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neth jones Mar 13
my mouth hung like an overwhelmed option                        
             i swivel at the window facing
            and stay out the entire day      in this one gawked position
  amazing heat      and an ugg shy of thought                          
    withdrawn     in a mut of mental paralysis
                               by an alcoholic system
                                       on a day off

the day dunks into the eve before i shift any movement
    having sifted the ull                                       
i mix a jar of *** and orange juice
  in the open fridge door

an age dying filter feeder
unk-ing out of brain
Anais Vionet Oct 2023
If light is the fastest thing in the universe,
why is darkness already there when light arrives?

After watching Harry and Megan Sussex grub for ever more cash and attention, I’ve decided that they should start a OnlyFans site.

We’re going to a *****-free dance party.
“You don’t have to drink to have fun.” I assure myself, in the bathroom mirror, but somehow the event sounds like a high school dance.

I’ve been reading the Internet - was it really a giant squid that sank the Titanic?


Panpsychism Is a scientific theory postulating that consciousness is part of the fabric of the Universe.

On the theological level, why would God (or nature) create the bitter taste of espresso and vivid, azure skies slashed with rainbow sunsets if stimulating consciousness weren’t important?

“Colors, tastes and smells are no more than names,” Galileo declared 400 years ago. “(as perceptions) they reside only in consciousness.”

Does life exist, as sensors, to experience stimuli for the galactic consciousness?
Dave Robertson Dec 2021
What’s in your glass, huh?

What’s your poison
with the noise and the noise
in and out of the head?

What swirls, has legs
and kicks like a mule?

Fool juice, nana called it,

but **** me
I could use some fooling
Thomas W Case Aug 2021
I take 3 steps forward, and 1 step back .
I was sober almost 4 months.

Doing swell, the job, prolific writing.
and then, wham, A bottle of Absinthe in two hours,
Not even Van Gogh on the box or the worm wood could
make sense of the garbled words I wrote.
**** Hemingway and Fitzgerald.  And Stein can go to Hell.
Zack Ripley Feb 2021
When I left home,
I was broken and bruised.
Daddy took it out on me
When he fell victim to the *****.
I thought when I graduated,
I'd finally get to choose.
Find a world where the bars
played rock instead of the blues.
The day everything changed,
There was a fork in the road.
There was a wise old man,
And this is what I was told.
"If you go to the left, you'll stay in hell.
But you'll get your revenge
when he dies in a cell.
But if you don't want revenge,
go to the right.
You'll travel the world,
you'll make a difference.
But it will be hard to sleep at night."
I didn't even think. I ran to the right.
He told me it would never be the same
If I ever had to come back.
But I was okay with that.
I had everything I needed in my sack.
Five years later,
I woke up alone in bed.
A purple heart hung above my head.
Even though I am where I am today,
I don't regret it.
Because when I go to my grave,
When someone is asked to describe me,
They'll say "he was brave."
I wanted to write a poem
about the incessant discomfort
I always feel in my left eye
whenever my contact lenses
become old and dry
I thought about how it tickles
but scratches at the same time
and starts off alright
just a minor annoyance
but quickly, overtime
becomes almost unbearable
like my pre-school bully himself
is folding down one of my eyelashes
just enough for it to poke me
at the slightest movement
then I thought about how
I'd sooner write a poem about my life
and how it started out equally alright
and quickly, overtime became almost unbearable
as if my pre-school bully didn't do it right

so I found him in his adult life many years later
wife, two kids and a mortgage
yappy staffy-cross, two cars
and an alright job as a graphic designer
his garden full of gorgeous flowerbeds,
a full head of hair and a fading right hook
a puzzled look on his face,
garden hose flooding his drive and the yappy
staffy-cross still yapping away
at the living room window
so he called the police
and I never got to feel young again
unless you count scurrying away from
a council estate under the threat of
a poor meal at Parkside police station
the rekindling of my youth

so this is my infomercial poem
about how not to confront someone
always be fully clothed
that's very important
avoid being drunk
any mind altering substance
is best avoided in my opinion
remember just because you care
just because you remember
does not mean anyone else does
oh and
don't eyeball craft beer when
you still have your contacts in
you know what?
-just don't eyeball craft beer
Guss Dec 2020
More the I drink,
The less you do,

So Death is walking with you,
And walking with you,
All alone,

The hate you breed is made for one,
And the drink you took was made for fun, So why is it,
you are alone?

Two hearts or three,
The more the strength,
Two tongues at least,
Should be the length,

The blood it needs to be pure red,
The worse it is to use the dead,
Don’t fail to use the ***** flail,
With rust and mold and hair assailed,

Then spit on dirt and churn the mesh,
For bone will rot like all the rest.
And death will take with curse and sail
And whisk you off to your own hell,

This curse is made with hate and power,
With all four corners,
And angels power,

Don’t doubt the strength,
Of birth and death,

The first and last,
Will be your breath.
Flash Thunderson Aug 2020
An orange light peaks through the window
Hatefully greets another day.
He pulls the red sleeping bag over his head
Wishing this nausea would subside.

Fresh scrapes across his knuckles
And violent, violet bruises on his knees—
Just another average morning
For this angry young man.

Stumble from the futon
Amongst the battle ground of empty cans,
Searching for lost left over liquid—
The only remedy he’s ever known

What some people call a disease,
He calls it the cure,
But there’s nothing there—
No more money, no other options—this is it.

Sipping on a cup of reality—
The bitter taste of defeat.
Tired of being tired
And sick of being sick.

Earthquake in his stomach,
A tectonic disturbance.
Heartburn made from magma,
A pyroclastic flow.

Dry heaves and convulsions
Above a porcelain *******.
He knows he needs to stop,
But no one likes a quitter.
Pockets Aug 2020
Here I sit
Feeling like ****
Eyes red
***** blue
Reading haikus
Drinking cheap *****
Tryin’ to find that spark
If not to write
Then at least light my cigarette
So I can smother myself out
And go on to bed
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