Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Harry Kelly Sep 2018
Another Night Here
Yelling in the Hallway
Can’t make all the words
Never can when they are drunk
A knife was involved
And a chain of some sort
Cops come
They are pleading their cases
Pleading their sides
Cops patiently listening
He pulled knife on me
She’s a *****
Sir please calm down
He’s a drunk
He stole my chain
Now I get the picture
I’m peeking out
I’m a peeker
Goes on for a bit
Ma’am Did he hit you
He pulled a knife
I was cutting something
Sir did you pull a knife on her
No
He threatened me
Did you threaten her
I threatened to throw her out
It’s his place
When this is figured out things calm down
Cops leave
She stays
She just wanted to be heard
She just wanted to be loved
He just wanted to be left alone
Don’t we all.
Don’t we all.
inthewater Mar 2018
it drips from the bottle
and into your
mouth
which spouts words
with no regard for my
feelings
that you don't know how to address
without alcohol kissing your
lips
that form sentences
with a mind of their own
uninhibited by their flattery of me when they were
  sober.

it agitates your face
as it rests in your
hands
that used to hold mine and it
glazes over your
eyes
that used to light up when they saw me
or when they heard my
name
that you can hardly stand to speak
without alcohol
dancing on your
breath
that doesn't render sounds
without cheap courage summoned
  up.

it depresses your
mind
that I used to find intriguing
as it was paradoxically
kind with a quick
wit
that no longer aims
to make me laugh
but is now restrained by the liquor
label
that you plastered to yourself
without concern -
would you even stop
if your own bottle said
  please?
Sombro Jan 2018
Me, on my way to clock out,
He, croaking wooden breaths, a
Splintering throat, crooked as an oar's overbite
Glinting with some
Unbelievably bared promise.

I looked past him, echoed the anxious knots
Of its hollowed brow, scooped and spotted
From overuse, I frowned past him, though he followed.

I spent as long as I could not talking to him,
But forced to deny myself silence
I heard his two part speech
And paid some token focus
To what he had to say

What little I heard, in his hope filled groans
Had nothing of his contented purpose, for
Varnished words are slippery

When we went to the pub he
Leant on the wooden counter and
His roots set, he
Sprouted drunken fruit and
I don't think he's moved since
this one was sitting in drafts, so I thought I'd finish it, I'm having a prolific day
Problematic blockheads
make up for a
tiresome,
strenuous,
elongated
work week.
Fights and disputes
with significant others
added.
Feelings are as cold and numb
as the frozen tundra
from lack of stimulation and affection.
Vexed and frustrated
with only one outlet
to take the edge off.
Drown your sorrows
out at the nearby
hole-in-the-wall tavern
as a safe haven.
Coincidentally opened
at your convenience
for when you've hit your
lowest point.
Enter through the
neon lit beer signs
of the tap room in a
dark, damp atmosphere.
The bar keep already
knows your name.
Grab a barstool
at the u-shaped countertop,
light up a smoke,
tuck the pack in your front pocket,
order up your first pint
and take a look around
at this all-star lineup.
As the smoke clears....
it's like the city of the dead.
Necropolis for the local drunkards.
Crippled motards and disabled vets
play cards and scream of old war stories
and tell bad jokes.
Swimming in a sea of
mechanics uniforms with their names
etched upon their hearts.
Neighborhood friendly bar *****
with raspy voices.
Quenching for lust
in demeaning mannerisms.
Like a cigarette vending machine,
exchanging the poussoise
for free drinks and moloko.
Rowdy, ****-Eyed wonder boys
gather round at Sunday's mass for alcoholics and hover over pool tables
and smother dartboards.
Slipping pills in the
dead soldiers of the innocence.
All, over controlling the jukebox
with the appalling top 40 hits.
Pitcher after pitcher.
Empty and refilling their dog dishes
over and over again until they're in a
complete state of incoherence
and belligerence without pacing
and/or enjoying the simply
effects of alcohol.
Sober to blackout with
no in between.
Gilded with suds of
low budget malts.
Treated with over priced
sugary cocktails and
watered down aqua vitae
with colorful names.
You sit alone.
Head tilted back.
Drink slow.
Let it flow
as you pour the shots and drafts
down your throat with
that burning sensation aftermath.
Fueled by barley and hops.
You're catapulted into that warm,
fuzzy feeling of being buzzed
and you let it overtake you.
It may not be much but
it's all you got at the moment.
Entire paychecks blown.
Myriad of ashtrays fill up
while engaging with
preposterous claptrap conversationalists.
Muscled, mustache macho men
feel pilloried over petty and
trivial coin tricks
and have to swing their
over compensated ***** by
quickly escalating in violence
and breaking beer bottles
over the heads of Neanderthals
who are evolutionary one step behind.
Gummed by shanky old hags
in bathroom blow jobs.
Eight ball party favors
lined up for indulgence
on the seats of the scummiest toilets.
And those mirrors.....
Those ******* mirrors
behind the bar.
Every time you look into them,
only to see yourself
and your surroundings.
You are reminded of the shameful digest
and wonders of how it is,
that it all comes down to this.
Yet,
there you are,
still sipping beer through a straw.
Morning arrives,
you wake up feeling below par
and hazy.
As you gather your thoughts,
you roll over next to that
butterface haggard horrid wet spot
you avoided on the last stop
of your tour of profligacy.
Feeling ashamed of yourself
as this lifestyle hardens you.
You drink to remember.
You drink to forget.
You drink to your losses.
You drink to your gains.
You drink to celebrate.
You drink to your melancholy
and loneliness.
Either way....
you drink.
hazem al jaber Apr 2017
Drunks lovers...






