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Zywa Aug 25
Relaxed by the gin

I get up and see the yard --


rotating round me.
Novel "The Sandcastle" (1957, Iris Murdoch), chapter Twelve

Collection "Unspoken"
Àŧùl Aug 4
Joe was a teenager unhappy with his bed,
For it creaked a lot whenever he moved.

He asked his parents to get it fixed,
But they told him to grow up & earn.

Soon his parents were both dead,
In an accident, in a ****** one.

Though he escaped from the accident,
Poor Joe was traumatised unfathomably.

His parents had a great accidental insurance,
And they were so sincere in doling out the claim.

Cremated them in the electric crematorium,
He was left with a million dollars and an urn.

He had a girlfriend, Jonita, very beautiful,
She was very active in life and in the bed.

Tiaan-tiaan, karr-karr, chian-chian,
Creeaak-creeaak, creeaak-creeaak.

Helped him move beyond the sordid memories,
She helped him soothe himself with the love.

The bed used to screech whenever they played,
They jumped on the bed, and they danced.

Rhythmically their dance lasted for 7 minutes,
Sometimes they played for multiple sessions.

Jonita one day told Joe to be serious,
For life's not just about love and ***.

Sure, Joe had a million dollars,
But that was what he inherited.

Now Joe must be serious and get a job,
For the inheritance & insurance are limited.

Jonita negatively motivated him,
Challenging Joe to earn something.

Joe promised to start earning,
But asked Jonita to marry him.

She consented, and they got married,
Kept the ceremony very much private.

Just the two of them, and two witnesses,
In that morbid-looking court house.

'That money is limited,' realised Joe,
Prepared to get employed with the Force.

He grew up and hustled harder in the fray,
And achieved getting enlisted in the Force.

Jonita was already happy, now she was proud,
Her stallion now wore the royal blue plumes.

"You're my centaur," she used to say happily,
Whenever he'd dress up for reporting at work.

Truly he was a centaur for her, and for the Force too,
Guiding his jet through the angelic skies.

'Life is good,' so thought Joe,
He trusted his every bro.

His friends assured him of his wife's safety,
Of her safety, Joseph indeed want a surety.

Joe went away for a war, call of duty, you know,
But before he went, he had a battle in the bed.

A ferocious one, with blaring metal in the background,
He drilled Jonita deep until they both bled.

There were scars on Joe's back,
As if a cat scratched him bad.

Even Jonita had hickeys and bite marks,
As if a bunny had nipped her *******.

Her shoulders bore witness to love,
And to ******* of that dove.

The news spoke of a war that broke out,
And Joe received the deployment orders.

Now, soon he went away for the war,
He missed her during the month away.

The bed's creaking he missed the most,
The centaur avoided stroking his bird.

He focused on the war, and the battle plan,
Also, he wanted to save some memories to share.

He shot, he fired, and dropped some bombs,
Killed many soldiers, maimed some others.

He also downed many enemy fighter jets,
Evaded enemy fire, engaged them in dogfights.

Amongst all the targets he hit,
The enemy soldiers were decimated.

And they won the war sooner than expected.

He shifted his focus from the war to the lover,
But he planned something more.

Joseph wanted to surprise Jonita,
So he didn't let her know he was coming home.

When he arrived back,
He wanted to read her eyes.

So, he used his set of keys.

'Pleasant surprise' he expected,
But he heard the bed creaking.

The same way it did when they made love,
The same way it did when she rided his lightning.

He loaded his gun.

Nervous, he climbed up, expecting the unspeakable,
But peered inside the bedroom to find her alone.

Sure, she was naked,
But not with anyone else.

She was gyrating to his memories,
There was his name in her whispers.

And all this while,
Her eyes were closed.

Gyrating and vibrating,
Cupping her pillows.

It was her own hands,
Not anybody else's.

He unloaded the gun.

Joe was lucky,
He had Jonita.
A poem inspired by my favourite English song.

My HP Poem #1974
©Atul Kaushal
Ander Stone Feb 2
it's the way the sunlight hits her eye
that makes her look so enticing,
like a glass of whiskey
on a thirsty day
of never being
enough.

it's that brown being lit up golden
through the windows
that tease a glance
into a broken
soul.

it's my fault for always finding myself
out in that desert, with nothing
to drink away the need
to forget about and
walk out of the
desert.

it's that jar of honey she sees the whole
world through that keeps pouring
and calling me to take
a drink of her
whiskey hued
irises.

