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Edna Sweetlove Dec 2014
When I was a little lassie my Grandad and I
were very fond of each other indeed
(although not sexually I must add
before you suspicious buggers start complaining).

Over the hills and fields we used to wander just like, er,
...let me think of a nice metaphor here...
er, like a man and his granddaughter or
like a couple of not so lonely clouds.

Oh how joyfully we would seek out rare birds’ nests
so as to smash the eggs to bits in a frenzy of joy,
which we both enjoyed a lot as it was, er, reet good fun
and a statement of individual choice we both appreciated.

Sometimes we would noisily take a steaming **** together
(although ABSOLUTELY NO ****** contact ever took place
I really must reiterate that for all you ***-abuse-obsessives,
but he had a stupendously big ***** for an old codger).

When we got home in the evening dear old Grandad
would usually make us a nice *** of builders' tea
and some ****** great doorstop sandwiches, but
even at that tender age I would have opted for a good stiff whisky.

Or, come to think of it, a large glass of chilled Chardonnay,
and a plateful of smoked salmon or some oysters,
but the old ******* was teetotal (at least in public) -
either that or just plain ******* mean as Hell.

Darling wizened Granny would make us some toast
out of leftover stale Mother’s Pride white bread,
but, being half blind, the silly fat old cow usually managed
to burn it to a sodding inedible cinder.

On Sundays they would get the gramophone out
and put on some tango 78 records
as they loved Latin American dancing and a good old *****
of each other's flaccid, age-withered buttocks.

How happily I remember the old couple tangoing away
just like a couple of wrinkled whirling ****** dervishes
to 'La Cumparsita' recorded by Mantovani & His Tipica Orchestra
on 20th June 1940 and issued on the Decca label.

They also taught me how to do the rumba
(oompah, oompah, stick it up your jumpah)
and I became quite an expert at the Cuban samba
(which my beloved Grandad wittily called the *****).

How joy-filled were those faraway times of my golden childhood.
but one day I went round only to find an ambulance outside
and the paramedics told me the old pair had been found dead in bed,
their boudoir resembling an abattoir at closing time.

Grandad had bashed the old *****’s brains out
with a red-hot poker during some depraved *** session
and then shoved it eighteen inches up his own *******
which must surely have stung his piles quite a bit.

But what a creative way to go - I bet he danced a bit
as the steaming poker seared his poor back passage.
And thus my grandparents ascended up into the sky -
may they stay forever young in the company of the angels.

Let me again emphasis our friendship was purely platonic
because this was in the rare old times of yesteryear
when widespread paedophilia was not yet a gleam in the eye
of some trash newspaper editor eager to engage with the plebs.
SG Holter Apr 2014
Cottonmouth kingdom.
Bloodshot million-gallon-gaze.
Brewery breath.
Battlescars.

Headache like horses over the hills.

Bukowski without the
Brilliance.
Molly Hughes  Nov 2013
Salt
Molly Hughes Nov 2013
Oh how I long
to fall asleep soundly.
Turn off the light,
flick the switch
and dream.
I dream alright.
My dreams are so far from reality
I can't bare it.
I know alcohol
can make you weepy,
but the willow with it's reaching branches,
that droops so sadly,
is teetotal.
My pillow
is my confidant.
I silently sob into it's
soggy material,
stuffing corners of duvet in to my mouth
to stifle,
s t i f l e,
the sound.
The taste of salt runs down the creases of my cheeks
and in to my mouth,
taking me back to days at the seaside,
fish and chips.
I finally tumble in to a fitful sleep
thinking of the ocean.
But it swallows me whole.
And I'm drowning.
Ellie Sutton  Aug 2021
Teetotal
Ellie Sutton Aug 2021
A single taste of
That tantalizing tonic
Intoxicates me
nivek Aug 2016
******* on tobacco as a child suckles the breast
its been more years than a man cares to count.
All the dire warnings are put aside with, 'count your blessings'
" it could have been worse, I could have been a non smoking teetotal genocidal serial killer like Adolf ******"
Robin Bulmer Sep 2021
The Luscious Scottish greenery is seeping into my coal black machinery
The surreal natural beauty surrounds my adopted and cold cruelty
I cautiously wandered to the Scottish Moor to try and find a teetotal cure
But it seems I have brought my terminal self with me,
I still continously play my sickening and bitter symphony
luapharas  Nov 2014
spit fire
luapharas Nov 2014
I spit fire
only wanting to inquire the truth
not one true statement out of your mouth
liar
our relationship is headed south
in dire need of our mother
get back on track
teetotal your way back to reality
I'm baffled, those perplexed nights
you disappear without a word
smoldering coals of anger arise
  *and    i     spit       fire
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
i shouldn't be writing this... it's too mediocre: or, rather: just ****** obvious... i have to elevate this impromptu with higher thoughts: this bottle of cheap wine just finished has given me a sinister, wry, teenage girl sort of a smile: where ha ha deafens since you're laughing inside your own head... it's hochnacht... only yesterday i raged with a silent scream... i'm not going to wake the neighbours up... when the writing flows freely and it feels good: once upon a time... the howling and the laughter... i have come to the realisation that i require restraints... the silence scream almost dislodged my jaw... a bottle of wine and i'm all squinty eyed... absolutely content, thinking about tomorrow's dinner... what will i conjure... well... i haven't had prawns in a long while... a prawn carbonara... 2nd bottle of wine or take the shorter route with a night-cap of whiskey? ah... decisions decisions... if drinking doesn't **** me: let's just say i'll be midly irritated: but most certainly disappointed...