let me whisper my love to you...

let me soliloquize a love into your eyes...

and to float on your lips' seas...

and sleep on your darkest iris...



let me smell a loves' perfume from your body...

to perfume my body from your breathes' flame...

and to melt into your eyes' maze...

to get lost so deep into your space...



let me be the beat of your heart...

the air to your lungs

the rosy blood that runs into your veins...

and a loves' thought to your mind...



let me touch a love from your hands...

and drink it from your lips...

to be a drunk adorable lover...

a love that comes poetically from your lips...



let me be a lover that you adore...

let me be a desires that you seek for...

let me be that adorable talks inside your mind...

and a warmly whisper into you ears...

let me melt inside you as a Sweet wine...

to drink me to get me the drunk of your love...



let and give me...

all what gives us all what we need for...

love you...

for you only...

granting you my heart...

hazem al ...
drunk
Brent Kincaid Nov 2016
You can't save a loser
They have to save themselves.
No matter how you love them
You can’t breathe for someone else.
You can’t pay their emotional bills
With the love stored in your heart.
You can’t be with them 24/7
So it’s best for you to start
Waking to reality’s demands
And wash your hands
Of this self-destructive fantasy.
Soon, even they will understand.

And if they don’t see wisdom
In what you are trying to do
Let them go on and ruin their life
But it won’t be because of you.
Maybe you think it is too late
Because you spoiled them already,
So now they need your guiding hand
To keep their courses steady.

If you’re strong enough to realize
You’re not helping them a bit
You can gather enough love
And strength enough to quit
Babying someone who today
Is no longer just a little child.
Let them find their own rock bottom
At the risk of being totally wild.
It’s really the only thing to do.
So, if you are the wife, the friend;
Sister, father, brother or mother,
You will find you have the time
For you and the loser to recover.
I stopped somewhere along the way .
It was a blank place with even more blank faces .
They seemed just as detached as myself.

There is a true beauty of being alone .
I haven't seen a familiar face in weeks .
But then again I haven't had the headache of having to pretend
I care either .

I thought about when I left.
There was comfort in the routine.
Knowing the misery would great me every day .
Knowing the name of every ******* ******* who drove me nuts enough to leave in the first place.

As I waited to pay for gas the ***** behind the counter looked at me as though I was some sort of oddity .
Two six packs in hand I asked for a pack of Marlboro reds as well.
He looked at the clock .

Kind of early to be hitting sauce huh pal.
He asked me as he put the pack of cigarettes on the counter and rang the rest of my crap up.

His name tag read Mark.
I was just passing through but at least I had met one of the Kentucky chapter of ******* .

Well never to early to start a bad habit my friend I said as I paid the gas station Gestapo  a fifty.

He held it to the light .
Just pressed it today bud I said.
Somebody has been passing fake bills around the area he replied .
Well when I run into somebody I will let him know your on the job .

You aren't from around here huh mister ?

He placed my change on the counter .
I didn't say **** I just walked out with my change and two semi warm six packs in hand .

I herd him say you have a nice day as I was heading out the door.

It was funny how people viewed others as if there life were some great ******* contest.
They thought there life's were good as long as there was someone else
to look down on.

Yeah I may be a **** up but least I'm not like that drunken loser they would say.
I cracked a beer aimed the car for interstate and was headed anywhere but here .

Yes I lived in a ******* but least my ******* had cold beer .
Steve May 2016
I came across a drunken ***
Banging loudly on a drum
With no discernible rhythm pattern
And mumbling stuff that sounds like Latin
"Can you keep that racket down?"
Screeched a woman in a pink nightgown
Dum dum went the drum
"Gēraskō d' aíeí pollâ didaskómenos."
Said the ***.
Brent Kincaid Dec 2015
A small single apartment
That is all I really need.
The result of low ambition
And a paucity of greed.
A kitchen for cooking
A comfy place to sleep
Just great for meditation for
Thoughts that don’t go deep.

It was close to my buddies
That good old gang of mine
I go there, they come here,
As long as there was wine.
I was serving jug wine
And vintage it was not.
I had to switch to *** when
My stomach started to rot.

I also served cheap beer,
The cheapest I could find.
Between the wine and beer
It’s lucky today I’m not blind.
And food was also frugal
Mostly chips and salsa hot.
Stoners aren’t that choosy.
Gourmands we were not.

Of course we all had our own
Personal marijuana stash.
Its quality depended on
The amount of available cash.
But one of us was a dealer
Or sometimes there were two.
They always brought a supply
To sell, that’s what they do.

We laughed and roared and
Someone always had a guitar
It is nineteen seventy two
And that’s how conditions are.
Some of us had jobs back then
But most were floating around.
It’s hard to be a stable soul
With no feet on the ground.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2015
I drink wine before water
It’s better than beer.
Neither are like *****
They’re nowhere near.
Like beer, you can
Drink all of it you please.
It will never knock
Your life to its knees.

What? You say no?
You say they are equal?
This is a bad movie
I don’t want a sequel.
I have lived my whole life
Thinking wine is okay
And not contributing to
Alcoholism in any way.

I thought I could drink it
And party like a king
And the specter of addiction
Didn’t mean a thing.
Yes, I admit I ignored
Those drunks and hangovers
That woke me up feeling
I’d been hit by a Range Rover.

So, okay, maybe it’s real
This threat to sobriety
That is so accepted
And approved by society.
But now I have to find
A new way to celebrate
That won’t ruin my life
At some not too distant date.
Next page