Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Zombie Oct 2019
I wanted to relish *****,
but WHISKEY drowned me in it.
I wish I can taste the  vodhka which I got..
Ron Gavalik Jun 2018
The cost of TRUTH
may at times burden
our mental energy and our wallets,
especially when we are delivered
so many cheap, comfortable lies.
TRUTH, however, is the tonic
that heals and fortifies our minds
against the constant flood of toxic oil
that pours from the gullets
of poseurs and profiteers.

The few who summon the courage
to embrace TRUTH are transformed
into angels of light. They rise above
the sewage of violence and hatred
of so many polluted minds,
the diseased souls condemned
to whither in misery.
This is why I write. Please support me on Patreon.
Zero Nine May 2017
Pardon me, I've been thinking
My friend,
what if I could save myself?
Your intoxicating
scent on my neck
has seemed to have kept me
my gasping last breath
but, pardon me, I've been thinking
what if I could reach in
through steam in
the mirror
and remove your ******* tongue
so you can't taste me anymore?
If these dreams I keep
really are so sweet, you'll
forgive me for
the sanctum away from nightmare
My sweetheart for me you are real love tonic
I can't survive without, for life you are logic
I do know all our rivals are our staunch critic
It is you who snatched faith to make aesthetic

If you do not want to be with me I will leave
This transitory cruel world you must believe
**** me with your beauty and please relieve
I am your appraiser please never ever deceive

Love is a medicine of just all incurable diseases
It is like a magic which cures with its real auras
Gives pleasure to the body even if full of bruises
With all inherent drawbacks it definitely pleases

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Aparna Mar 2013
Sipping tonics on toned bellies.
Elbows soft from jasmine lotions.
White skin painted in deep caramel.

He held his sweaty palms out,
Begging, a penny for his meal.
She kept the dollar for a Starbucks latte.
Ron Gavalik May 2015
A young man with tattoos
walked in to the café.
He examined two chairs
at the empty table
in front of me.
He cupped his chin with one hand.
He silently compared the older chair
with the torn, dilapidated seat cushion
to the newer chair that still had a black metallic shine.
He picked up the beaten chair
and carried it to the table behind me
to join his friends.

That’s how we define ourselves,
our class, our place in the world.
Some people believe they deserve
the best seat in the house.
Others believe themselves second class,
commoners whose insecurities run rampant.
We do it to ourselves.

No matter which seat we take,
every one of us
knows love and hate.
We all fight and struggle.
We are all unique.
We are all the same.
Just a thought.
Ron Gavalik May 2015
After too many years of mom’s psychiatric issues,
whose pendulum of unpredictable emotions swung
between fits of violent rage and victimized hatred,
I gave up the struggle many of us
try and fail to endure.
Some people who love the insane
fall into the pit of personal torment,
an anxiety or depression of inner madness.
Others choose eye for an eye revenge.
Headlines of such retaliation steam over social media:
‘Wife Murders Husband Over Cold Turkey Complaint’
I made the completely selfish choice of maternal divorce,
to spend Christmas with a neighbor friend
who had endured much of the same abuses
and learned the same lessons years earlier.

Ana and I spent several merry Christmases
at one of those all you can eat seafood buffet joints.
The restaurant was simply a massive room.
A trough ran the 100 feet length of the back wall,
where the cattle lined up to feed.

Each year, we looked forward to our glorious feast,
not for the quality of the food, but the friendship
and the king crab legs neither of us could afford
any other time of the year.

We’d trade laughs and stories of the year.
We reminisced about friends and family passed on.
For 2 or 3 hours on a cold winter’s night,
there was no poverty, no family, no hardship,
no greed, no fuss…only laughs.
Except for the year I asked myself,
‘What would Jesus do?’

Standing in the long, sweaty buffet line,
a mumbling buzzed about a **** up front
taking too many crab legs.
Even though the restaurant claimed unlimited portions,
in reality, the kitchen workers played a good game,
only filling the large metal bin every 30 minutes.
The unwritten rule among buffet veterans
is to take 5 or 6 crab legs and leave some
for the others behind you.
The poor must look out for each other
because we all **** well know
rich ******* only care about themselves.

After a couple minutes of the crowd grumbling,
a heavyset woman in a moo-moo screamed,
‘Look at that guy! Look at his plate!’
The slicked-hair office drone the moo-moo pointed to
confidently strode past the hungry patrons
in his business casual golf shirt and khakis.
In one hand, he balanced a plate stacked
with at least 20 crab legs.
His other hand carried a cereal-sized bowl of butter.
The apparent jeers of shame from my fellow wretches,
whose bellies would go empty for another half hour
didn’t affect this guy’s silent march,
his corporate attitude to loot, to conquer.

I stepped out of line in the guy’s path.
‘What the are you doing?’ I said.
‘It’s a free country.’
He tried to squeeze around me, pressing his hip
against the orange chicken buffet station.
I moved to block him again.
‘Free for you, but no one else, huh?’
‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘Just move.’

His empirical entitlement inspired me to perform
a little Christmas justice.
With both hands, I lunged for the man’s plate
and wrapped both hands around all but four crab legs.
‘What the hell, buddy?’ he shouted.
The guy had become a moneychanger in our temple.
‘Do something,’ I said.
A woman in line looked at me, her eyes wide, startled.
I handed her a crab leg.
The coward ran his mouth in an emasculated mumble,
but skulked back to his table.
I then walked down the line,
handing each of my fellow diners a single crab leg.
Old men formed expressions of confusion,
Young mothers and fathers laughed.
Children pointed their single crab legs to the ceiling
in a show of solidarity to the cause,
victory against a great evil.

A short Asian man approached me in line.
‘You must leave,’ he said in broken English.
‘But I paid for the buffet.’
‘No troublemakers. You go.’

I’d become a scourge to the Roman power structure,
an immoral bandit of Nazareth.
Being bad never felt so good.
After all, one can remove the boy from madness,
but without intense psychiatric treatment,
one rarely removes madness from the boy.
Ana wasn’t happy that we missed our annual feast.
I drove us home quietly content.
Another Christmas celebrated.
To be included in my next collection, **** River Sins.
Ron Gavalik May 2015
Sipping midnight whiskey behind the typer,
staring at a blank spot on the wall,
fingers frozen to the keyboard in mid-sentence,
another wave of anguish
floods the mind.

The spot on the wall is a sounding board
to rail against enemies
and debate ideas,
and howl the cries of a madman
who will forever ponder
damaged souls left
in his wake.

Sins committed once belonged to others.
Then I learned how to inflict pain
in my own style.
Now, regrets languish
in *****-soaked reflections.
They stir quiet torment,
a just retribution
for honest men
To be included in my next collection, **** River Sins.
Sarah Oct 2014
My glass reminds me
of your smile
Sipping, I taste the lime
Slipping, I close my eyes

Pull me back to you

Remind me
How I got here, the mess I’m in
Remind me
where I’m going, where I’ve been

I circle your wrist and
I circle my ring
You are the tonic
for the key that I sing
Next page