to talk in bed.
Love wasn’t love
if we could only speak
in tongues.



& the intensity of unlove
increased
until the motor, the running motor
could no longer power
the driver,
& you, with miles to go,
would rather sleep.



Between the pills, the suicide pills
& our giggly vodkas in the Algonquin…
Between your round granny glasses
& your eyes blue as glaciers…
Between your stark mother-hunger
& your mother courage,
you knew there was only one poem
we all were writing.



No competition.
“The poem belongs to everyone
& God.”
I jumped out of your car
suicide car
& into his arms.

Your death was mine
I ate it
& returned.



Now I sit by a lake
writing to you.
I love a man
who makes my finger ache.
I type to you
off somewhere in the clouds.
I tap the table
like a spiritualist.



*** is a part of death;
that much I know.
You voice was earth,
your eyes were glacier-blue.
Your slender torso
& long-stemmed American legs
drape across
this huge blue western sky.



I want to tell you “Wait,
don’t do it yet.”
Love is the poison, Anne,
but love eats death.
Rollercoaster Mar 2021
Wanting to change clothes because the ones I’m in aren’t comfortable.
I understand what you mean when you say I look alright.
Seeing you stare another man because you think my clothes aren’t workable.
I don’t hear any of your ******* because you don’t want a fight.

You chew the meat as if you’re seeing it for the first time.
I almost puke at the sight of your gruesome meal.
You puke after too many vodkas with lime.
I couldn’t even get to touch my meal.

Dinner date nights
always end in
screaming fights
and broken glass in the bin.
a fun idea i had.
Oliver Philip Nov 2018
I have an addiction.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I have an addiction.

Having one and confessing holds the key.
Acrostic Poetry is channeled in my brain
Vodkas are not the problem don’t you see
Ever loving friend of mine can you explain?

As you know addictions aren’t foreign to me
Never been into bad things like *******

Addictions of many things ,don’t have to be
Drugs or chocolate or watching steam trains
Drinking so late in bars or Netflix TV.
In trivia nights where brains fight with brains
Crickets addictive to some ,but no time to see
Tempting as it may be to talk in this way.
I hold it in check and give little away.
Oh I guess I am guilty yes guilty as charged
Nonsuch to write you a poem, a poem a day.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip.
November 16th 2018.
Notes upon addictions
sandra wyllie Nov 2022
wet and alone
wrinkled and soft
tossed from man to man
in their hands she squealed
chubby as a beach whale

She started out
drooling and sputtering
cooing and babbling "bababa"
in a mouth with no teeth
and a double chin underneath

She started out
on all fours
crawling on the floor
wobbling and falling
she never stopped falling

She started out
begging to fit in
looking like a boy
with chopped hair
in brown corduroys

She started out
with a maidenhead
and every month
it'd bled bright red

She started out
out with papers and books
jeers and scoffing looks
bitten down nails
in messy pigtails

She started out
in lace
a veil to hide her face
two kids
a cat
a car
and then an empty jar

She started out
with beer on pizza night
then turned to wine
red or white
now she turns on her soap operas
downing three or four vodkas

She started out flirting
and on paper blurting
about her escapades
and a writer's sunken wage

She ends up as she starts
wet and alone
wrinkled and soft

— The End —