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Oskar Erikson May 13
pale flowers pale proprietor pale ale
i have ordered you to the table
almost funny how quickly you arrive
and funnier
ethanol ice, roots and glasses crash in
oh branch, gnarled wood with a numbered
engraving - i send thanks
via application
payment as in a pitcher - forget
taste -  order it
sugary with a bit of weight yet
you never took credit for
sake of appearances
I only entered you
knowing you wouldn’t ask as much as
the others past 5pm
to sneak out your doors by 11
into gravel’d outposts -
into the dark crying out for something
like your lost beauty.
Paul Butters Sep 2023
All these vultures hovering around their prey:
Three golden prizes
Who will get there first?
Cue David Attenborough on commentary!
Coupled and single lions
Prowling about
Waiting for the chance of food and drink.

That coffee takes ages.
Yes, for this is my local
And my pack and I
Are thoroughly enjoying our ale
With our lovely lunches
Served to us by beautiful barmaids.

Those golden prizes are the three front tables
From where you can see the golden sand:
On a beach
Dotted with distant tiny people
As some frolic in the estuary waves
On paddle boards,
Basking in the glorious sun.
Time for another pint.

Paul Butters

© PB 2\9\23.
Some people might recognise this. ;)
neth jones Jun 2023
leisure up my friend !
   weaken open your shellfish hinge
       and wet your beak
it’s a marked holiday break
   unmarred by family obligation
there’s freedom
   to make the most criminal crown of mistakes
   in the name
         of some frown of liberal investigation

on the town
an eager squad of collaborators are on board
     they have your back
desperate, sick and starving gulls
     broadened to explore the deplorable
on and on to the next and the next
     death defining task

a meandering stagger of a bar crawl
  perpetually   powering through
     as the day spans a revulsion
the heat stays as the day sinks beneath
in place of the suns rays
the heat radiates
        from the baked city concrete
stepping out from the shelter of the bar
  the night swelter respires fiercely
not done with our steam of annihilation
  what establishment would take our kind ?
city has already bowed over it's plumage
                                 to our ******* pilgrimage
bark melts and peels in strips off the trees
        (meat shaved off the strip pole)
our heels spark the pavement
vermin and jackals follow our movement
             from shimmering dark spots
             and our vision constricts

our aim   has become clotted...
      ...what was it that we reached for ?
oblivions fruit seemed a doable pursuit

it's the usual downhill shambles from here
familiar yet barely remembered
a rambling guff of bad ***** comedy
there is no plucky legend
just an embarrassment
Bardo May 2023
Sitting at a table in a pub with some other people who look really upset, nay
   aghast at something I've just said
And I have this ventriloquist's Dummy on my
His nose is very red as are his ears, even his
   cheeks have a reddish tint
And he has this crazy wild look on his face
And he's also wearing this funny disjointed jacket which has all these very
   flamboyant colours on it
Just like the colours of all the Bottles of
   Spirits hanging over at the Bar

And I'm there and I'm pointing at the Dummy
   explaining to the other people
"It wasn't me, it was just the Drink talking!".
Happy May days ! A bit of fun.
Oskar Erikson Oct 2020
“have you ever felt love?” he asked

last one for the night
i replied,

like an atmosphere.
Steve Page Dec 2019
Pub poetry is a form of performance poetry consisting of the shouted word which has developed in UK urban pubs, dating back to the 1940s and 50s. Words are typically yelled over ambient haphazard rhythms which are not especially chosen for the piece of poetry, rather the poetry is performed over the generic sound of empty bottles and part filled glasses and live samples of patron conversation that will be familiar to those frequenting hostelries around the UK.

Sometimes the audience will employ call and response devices to distract the poet, such as calls of "W##k-er!', with the traditional response of "F##k-You!" before the pub poet continues with his yelled out verse, often read from the beer stained back of an overdue envelope.

The pub poet usually appears on a chair or table, surrounded by immediate family or work mates cheering him on.

Invariably inebriated, the pub poet may not appear to make any sense to the uninitiated - but once you too have availed yourself of your 4th or 5th pint, the words become clearer and easier to appreciate.

No musicality is built into pub poems and pub poets generally perform without backing music, delivering chanted speech with pronounced modulation, broken-rhythmic accentuation and dramatic, though random, stylization of gestures, often resulting in the pub poet losing balance and sustaining a head injury thereby losing consciousness and bringing the evening's entertainment to a premature, but often welcome, end.

It is often noted that many pub poets are remarkably shy and retiring when sober.
Based on 'dub poet' wiki entry.  I simply took another look through a different lens.
Max Neumann Dec 2019
"hell yeah?" the burglar asked the pusher.

(the burglar: wirily, ambitious. plain appearance, dressed in black.
the pusher: wealthy, strong and well-conditioned. sumptuous leather jacket.)

"hell yeah", the pusher answered. "now i got what i like and you got what you need."

both grinned. after a day of extensive work, they relaxed in a hellish pub. it was visited by diplomatic creatures whose faces were recognizable like shadows.
this pub was called babylon 8.

the burglar and the pusher touched glasses to celebrate their deal. they drank.

"nothing to be written down",
the pusher added. burglar nodded. voices of the diplomatic creatures surrounding them; satanic sighs; bold laughter; their sentences sounded like orders that are dictated by judges.
snakes and rats. gravelpitbulls and red cats. creatures with excellent memory. guys who swallow their plans after they had learned them by heart.

a while later, a lady entered the pub: adorable like a man's fantasy; imitable like a woman's strategy. her hair color was your desire; her skin color the color of your dreams.
her name was fantasy girl.

suddenly, the lights went out; suddenly, a lightblue sun illuminated the room. no one noticed. everyone so busy hiding something that nothing was hid.
the creatures of babylon 8 therefore didn't perceive the light.

fantasy girl ordered a drink. she told the bartender: "i need freedom. that's what i want from you, the people of babylon 8."

the bartender a giant with a face full of shining scars; his right ear missing; flashy shirt; an ancient first name; speaker of all world languages combined: the omerta.

fantasy girl took a sip from a silver brew which had been served to her by the bartender. she took out a single match and there was no box; a long cigarette between her unknown lips.

bartender looked at fantasy girl. without saying a word, he turned his stubble cheek into her direction. fantasy girl lighted the match.
lightblue fire. inhaling. smoke. iceblue cloud.

the burglar and the pusher had been looking at fantasy girl all the time.
fantasy girl held a white fountain pen and took a black sheet out of a green handbag. she began to write.
To be continued. BABYLON 8
Amanda Francis Jun 2019
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 Audra May 2019
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.
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