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Cana Feb 2018
The warmth fills you up
The burn scrapes your throat
You’d like to hiccough
And your brain is afloat

The Bourbon is hot
The ice is not
The ginger is sweet
But my heart prefers it neat.
I’m drunk. Leave me alone
Cana Feb 2018
Morning mood was bleak
Spiced with some Jazz, a poached egg and Appreciation.

Noon was carnival!
BBQ on the dock sprinkled with tropical house and a heavy dose of ***.

Night was narcissism
Sinful Bourbon and banana desserts, cigarettes aplenty, blue lights and bad habits
Day 6 was a good day.
svdgrl Sep 2017
I want to cry but to be perfectly honest,
I don’t feel like crying. I mean maybe,
I feel like I should be crying,
perhaps the girl, that wasn’t on anything
would probably be bawling her face out into her sheets,
or at least be asleep,
But here I am awake at 5 in the morning,
obviously tired.
Eyes dry and wide open,
Obviously spent
Numb-nosed and hell bent on writing something to read today
I’m typing away at this screen as if my conscience is the only thing
that could hear me if I scream out loud right now.
Enough of that,
filler angst.

I’ve been a juicy story for ya, huh?
Tellin your boys
I ended your dry spell, did I?
That’s quite lovely.
I suppose you ended mine, but I guess I find that hard to define
with a saying as simple as that, “She ended my dry spell”
In my heart, I know how to end you, but don’t be concerned.
I won’t try.
They say I’m too nice.
And when I hear that, I nod twice with my jaw tight
When I hear that, I don’t show them what I write.

I guess I don’t really feel much anger towards you anyway.
No matter what ill will I try to muster up, it’s lackluster and faded.
I mean, I guess it’s mostly me that’s jaded, so
It’s not your fault.
You’re the bystander.
And nothing is really telling you to save me.
Certainly, not I.
Hell, I’d be ****** if you tried.
I mean how much saving do I really need,
if the knots in my chest and around my ankles are this loose?
And I’m drinking this juice with free hands
it tastes sweet but not sticky

Honey, thanks for the truth,
you are a straight shooter-
and I might just be digging that part of you.
That and that we can go at it hard and forever.
That doesn’t hurt, I think.
For that, I can deal with listening to your jabber,
your kissing and telling, your “**** I couldn’t have her.”
Just pass the bourbon please, even though it's only scotch,
there’s still an urgency, to not be sober while you talk.

I don’t know.

This is what I wanted, right?
No strings attached too tight?

I like how you feel against my cheek.
Almost like you mean something.
You’re warm and I’m buzzed,
hanging off the edge of lust
It’s just oxytocin playing the cruel trick.
I remind myself you’re just that.
Oxytocin and some good ****.
But I like how you feel against my cheek.
Just ***** that you bore me when you speak.
Ron Gavalik Aug 2017
The moment the mind floats
on two shots of bourbon
our physical and mental ailments,
the stress of bills, the job,
and our resentment for ex-lovers
clocks out for the evening.
Don't worry.
The **** storm will return
in the morning,
but that break and a quick prayer
gives us the tools
to withstand the storm.
Scarlet McCall Jul 2017
The work day’s done,
no one to answer to--
no responsibility, no deadline,
no assignment due.
Now I’ve got a date, a rendezvous,
with my best friend Jack,  he’s always true.

Sipping slowly; it’s meant to savor.
Fiery liquid with smoky flavor.
Tip the bottle; now, don’t waver.

Take me away, from  insipid task,
annoying colleagues, boss always with an ask.
When I pour the faithful bottle
I go elsewhere; it pulls the throttle.
Slip away into dreamland;
just me and jack; he’s got no demands.