this is the original:

at least while in Russian i didn't have to spend
the time bothered about totalitarian democracy...
mob rule... however authoritarian
the Russian model is... no political ambitions:
beside the ambitions to live a simple life:
political correctness: but i'm not a politician...
to live among people politicised to the point where:
every second person might be Babushka doll tyrant
with micro-pet-peeves:

i can't actually improve on it...
unlike drink-driving...
drink-writing is... jumbled up with:
the deed of Pontius Pilate:
i was my hands clean
i drown my tongue...
   the much needed lubricant i always claim:
plus... i can claim...
what's that legal term...
gross negligence?
         it's not ****** it's manslaughter...
i'm not going to stand trial:
by any mob...
i was drunk all the way through: me Lowd...
i could be held accountable
if i had a sober: hard-on for what i was
writing... perhaps i'm writing without
conviction... or rather: the drink allows me
to decorate my "conviction" with
floral patterns of digression...
i really don't see how someone sober
can treat a drunk's words seriously...
but it's there as a lubricant...
again: to reiterate...
writing is not driving a car...
i can't be held accountable on these
being sober convictions...

coming back to Russia...
well... hasn't democracy reached a pivot
of its history that makes it:
lacklustre?
democracy is status quo...
democracy is more bureaucracy than
   it was a democracy when the barons
came together and attacked king John...
it was a democracy
during the years of electoral monarchy
in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth...
i veto: i never vote...
i tried once... but the paperwork
suffocated my interest to do so...
if everyone is involved in: "democracy"
then sooner rather than later
it degenerates into political correctness...
i'm not a politician: or for that matter
a rhetorician: why should i care what words
might: words get things done...
words allow being to do and be...
things will never be equipped with words...
i lie: i can arm a knock on wood
with a terrible onomatopoeia...
besides the point...

               in Russian i wouldn't expect to find myself
in a quasi-Stasi curriculum...
my fellow citizen leaves me: as i invite him
as suspect?!
that's not fair on the project: citizenship:
civility... oddly enough politicians are
hardly involved in matters that truly bother people...
wait... wasn't i supposed to recount
the *** i've had: let it drag out for a few
more entries before fizzling out
while i might return to my eclectic tastes?

all of a sudden... there's no: "oh... suddenly"...
that Walt Whitman reference...
prove your point...
that i once went to a gay bar with my cousin
that i allowed my *** to be groped...
that i allowed a man to put a tongue in my mouth...
that i have kissed men with tenderness:
of note... Ben... Tristan's friend from Bristol...
one night of all nights:
Hogmanay...              i'd steal pieces of Paris
and give it unto Edinburgh...
Paris first... Edinburgh second...
and there was St. Petersburg and Moscow...
Venice and Amsterdam... Stockholm...
Warsaw... Athens 3rd... because of the strip-club...
there was Barcelona and there was also Mombasa...
eh... Paris 1st... Edinburgh 2nd...

otherwise? oh... did you watch the France vs. Swiss
match? i missed the Spain vs. Croatia game:
i was watching some Whim-Bled-Don...
never mind...
it's good to see a plateau...
the ol' David vs. Goliath...
   or how... kylian mbappé became: fully human...
i don't like schadenfreude...
it must be a trait of the Germanic people...
even if they later dilute their blood with the Welsh
and the Celts and become Anglo-Saxons...
it's not that i fear: c.c.t.v. karma...
i just find pleasure in the sensation...
but it was beautiful to watch a talented,
aspiring footballer come against his first
proper: hurdle... like the rest of us...
almost as beautiful as the whole match was:
come on... after the missed penalty...
then 1 -1, 2 - 1, 3 -1... ending up being 3 - 3 and
unresolved in extra time...
then the roulette of penalties...
rarely can a football match be this: beautiful...
truly... as much as i love the soloists in
tennis... it's impossible to compare:
chalk is cheese... some might say...

