#hangovers
(a poem in Senryus)
They say that you should
never follow whisky with
beer - but my new rhyme
is - never follow
several martinis with
two more martinis
Ladies, please take my
advice, you can’t focus your
eyes in the morning
When your roommates rude
little sister runs the loud
vacuum around noon
Who gets up before
noon in the summer? It’s not
right, if you ask me.
“Mom told me to?” That’s
an excuse reminiscent
of old Nuremberg
I have feels for her
as encumbered as she is
by parental yoke.
.
.
A song for this (please play it low):
Hangovers with You by Big B & ***** Heads Rock [E]
Aug 15, 2024
Aug 15, 2024 at 11:28 AM UTC
I’m chilling and doing homework tonight. Leaning into it.
Last night one of our suitemates (Julia) turned 21 - she’s barable. Not that we get carded anywhere - I’ve never had trouble getting into clubs or ordering drinks - I mean never have I ever.
She had her birthday party at a place called Mory’s, in New Haven, which is very Yale themed. We ate dinner in the “captain’s room,” where every picture on the wall is a Yale team captain of some sort. They even have a whiffenpoof plaque. It’s so Yale-core it’s funny.
Have you ever heard of a drink called a “Singapore Sling?” Me neither, until last night. Then, somehow, there were undrinkable oceans of it. I had six of them, sitting at a bar and I felt nothing. Then I stood up and my bones seemed to liquify. Leong and Anna reeled me in.
I was hangin this morning though, I mean rocky-socks drunkover. My senses seemed sharper, my optical nerves dialed up all the way. The air seemed bright and I swear I could’ve heard the sun burning if people would’ve just stopped all that annoying breathing.
I had a biochemistry quiz at 9am and I can’t wait to see how I did. Later, at breakfast (I had a piece of toast), Peter felt free to offer his sensible, 26-year-old, bropinion. I said, “You’re so wise,” as I steel-eyed him, “I-guess-you-never.”
By the afternoon I was back on my toes. Almost every night my roommates and I sit around a low table in the common room of our suite, crossed legged, on cushions and do our homework. It’s less claustrophobic than sitting in our rooms alone and we usually have some music on, lowkey, in the background.
We’d just heard “Love Story,” by Taylor Swift.
“I like songs that make love sound easy.” I stated.
“Oh, because it IS easy,” Anna says sarcastically, “grab yourself a physicist and make a TikTok song.”
“Hey! I’ve got a beef with TikTok artists, I said. “At first, they release these stripped down, intimate, acoustic songs that feel personal, and then, if a song hits, they put out a new version that’s totally overproduced.”
“Right.” Leong agreed.
“Oh, yeah,” Sophie said, putting her hair back out of her face with a comb, “and some artists' voices are suited to simple accompaniment and the newer versions just don’t hit as hard.”
“I think Phoebe Bridgers is an example of production done right.” Anna said. “Her material continues to sound intimate and stripped down even though it’s no longer just her and a guitar,”
“On Tiktok,” Lisa adds, “when a new song works, I feel a connection, like it could be me recording a song with my guitar - so, I support them.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” I updogged, “there’s a place for overproduction but sometimes the instruments don’t even sound real, like when they go all out electronic - then they lose me.”
“The big-music might drown-out the artistry we liked,” Anna opined, “but maybe that’s how they heard it, as songwriters, in their imagination, but they couldn’t afford it - the new version rectifies it.”
Feb 22, 2023
Feb 22, 2023 at 10:07 PM UTC
Hangovers are a back-tax on fun.
To paraphrase T.S. Eliot:
"Can last night just belong to last night?”
I’m not thinking about sins and penance
or making any bound-for-failure resolutions.
I’m giving myself a mental health break.