Drink the potion, enter trance.
Jack and I,  in tandem dance.
A slow waltz seen in double vision;
altered consciousness,
free from decision.
I'm not really a lush.
A couple wuz beading up
for a chi chi day
She drunkenly laughed
**** stained her dress

A olive skin woman
in golden glitter pasties
Offered neon *** shots
near 10 in the morning

A chubby girl dressed
in a black fishnet body suit
selling face paintings
while her supple *******
Jiggled in your face

A black man occupied
A most different plain
Sat behind two chess boards
wasn't gettin paid

Two SAP cars parked
At Royal Sonesta curb
idling to taxi exec sappers
back to the friendly skies

****** whippin glitter girl
Shakin her money maker
Lookin hard at her wares
What the hell she sellin?

Across the street
miked up bible thumper
Doin his groove thing
Raged against the ***** show
Ca ching ca ching ca ching

I ducked a bity bee
Flying at my face
I'm walkin Bourbon
Full of mighty grace

Hard Rock Guys
selling cannabis lollis
crowded corners bumpin
Ain't no trollies

boom box blastin
back beat samples
Who Dat Jazz?
muskrat rambles

Three card monte
Obstructive beggers
Kids banging on
5 gallon drums
Gimme a dime mister

Louie Armstrong Park
Congo Square
Where it at?
Gotta get there

***** Glitter still barking
Mardi ****** Gras tees
Snapchat Me Your *****
Ducked another bee

Kid put his two pails
In mid of the rue
Gotta pay the toll
Whatcha gunna do?

Mardi Gras Music

From NOLA Notes
scribbled from notes of jazz hajj
Joy Nov 2016
Hips, curves and all,
Spilling and slipping with
Tip-top, filled up
November, 2016
Luna Craft Jun 2016
There is a strange feeling of contempt in my home
I've grown used to the beatings
Whether it be a tongue lashing or being dragged across the halls
Both feel the same, I no longer cry, I feel only emptiness
I expect it now, the scent of bourbon seems to follow it home
It clings to all life and ***** it dry, a concubine not fit to marry
We keep it in our closets, behind shallow doors that do not shut
As if to hide them.
I've never been so stressed,
Born to Christians,
but never have been blessed,
Born to Catholics,
Never once did I confess,
But I now have a confession,
I'm not the man im yet to be,
Not the man,
My family thinks they see,
In reality a pretender,
In all honesty a ***,
Do not return to sender,
Do not ask me where I'm from.
Because I've lived too many places,
Shook too many hands,
Seen a lot of faces,
But never kept my friends.
A web spun by the fates,
But as of late,
It's just whiskey to the brain,
Old fashion's so I'm sane,
And too many cigarettes to calculate,
I'm just too drunk too operate,
Just imagine and I'll illustrate,
It's Saint paddys and I'm parched,
I grab a bottle for the thirst,
Its rough but it's the first,
And then goes down the second,
The third, the fourth
The fifth and then the sixth,
The room is spinning,
Face the mirror and I'm grinning,
Face myself but can't look,
Like the last sentence in a book,
I hope there's a sequel to this novel,
Maybe even a trilogy,
I apologize for my soliloquy,
But I do digress,
There are truths to confess,
I'd like to never be my father,
Or to have kids before I'm thirty,
I'd like a home that isn't *****,
And a wife that will forgive me,
For smoking like a chimney,
After all I'm only but a man,
Who makes mistakes along the way,
But the way to hell,
Is paved with good intentions,
and I intend to live in peace,
Somewhere quiet, full of trees,
Away from the noise,
Drugs, guns and the disease,
Call me what you want,
I just want to be at ease,
Head up high, stand up tall,
As I drop my demons to their knees.
Ron Gavalik Jan 2016
On barstools, people drone on endlessly
about meditation and yoga and hot yoga
or cold jogging, and bicycling in special pants.
‘It gives you a high,’ they say.
‘You’re on top of the world,’ they scream.
The saps push their new religions
with the gusto of car salesmen.
When it’s a woman, I politely listen
between mouthfuls of whiskey and ginger ale.
When it’s a man, I shut him down
early in his ramble. I tell him to
grow a pair.

Curvaceous women with long hair
and ***** that easily get wet,
bourbon that melts the top layer of ice,
pocketing a few bucks after sinking the 8 ball,
those are the legal addictions,
I tell punks
that give a man small escapes,
the sins he commits to feel whole.
A man who knows the desperation
of fulfilling temptations always
works harder to stay one step ahead
of the game.

Those are the addictions,
I tell men in designer clothes,
that **** us
when we least expect
our demise.
To be included in my next collection, **** River Sins.
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