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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 ****’ and all I can do is laugh, which causes you to laugh.  We both know I’m in ****. I love you, and I tell you so.  ‘Yeah I know,’ you say.  You too, are in my ****.

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 **** 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.
Paul Butters Aug 2017
This is not poetry.
No embracing the wonders of the universe
Or deafening you with rhetoric.
No apple blossom aromas
Or vistas wide and clear.
No Romance or wisdom,
Just a pint of beer.

My small talent for words
Came from Mum and Dad,
And I take no credit for that.
If only I had read more,
Instead of being a brat.

My ego is exploding,
I’m ever the bighead.
Couldn’t care less about my critics
And sleep easy in my bed.

For once I’ve started rhyming,
That’s a change for me.
Prefer to be unshackled,
My verse just running free.

It’s time to hit the pub now.
I’m only here for beer.
But I’ll be back again to type,
Never have a fear.

Paul Butters
From Notes made back in early May. (5\5 in fact). Dedicated to a drinking pal of mine who stubbornly refuses to read any poetry because it is ALL "meaningless gobbledygook words"!!!
Tansy Roake Jul 2017
His voice,
Staring at me,
With awful,
Questioning eyes,
I dared not turn,
I dared not answer.
Francie Lynch Jun 2017
The local storm warning finds me on the porch,
Out the back, observing the strength of wind,
The swag of trees.
The eye of the storm is passing overhead,
And the lightening blinks wistfully,
As a gesture to take cover
Before the rain and hail fire down,
All over town, windows open,
Curtains drawn, lights on early.
I persevere, but my dry season is coming to an end.
I remembered the storms in Kilarney,
Looking out from *Butler's Snug.
Snug: Pub
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