my only defense is uttering out loud:
name's Ander,
and I'm an alcoholic.
Musty kisses, so much like cologne with a musky smell, leave a lasting aftertaste—an indication of a man desperately trying to conceal his insecurities. Rumors have circulated that he has resorted to manipulation and mind games in his interactions with women, resembling a predatory elite, a muskellunge lurking in the depths of a freshwater lake. As nightfall approaches, he prepares himself for the evening's activities, donning his goggles like a skilled diver ready to plunge headfirst into the murky waters of awkward conversation and those all-too-familiar first impressions. With an air of self-assuredness, he boasts about his past athletic achievements; "Hey I used to be good at sports," obviously spelled out on his letterman jacket as evidence of his once formidable sporting prowess. "While I may have retired from the game, but perhaps tonight you can play ball, and be the one to play with my *****," he slyly suggests, fueled by liquid confidence provided by a few shots of courage. Unfortunately for him, the weight of his words pales in comparison to the value of the drinks he has been offering the object of his attention. So of course she won't pay attention.

As her patience wears thin, she cannot contain her frustration any longer and resorts to throwing the last swallow of her drink in his
face, an act meant to deflate his ego. Instead of swallowing his pride, he bounces back like the reverberations echoing through the empty club. Retrieving a cigarette from the left pocket of his coat, he ignites a flame and engulfs himself in a cloud of smoke, attempting to find solace in his self-imposed camouflage through his chimney neck.
Without skipping a beat, he beckons for another glass of whiskey and casually whistles a tune before every sip, as though seeking comfort in the familiarity of his routines. In a fleeting moment, his gaze meets mine, almost as if we were old friends sharing a silent understanding.

Little does he know, I am acquainted with the man behind the facade, aware of the pain he actively conceals behind his bravado. There is a tragic narrative woven into his life, one in which he has been consistently belittled by a brother, leaving him with no choice but to compensate for his perceived shortcomings by pushing boundaries. Within him, there is an unmistakable sense of being lost, drowning his sorrows in a bottle. Tomorrow, he will consume his own words, choking on the regret that accompanies his intoxicated state and *****. It is a sobering tale indeed, one that asks us to consider how we may overlook fragments of our own pain reflected in the brokenness of others.
toBelieve Dec 2023
I'm sorry for hurting you,
I've hurted myself by hurting you.

I'm sorry,
I'm sorry from the deap down of my heart.

I'm sorry,
Yes, I've loved you.
But not that fancy romantic love.
I've loved you as you,
As I will never love again.

I've loved you,
It's in the present past,
I've loved you.

I'm sorry for being me.
I'm sorry for you, being you.
I'm sorry but you are a wonderful human being.
You are a beautiful soul.

/I swear to god/

You are wonderful,
You were wonderful,
You will always be wonderful.

I hope all the best for you.
I hope that you will always
Be you,
Be happy,
Be angry,
Be you.

You are special, unique & wonderful.

Please forgive me,
Please forgive yourself,
Please forgive.

Let go.

And go straight,
Go to your destiny.
Run for it.

You are so beautiful.

I've loved you,
Cause you kept reminding me of Me.

I am special,
Crazy,
And stupid.
But you are not stupid,
Nor am I.

We are special,
Hard & difficult,
But special.

I'm as sorry,
As I am thankfull,
For meeting you.

Sorry, thank you.
Thank you, sorry.

I love me.
I love love.
I love life.
I love being drunk.

--‐--
Ivre
L'ivre
Un livre

Ivre de vin,
De poésie,
Ou de whiskey.

Mais moi, non !
-----
Sorry!
No more whiskey.

I love me.
No more whiskey.
I'm sorry,
Sorry !
I love you,
Sorry
I love me...
Ron Sparks Aug 2023
The taste
of my cigar
and the whiskey in my
gullet can't fill the pit inside
my chest
Ron Sparks Aug 2023
Whiskey
dark chocolate,
smooth jazz, and some gritty
poetry are all that I need
tonight
William A Gibson Jun 2023
you pull me through doorways
with cherry red charm
you fill me with whiskey
and hang on my arm

The clerk asks for blood
the stone has run dry
we promise ’tomorrow’
and feed him with wine

dark clouds now move faster
with voice of hard wind
it speaks to you only
as thunder moves in

you twist here beside me
and curl like a vine
your teeth in my shoulder
reliving some crime

you hold me so tightly
and whisper your vows
your secrets stay hidden
your tears are so loud
Paine Dec 2022
Wearied eye
Hopelessness within
Ice cold heart
Shots I lost count
Kisses that was meaningless
Ephemeral feelings
Young me would hate this me
Zack Ripley Dec 2022
Days used to start with a coffee
and end with whiskey.
Those were the days I thought
"if I left, would anyone miss me?"
I don't look fondly on those memories,
but those were the days that taught me about empathy. What I've learned
is that there are 2 types of days.
There's the days ahead and the days behind. You can be afraid of the past,
or you can use it to change the future.
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