LiqouricePepsi Dec 2017
Chewing cocoa-coconut cigarettes on the barren blueberry
balcony, my château of confinement, where I try to translate my turquoise thoughts
into songs of sunshine. I look down to
spectral spraypaint on broken bloodless bland bricks of brown
as lurid lifeless leaves leap on the liquorice midnight saturnine
street of solitude. The wind’s final whine of breeze fades as the languid
leaves freeze,
forlorn on the footpath. Sheets of sugar swan snow splatter from the
solferino sidewalk sky.
As the primrose ruby sunset peaches on emerald lazuli trees are sprinkled with pearl and diamond.
The wind pounds my pocket, exposing my Bible, Lunch Poems by Frank O’Hara.
I could die to dine in a diner right now, where I would sit on strawberry and vanilla striped seats, as a jukebox would cry out beatnik bop tunes of passion, as I would read out extracts by Frank, muttering like a madperson, a premiere of my personal heaven.
All these feelings, colours and thoughts from one small poetry book.
I stare at the dying blackberry plum mulberry sky, and have one last squirt of smoke from my ivory-amber cigarette on my ice-cream pale marble lips,
and I flick it onto the peacock ocean sky balcony,
as I head to the Divine Diner, robed in neon
and dressed in ruby and cream stripes.
FYI - this ain't my 64th poem. I just wanted to have an eccentric title. the 64 is obviously the nintendo 64, hell yeeah motherfucker
LiqouricePepsi Dec 2017
To Frank O’Hara (1926-1966)

The blues buzz and the reds rumble,
the yellows yell and the greens growl.
The morning sky shines like a leviathan lemon.
Diner signs screech like spectres in a spectrum,
as their rainbows roar, delivering their mundane message
of cheeseburgers and chocolate milkshakes.
These solitary signs scribble and sing
odes to fried fish and French fries and hymns
to castles of casinos. Pinks pule elegies of
women who sold their expensive bodies for
a handful of dollars, who will never regain
their childlike innocence again.
I’ll stare at these sonneteer signs
just like how O’Hara did. I’ll scroll these streets
for him,
just like he did, for me.
LiqouricePepsi Dec 2017
I only write poetry
in the presence of jazz
because all of this is improvised
LiqouricePepsi Dec 2017
Teacher Death, stop crying
For I have stopped trying.

You won’t be alone anymore,
it’s all over soon, my soul won’t be sore

Perserving made me sad
And my grey hairs make me feel bad

To suffer is why we’re born,
and I make every heart forlorn

Friend Breath, I must say goodbye to you,
because to say friends are for forever, that’s not true.
LiqouricePepsi Dec 2017
I left the diner at 12pm.
I brushed my slightly overgrown teenage hair back,
and put on my straw hat. My pink bike rested on a
coffee-coloured wall. I pulled a carton of cigarettes
out of my pink sweatshirt pocket, watermelon flavour,
to be exact. I strolled the street, with my
bike in hand and rose-red cigarette in mouth,
the tip lighting up like a black volcano, now and then.
Leaves, curled up like dolphins dance on these
solitary streets.
I got on my pink bike
and Tokyo-drifted down the streets of solitude.
I felt like a penguin parading down deserts of ice,
delivering a holy message of nothingness,
my words are nothing,
my sentences are nothing,
my paragraphs are nothing,
my questions are nothing,
my answers are nothing,
and my poetry is nothing.
I zoomed down the silent and suffering streets
as an unimportant pink blur, a speck of existence.
Garbage bins zoom by, where my poetry sleeps,
full with wasps worshipping rotten amber apples.
The tropical tang of the watermelon cigarette faded,
I flung it from my marble mouth and
like an executioner, the bike wheels finished the flame.
The tiny black volcano lay extinct on the gravestone street.
Graffiti posed like a Playboy model on broken concrete walls,
painted by philosophical and political punks, the real heroes
who are censored by the desperate void of customs and rules.
All they want and all I want
is to be set free
by breaking the barriers
of love,
and the barriers of language and expression
and to be hidden by the eternal judgement and
distorted doubts of a non-existent closet of fear.
The dolphin leaves dance joyfully and swiftly,
like an American boy’s passionate kiss
filled with an erotic marijuana bliss.
I am with him now,
I am with him forever,
and I am with him in the grave.
I am with his lips,
I am with his hands,
I am with his stomach,
I am with his cock and balls.
I am with his legs,
I am with his heart,
and I am with his soul.
I am with Nate.
Desolate, hurt and confused in the Irish suburbanite darkness,
I dream of a warm, sunny day in North Carolina,
right outside my not-yet house and
on bright, emerald, neon green grass,
I lean in for a kiss
with Nate.
If you were alarmed by my inactivity, well don't  worry, I was only writing this, my longest poem ever... It's essentially my "Howl"
LiqouricePepsi Nov 2017
i have studied how men
have ensnared women
and called it love

to those who cannot fathom
a woman beyond womanhood
or a woman  beyond man
LiqouricePepsi Nov 2017
Upon a pink cloud
I held a cigarette
lazily and lifeless.
I sit near the edge
of the strawberry-cream cloud.

I stare at the rose-peach sunset
that tasted like Miami.
The apricot abyss reminds me
of my hollow heart.
Ashes fall like feathers.

The cigarette
burns and burnishes
my little, ludicrous
lips as I question
the ghastly thoughts in my mind.
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