- why are so many national anthems:
anaemic?
i only have a few national anthems that i like...
not via bias: the ****** Mazurek Dąbrowskiego...
the H'American: the Star-Spangled Banner...
Russian "The Internationale"
the French La Marseillaise
hell... thrown in the Shvabs
und zee Bavzarians with their Uber Alles...

oddly enough not the English anthem...
isn't it enough that Auld Lang Syne
beats all the above, songs?
i don't like international football:
sure... too much money in club sport
but i never want to feel as part of something
greater: bigger... not from the confines
of a football match...
no... sure: to be part of something bigger...
but not from the starting point
of a football match...
     i watch the game for the sake of it being
a game... how some people arrive at
a conclusion that it's a religion:
how they procreate and later
come to passing on their support allegiance to
club (let alone country) to their children?

well... something had to fill the void
if the original religion wasn't up for proper scratches:
so much for secularism...
i don't underestimate the value of said: new
religion... but we're still "talking" about sport...
hence my love for the underappreciated sports
at the Olympics: classical Greek wrestling...
table-tennis... archery...
and all the solo sports that also pay well:
like tennis...

bringing a flag of the individual to an event
should be seen as a faux pas...
it's a shame that it sometimes happens...

- yeah... why are so many national anthems:
anaemic... forgettable?
the Spanish and the Italians have ****** anthems...
suppose the Norwegians had a decent anthem:
oh, just because Norway produced a Grieg...
but Norway didn't produce a Grieg:
Grieg produced Grieg...
that's my problem with the lasso of:
national ownership of the people that stand out...
i'm not going to bombast this dear reader
with a quote by some ancient Greek philosopher
living in a city-state who was quoted as
saying: i'm the citizen of the world!

the current vicinity is my world:
i sometimes extend it when i cycle towards St. Paul's
cathedral...
how people become so... engrossed in their
football teams... that they pass on the banner
of support... allegiance to their children:
i don't think smart people reproduce...
i don't see the point of passing on my...
   shortcomings...
added the fact that i can entertain myself:
just pretty **** dandy well while...
seeing demon faces in clouds at night...

or faces in trees... pareidolia...
but they're not human faces...
i'd cite pareidolia  if someone accuses dear reader
of transphobia: whereas arachnophobia is
tingly: real...
well... what can one do:
if something is relocated into the crab-bucket
of shared-experience: a phenomenon...
anyone with a questionable sanity will
still pursue finding himself: his self:
via establishing working parameters of
the noumenon: the res-per-se... Kantian:
i wouldn't settle for a phenomenological
answer... i guess that' my "original sin"...

to state oneself unique...
not spaz-y'all... special...
  it's a conundrum to be and not be...
unquestionable dictations that repeat themselves:
like the years and the seasons that rummage through
them... the tides of the seas
and the burdens of earthquakes that
rumble like the sounds of a starved stomach...

i still fall asleep to...
christopher young's hellraiser II: hellbound
soundtrack most of the nights...
horror music: done proper...
the only romance...
the wine helps... he's no Prokofiev with
that Lt. Kije Suite... but...
i never seem to get bored:
i'd love to be this grand architect of dreams...
i fall asleep and fall into the abyss:
i'd imagine dreams to be...
             obstructions...
i'm almost glad since that one great adventure
of death is: tilting given the years...
i'm yet to make my own...
well... concerning the dead:
it takes nine months of mr. tadpole...
and several more to get memory functioning
before consciousness is arrived at:
memory comes prior to imagination...
memory is cinema:
a welcome cinema: if you can honestly account for
yourself:
the odd nights when you were found drunk
in public somehow don't matter:
asking for a police escort because you were
immobilised: m'eh...

ugh... such anaemic anthems...
of all the people in the world: the Italians have
an anaemic anthem...
a spaghetti bundle of murmur and morose...
how?

good to know: an interlude of a shot of ms. amber
between all that's: in vino veritas etc. etc.
in vino: vivo!
life: blood the bundle of hopes...
i might be deemed cowering into a corner
****** by shadows and succubus delusions...
i stated it felt cold while cycling through
the heat of cement of central London
wearing an 1813 t-shirt with a depiction
of the EISENKREUZ...

my ******* were hard and pinched...
it wasn't cold...
was i a breast-feeding ***** of a dog
or something?
i noticed a stare or two...
i started to blame it on the fabric...
later on the detergent...
how do we begin to fathom: dreams?
not the content of dreams: but dreams per se...
i have one memorable dream:
although i have so little...
running on an abstract that was a *****
while men imitating sheep were rolling down
chased by demons chopping their heads
off while i was... saving them from...
falling into the depth of nothing...

i was a teenager back then...
eh...
     so much for Freud and the altar of metaphor-objects...
insinuation-objects: or whatever the hell
you want to call a cucumber "if" it "isn't"!

