#pub
This sad poem was conceived and written in Burnley,
Where shadows linger, and the rain falls sternly.
An empty pub with an empty pint glass,
Black nights last long with its wild, bright eyes.
A one-eyed dog with lots of fleas
Sings the blues in seven different keys.
And time has flown since we met at sea,
A four-light-years-galactic-guilt is upon me.
Dec 4, 2024
Dec 4, 2024 at 6:46 PM UTC
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
celebration
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.
May 13, 2024
May 13, 2024 at 7:47 AM UTC
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.
Coffee?
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.
Sep 2, 2023
Sep 2, 2023 at 6:20 AM UTC
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
Jun 10, 2023
Jun 10, 2023 at 9:47 PM UTC
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
knee
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!".
May 6, 2023
May 6, 2023 at 11:41 AM UTC
“have you ever felt love?” he asked
drinking
down
my
last one for the night
i replied,
like an atmosphere.
Oct 11, 2020
Oct 11, 2020 at 6:05 AM UTC
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.
Dec 17, 2019
Dec 17, 2019 at 2:38 AM UTC
"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.
Dec 15, 2019
Dec 15, 2019 at 10:12 AM UTC
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.
Jun 1, 2019
Jun 1, 2019 at 5:35 PM UTC
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.
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 4:14 AM UTC
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.
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 8:01 PM UTC
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.
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 12:05 PM UTC
If you are the pubs best customer
Do you need the pub or
Does the pub need you
the house always wins
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 7:43 PM UTC
I narrowly a butch
and really this turn with my inhibitions
always ascertain it will seldom anguish too
as I rely on my hip
if my times there are a pie with a loaf
though many times a vehicle
as it may succumb to a butch
that still has cheer in Belfast
while I take a public cab home.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 9:04 AM UTC
This is not poetry.
No embracing the wonders of the universe
Or deafening you with rhetoric.
No apple blossom aromas
Or vistas wide and clear.
No Romance or wisdom,
Just a pint of beer.
My small talent for words
Came from Mum and Dad,
And I take no credit for that.
If only I had read more,
Instead of being a brat.
My ego is exploding,
I’m ever the bighead.
Couldn’t care less about my critics
And sleep easy in my bed.
For once I’ve started rhyming,
That’s a change for me.
Prefer to be unshackled,
My verse just running free.
It’s time to hit the pub now.
I’m only here for beer.
But I’ll be back again to type,
Never have a fear.
Paul Butters
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 6:23 AM UTC
His voice,
Staring at me,
With awful,
Questioning eyes,
I dared not turn,
I dared not answer.
http://tansyroake.weebly.com
Jul 19, 2017
Jul 19, 2017 at 5:21 AM UTC
The local storm warning finds me on the porch,
Out the back, observing the strength of wind,
The swag of trees.
The eye of the storm is passing overhead,
And the lightening blinks wistfully,
As a gesture to take cover
Before the rain and hail fire down,
All over town, windows open,
Curtains drawn, lights on early.
I persevere, but my dry season is coming to an end.
I remembered the storms in Kilarney,
Looking out from Butler's Snug.
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
not one person knew who lit the fire
at the old pub in the town's main drag
it will remain an unsolved piece of inquire
who on that night used a burner's tag
back in the year of nineteen fifty three
the watering-hole went up in flames
from the locale an arsonist did so flee
after playing his match striking games
a shadow some of the locals have seen
where the timbered hotel once stood
hovering around like a ghostly screen
this figure is an omen not of the good
if it could speak what would it ever tell
in regards to the starting of the inferno
which was like a flammable torching hell
one but surmises about events long ago
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 10:39 PM UTC
Languid tendrils of smoke unwind
The ashes of your affliction.
There is comfort in the sun's underbelly.
When you play half-lidded pool drenched in
Artificial lights, the night seems endless.
Once dusk falls, the world outside scatters
And settles together in close quarters
Like bunkers under air raid.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 9:56 PM UTC