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The radio taunts me again today.
Singers singing song to me, that speak to me.
Their voices angelic, some I know you'd like before you do.
All of them sing to me what I can't find the words to say to you.

Holding my head in my hands again, these headaches are getting worse.
These headaches are bruises from the merciless memories of you.
I go to the pub with you like I'm pretending alcohol is the antidote to love.
Like I think if I drink enough I won't want to wake up next to you.

Like maybe I'm hoping you'll drink to forget we're just friends, just for a while
So I could love and loose than spend my life wondering, waiting for you to want me too.
Lily Peacock May 28
The light,
That sits in rain drops as they creep across windows,
Has to be magic.
It's so intensely filled with gold,
Like jewels in ***** hands,
I won't hear another word about it,
And when we're walking towards a steamy windowed pub and the rain hits my glasses and the light from the street light pours in and fills them with that magic,
I have to stop and kiss you and tell you that tonight feels like a book,
A picture book,
With hand painted illustrations and neat boarders,
And autumn isn't so bad.
Oskar Erikson Mar 27
the taps rusted over
but i'm yet to know if the beer tastes any more bitter
than trying it as a child.
sat in a dingy leather seat
with the ribbons of cowhide at my feet
after some animal had
its way.
where the people perspire through conversations
about the weather
and the tax man
and the never changing politic.
staff and regular alike
do not remember my mothers name
like the stint she pulled was lost to myth, my name
meant nothing.
maybe that's why i sat in the pub my mother used to work
once upon a time,
to see if the atmosphere could conjure her
like the football brought fleeting happiness
five rounds in.
I’m in the pub and "You Can’t Buy Me Love" comes on. I know I can’t.

I sit, nursing a glass of wine for maybe two or three hours. Brooding. Thinking.  I remembered the other night, while in bed, I cried.  Not knowing why, but I thought of you. No thought in particular. Just a momentary flash. Lying there in the dark, I welled-up for a second, saw you were there and then fell back asleep.  And now, the wine now in my head tells me I was upset because I don’t miss you.

I don’t miss much these days.

"Every Day A Little Death" remembered in the pub.

I wanted you to think me a genius. But I opened my mouth, letting the words fall-out one by one and in the process became a fool.  You tell me to ‘go to hell’ and all I can do is laugh, which causes you to laugh.  We both know I’m in hell. I love you, and I tell you so.  ‘Yeah I know,’ you say.  You too, are in my hell.

We still make love as if it’s our first time. You hold me, touch and caress me as you always have, turning what I think is minutes into hours. I want it to never end. I awake the next day, look in your eyes and feel like a complete failure. You feel it too, my failure. My new day in hell starts, and you come with me – to keep me company.

Back from the pub.

You are sleeping. I watch you. An exercise I have performed many times before.  I stand in the dark. Watching. Listening. To you. You are just so beautiful, so ******* beautiful. I well-up. What the **** are you doing with me? I want you to go away and find yourself some happiness. I won’t miss you, you know. I won’t. I crawl into bed, failing miserably not to wake you. You roll-over to me, kissing my back and neck. ‘I love you.’

Kissing your hands, your beautiful hands, I reply, ‘Yeah I know.’
Every Day A Little Death is a song by Stephen Sondheim from the musical a little night music.
Steve Page Feb 12
I can't see above the frosted glass,
but I can see the dark smokey light.
I can feel the music
beneath the rumble of generations
and I swing one foot out of time.

Once in a while the doors thud open,
with a roar of wreaking-ball laughter
and I grip my lemonade a little tighter,
happier as an outsider.

The frosted glass remains,
but it looks cleaner now.
I push the door, the same dark red,
much lighter now.

The whole place seems smaller,
less of a mystery.
I order a lemonade shady,
feeling like I don't belong,
knowing I never wanted to really.
Memories from mum, SE1
Lauren Dec 2018
If you are the pubs best customer
Do you need the pub or
Does the pub need you
the house always wins
gracie Oct 2018
two shimmering goldfish on display
in a run-down pub, swimming lazily
in milky water, suspending translucent fins
like angel wings. one stares numbly at the glass
with beady eyes, entranced by his own reflection;
the other darts between the rocks, twitching
to escape his murky prison.
not really a poem? oops
Tommy Randell Feb 2018
(19th Feb 2018)

Fiddle & Drum we played
Beneath the barrel ceiling
In the side room at The Laurel Inn
At Robin Hood's Bay this evening

A passel of tunes and some craic
A bit of Trad Irish nonsense
Just two old mates having a laugh
Over a pint or two of toxins

No-one else in the room
They could hear us maybe next door
In the main room with the telly on
Waiting for some team to score

Some Jigs & Reels, a slow one or two
A few old songs or three
Yes, the craic tonight wasn't Hollywood
It was the usual documentary

The way we like it
The way we like it to be, so
The craic tonight
It is what it is, so
My pal Milo and I had our usual meet tonight - The 3rd Monday in the Month - in The Laurel, Robin Hood's Bay, WHITBY. Just to have a few hours playing a bit of nonsense and catching up on things. We talk about tunes & arrange them as Sets for later Gigs or bigger Sessions. It's what it is, so.
I narrowly a butch
and really this turn with my inhibitions
always ascertain it will seldom anguish too
as I rely on my hip
if my times there are a pie with a loaf

though many times a vehicle
as it may succumb to a butch
that still has cheer in Belfast
while I take a public cab home.
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