Feb 13, 2022
Feb 13, 2022 at 10:35 AM UTC
We were once well acquainted
with the wee small hours
adept at navigating neon jungles
and the deeps of kitchen philosophies
entwined with kebabs and illicit frissons,
in vino veritas conspiracies
that took weeks to unpick and apologise for
but passed
Now, if seen, those hours hold different snags,
surrounding plants are far less exotic
but familiar brambles cut deep,
immutable truths roar
when the ***** doesn’t do the talking
and morning burrs not so easily dislodged
by a full English and a million teas
Apr 8, 2021
Apr 8, 2021 at 2:47 AM UTC
Hangovers
by Michael R. Burch
We forget that, before we were born,
our parents had “lives” of their own,
ran drunk in the streets, or half-stoned.
Yes, our parents had lives of their own
until we were born; then, undone,
they were buying their parents gravestones
and finding gray hairs of their own
(because we were born lacking some
of their curious habits, but soon
would certainly get them). Half-stoned,
we watched them dig graves of their own.
Their lives would be over too soon
for their curious habits to bloom
in us (though our children were born
nine months from that night on the town
when, punch-drunk in the streets or half-stoned,
we first proved we had lives of our own).
Published by Barbitos, Trinacria, Songs and Poems that Changed the World (reference.com), Atomic Publishing and The Eclectic Muse
Keywords/Tags: Villanelle, hangovers, drugs, alcohol, drunk, ****** parents, children, graves, death, habit, bad habits, wasted, drink, drinking, ***** liquor, beer, wine, tombs, gravestones, headstones, lives, deaths, pregnant, pregnancy, pregnancies
Mar 4, 2020
Mar 4, 2020 at 11:58 PM UTC
The compromised daylight still pours into the white Chevy where a rifle sits passenger- there will still be whisky on his lips when he walks into work.
Her body braces like she has rigor mortis to the sound of her morning alarm after a night of writhing to the bittersweet taste of ******* drips.
He seeks solace between arms and hips and lips and skin, which never satiates his ache for only her.
Time is a parasitic hangover, leaching from our highs and the small passing moment of brightness we seek all our lives.
Even if you cancel all your credit cards, make love to beautiful strangers, sleep in the streets, find yourself in Europe, lose yourself in your career, curse your parents for your own faults, write poetry to lovers you never had, seize every day every second every moment, join a cult in the backwoods of Northern California, donate your retirement to your church, torment your veins until they collapse into craters, visit your grandma religiously every Sunday, smoke ****** off of tinfoil, sleep eight hours a day and always take the stairs, drink Black Velvet you've hidden in the basement, bribe God to love you on Sundays and threaten him on Mondays. Even when we wait, even when we consent to waste away Time's a slow-creeping hangover already crawling up your spine and seeping into your brain. You won't have time to ask her why all she does is take. It's already too late.
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 10:12 PM UTC
Tequila kisses & ***** thoughts,
Hungover love shines through tired eyelids of mine
Drink, drank, drunk, on liquor, on each other.
Punch drunk love, is not real love.
I know you're my hangover love.
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 1:35 PM UTC
I've been fighting this for so long
Kept telling myself it was wrong
I couldn't let it in my mind
I kept running and leaving it all behind
Today I let in
The reality i call sin
The magic i believed so strong
Is dying off after so long
I guess thats growing up
Drinking too much and throwing it up
Sadness starts to sink through
But this time I've accepted it to be true
I'm unsure if this is losing hope
Or gaining strength away from the slope
I held on to romance and stars so tight
But i awoke today realizing it isn't right
Am i letting go of my child like innocence?
Am i letting this cruel world make me repent?
Well that's just how you make it in this life
Let go of your fantasies and let in the strife
Go to work for full time and lose your personality
Because noone cares about your dreams outside of reality
I think I'm giving up running away from the truth
That my wonderland was only for my silly youth
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 4:13 PM UTC
I woke up today.
I’m not exactly happy about that.
Body covered in cuts
Mind filled with rage.
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 9:05 PM UTC
The barista doesn’t look
you in eye anymore.
You’re wearing that blue checkered
romper from the night before,
the one that leaves little
to the imagination
of the scholarly humans,
all up before the ripe time of 10.
