Brown bottles filled with hops
It seems to be the only physical evidence left
Eleven sit on my bedside table
Ten you finished, one I couldn't, and one unopened
The smell of you is gone from my clothes
Gone from the blanket I hope kept you warm
I still feel your hand on my thigh
Your deep laugh vibrating against my chest
Your hair between my fingers
For now the only thing I can hold between my hands
Is a beer bottle gone stale
But every time I look down at my cold hands
I remember how warm they felt holding you

beautiful woman
revolver pick up truck beer
on ice a real sight

At least
If you're holding
A beer
You can blame
The beer
By asking someone
To hold said beer
While you do something insanely stupid.

I'm sipping of my dream of you.
Remembering how deeply we
looked into each other's souls.
I felt your heart inside of mine,
When we were first together that October night.

I had merlot, and you the king of beers;
if we had an audience, they would all stand and cheer.
The heat between us was pure magic, the elements
of the universe sang our love song.
How ***** of you, to slip me your tongue.

My imagination took over me, and
my dream of you came abundantly…clear.
That I would see you again, in another year.

It seems that football and beer is a  much More desired plan today
Than words spoken from the heart or wisdom... or art of the grey,
But what can I say?
I'm too passionate about it,
I can't give up...

Shadows of the past coming to remind me that once upon a time I was quite okay with everything...
As long as I was myself and I was mine not someone elses...

I guess I grew up and I prefer another path... Something that makes me feel complete... myself...

ashes in my mouth
drank wrong beer can oh shitsky
drink up brother drink

Back in my bone crushing
poverty ridden days,
I collected cans for nickels;
enough cans meant ***** and
smokes for the day.
one morning I came across
an empty can of beer, it said,
Dead Irish Poet Beer.
i thought, how odd is this?
Just then, a car blew by blaring
a Van Morrison song.
I thought, ah yes, but he's alive.
I didn't take the can for the nickel.
I left it to its green garbage
can grave.

Writing a poem for the sake of writing a poem.
I’m feeling emotions. More than ten.
Emotions that numb the toughest of men.
Even after all these exercises on Zen
It still feels like I’m falling apart at the hem.

But it’s all good! Isn’t it? I’m here.
Living through it with fear
Just ordered a double gin and some beer
But the mere feeling evokes a tear
and leaves me kneeling at the gateway of those emotions.
Dripping all over me like hot lotion
Without commitment or devotion.
And everything feels like it's slow motion.

So apparently it’s normal. To feel things.
They say all the stings and the pings are worth it
because we’re not supposed to be perfect,
and ‘these feelings need to be nurtured’.
*******. It’s all a bit perverted like a lie that's murmured.
This ******* feeling is so determined that I can't win.
If I do, I'll be singed and pinned
Even though I haven't actually sinned.
Yet I'm the one writing this poem. Not her.

Where the **** is that beer?
So I wrote this. This poem. Here.

Strange thing about beer.
The emptier the bottle is,
the heavier it gets.