- i know how alcoholics operate...
ooh! oh! suddenly the outbursts of "amnesia":
i call it a moral hangover...
they never bother to trace their deeds while
in the process of drinking...
what am i doing, while drinking?
i write...
i've seen at least one of my grandfathers
succumb to the drink without ever producing
some depth to his drinking...
unlike my father the near teattottle (****... 23
google result... tease me... add one more
obscure word...

teetotal on the topic of alcohol consumption:
well... it's probably genetic...
he had sleeper genes... the grandfathers worked
in the metallurgy industry...
not drinking would seem daft...
but seeing how my maternal gran-
managed to break my grandmothers hand...
most alcoholics will not account for their deeds:
drink and write: what drinker writes?
perhaps this is why i suspect all that's
ever written within the framework of
sobriety?

chevalier: mult estes guaritz...
i drink and listen to medieval songs...
why wouldn't you?
hell: if the moon is the right blue:
i'll swerve toward listening to an Adhan...

hey presto! teattottle rag... a googlewhack...
teattottle dig... another...

but i drink with accounts...
       i'm not going to... stumble into:
quasi-narcolepsy...
ingest some neuroleptic (anti-psychotic)
drugs: yes... yes...
the agitated soul (the sigma of animation)
disgruntled with a body: per se...
transgenderism can take a back seat
when it comes to: being disgruntled with
the body... eh... merely the focus on ***...
is... base... pointless...
the body is rock...
the mind is water... the posit for
consecrating oneself with animation is air...
gender-"confusion" is still bound to the quote:

to angels - vision of god's throne -
to insects - sensual lust...

to be this entombed with the ownership of this
carcass... to elevate ***-change therapies
over... cancer-treatment...
selfish *******: don't you think?
oh... wait... in a "democracy": i'm not supposed to judge...
the minority holds the sway: swerve...
argument...
and why is it that i drink?
sober people with all their self-aggrandizing
posturing...
they don't believe: half... halve the half and halve it
some more and more...
they still won't believe it...
their fellow citizen... comrade has been endowed
with powers that might make them:
buckle... or stipend themselves with
taking a knee to some ghostly authority...

again: i can't enjoy the suffering of others:
i've delved too much into the mime language of
animals...
there's no pleasure in seeing something
expected of civility be reduced to:
this heap of dung and bleeding *******...
it's no fun... if there was ever the noble savage...
i imagine myself the antonym:
the savage civilian...
oh how the subversion gummy squad of
pink breeding brine and brown
how they come at words...

what's next? i replace letters with...
chopsticks imitating Morse code? tap tap tap...
tap tap... tap... tap tap tap tap... tap tap... tap?!

- i like writing during the night: because...
i'm comforted by the... "image":
reality... of other people being asleep
while... the same people later wake up
and have to... succumb to a formality of language...
i never liked formal language...
language of the: "expected":
at times a misnomer "..."
other times a metaphor... with gagging rights
to shoot with bullets of ridicule...

not when the minority hold sway over
the majority:
with each chance to vote: i veto my right
to vote...
there was a time when
the majority held values to uphold the status
of minority: but since then
the minority wants to sway
the argument of the majority:
have your whittle rainbow gimp ****...
without me!

no! nein! nein! nie! niet!
i admire Russia...
if the people require a leash and a muzzle:
the thrills of freedom get in the way
of keeping **** together?!
so be it!
   these ******* westerners and their
"concerns" of "freedom":
**** me... what good is "fweedom"
when it becomes oppressive in the hands
and tongues of the many?
it's one thing when it holds its finicky sway
in the hands of the few
but among us everyday greyish folk?

once upon a time...
the king and the democratic barons...
now... the Russian tyrant
and the piggish suckling at the ****
oligarchs...
hell... if i owned a dog... and i was drinking:
the ****** "thing" would probably bark
at me as it barked at my grandfather...
thank god i own a cat...

i drink and just show it more tenderness...
a bit like i do with prostitutes...
i'm no Jack the ol' Ripper...
i give us much love as can be allowed...
and give some more... to sprinkle some salt
on the already available wounds...
i'll love and love more until it starts to ache...
i don't want to understand women:
i love them too much in their freedoms:
working from some previously gained
or otherwise...

i don't want to understand women:
hence? i chose to delight myself on some stumbling
block of clarity...
now... if they can't understand this:
to hell with being loved:
to be feared! as a man...
i fizzle through the static and watch myself
become: potential... the ugliest potential
i've already cited...
perhaps my words will agitate someone to
do a synchronised bidding?
you never know...

  blah... blah... and more gagging: blah.

— The End —