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Oskar Erikson Oct 11
“have you ever felt love?” he asked

drinking
down
my
last one for the night
i replied,

like an atmosphere.
Steve Mar 14
The pub, the pub
Is a very nice place to be
A long cool pint
And a bag-o-nuts
In the heart of good company

And the Roseburn Bar
Is not very far
From our house

The pub, the pub
On a dreich Sunday afternoon
Sport on the tele
Beer in my belly
The day can’t come around too soon

And The Roseburn Bar
Is not very far
From our house

The pub, the pub
Calls out to me on Friday nights
Then a nip or two
What’s left to do
But to set this old world to rights

And The Roseburn Bar
Is not very far
From our house

Meet me there one day
Relax
Have a drink.
Let your hair down
Take note :)
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.
Tizzop 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,
Magic.
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 2019
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 2019
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
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