And now it’s noon
and you’ve slept through
3 phone calls and you’re not even sure
if you’re bank account will allow
for the $2 iced coffee
you’re about to **** down.
But you buy
all the overpriced
caffeine anyway,
because today’s a new day
and if you stop moving
you might notice the wound,
and the pain,
and start to bleed,
and realize its going to make
a mess so maybe
its time for an Irish exit
and leave.
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 12:30 PM UTC
The town still drips
with last nights alcohol consumption,
effervescent with AWOL brain cells.
Romance viewed from the inside of a glass,
vanished in its absence.
Neon bar signs became the stargazing
of the twenty-first century
and hangovers a fast burning cigarette,
leaving romance to pile
in a duotone of grey
in the ashtray of our heartless society.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 12:09 AM UTC
I Disappear in the crowd of dancing people
The music is loud while I walk through the corridor
I am outside now, the first breath of fresh air for hours
My legs are hurt and my head are dancing with stars
I walk without saying goodbye, I just walk
I stand so sleepy watching the turn of the street lights
The sunrise in the horizon and I'm waking
My body has recovered but my head still hurts
but it's different from last night, cuz today
My phone rang and I got social hangovers
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 4:53 AM UTC
I drink wine before water
It’s better than beer.
Neither are like *****
They’re nowhere near.
Like beer, you can
Drink all of it you please.
It will never knock
Your life to its knees.
What? You say no?
You say they are equal?
This is a bad movie
I don’t want a sequel.
I have lived my whole life
Thinking wine is okay
And not contributing to
Alcoholism in any way.
I thought I could drink it
And party like a king
And the specter of addiction
Didn’t mean a thing.
Yes, I admit I ignored
Those drunks and hangovers
That woke me up feeling
I’d been hit by a Range Rover.
So, okay, maybe it’s real
This threat to sobriety
That is so accepted
And approved by society.
But now I have to find
A new way to celebrate
That won’t ruin my life
At some not too distant date.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 4:55 PM UTC
It takes a lot more than a month and two pounds of **** to get over someone you really had feelings for.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
I thought I've felt love,
but in reality the only love
I've known is the soft kisses
the bottle of alcohol has left
against my dry lips and
the sheets that hold my
tired and lonesome body at night.
The morning hangovers
remind me I'm the boy
who is destined to be
alone.
-o.b
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
When she'd kissed more bottles than she had boys
And spent more nights in strange bars than her own bed
She came to the conclusion that heart break hurt worse than a hangover
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
There is a
Threat
Outside of bed.
Beyond amber red
Sunsets
People of the night
Come out.
Awaken by the smell
Of repugnant restrooms
And *****
Last memory of
The inside of
A toilet.
Brought alive by
the frightening
sunrise.
Blinding all
who hid.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
He threw caution into his red cup.
He named his drink the forget-me-not.
This would be the night of remembrance.
One-fourth Sprite and three-fourths *****
The crisp wind greeted him as he stepped outside.
He charged into the night.
Forget-me-not.
He babbled with his friends.
Forgt-me-not.
He took another sip.
Forgt-me-nit.
He danced with a girl.
Firgtn-e-nit.
He drank every drop of his forget-me-not.
fIrgtne-nit
He went till the break of dawn only to be swept up by the wind.
The next day he woke up with saliva crust down the side of his mouth.
He had forgotten.
The night forgot him.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC
no one is around
i walk down the streets of a vacant wasteland
forgotten, discarded, tattered
red cups drag across asphalt
with no force pushing them but the
tired alcohol stained breath of the wind.
this beautiful sunday morning-tainted
by the drunken cheers of last night
the life-poured, guzzled, shot
out of this place
death hangs over the streets while a
drunken hibernation swallows my
"highly esteemed" peers.
shattered glass cracks beneath
my feet as i follow the pathway
to my house; to my successes
this place…
this is home.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 4:54 PM UTC