"ales" poems
i come to you half mad
with desire
like slithers tongue
i wish
to have painfully stitched
to your silky ****
an act of desires supplication
my *** turned to poison
deprivations effulgent
obsidian flower salivating
your every smile
fleshy bells ringing
warping tintinnabulations
i am a starved incubus
drooling at your knees
behind me
a frothy junket of misdeeds
for loves sake
your feet the scent of lavender and salt
their shape evoking numberless poems
and begging adorations
your belly
a tender cauldron undulating
tummy ***** dancer
sacred **********
temple of worship
the site of your rounded bottom
naked red mouth calling
my sacred liturgy
your *****
velvet tulips for a tremulous kiss
I seed you a thousand times
a raging bludgeon
storming wounded gates Palisades
drenched and florid
fruit and milk ****
until jaws lock
and spire drops
turning me
to midnight cadaver
***** black hollows
a dark eyelid, blink-less
dead **** face down
a slumped snake
then soft dew
and cool ales
clear thickened muds saturation
lighten heat and peel
the warm palate
with agile caress
tender haunches wide and spiced
milk and butter thighs
her hair in mine
rushing river life
again i animate
an embryo id
dressed in fire
all vices and virtues
blood and sky
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 1:23 PM UTC
The machinesed drones droning ozones
made of homogenised genes by replicants
from clinical doctrines and empirical indulgences
Soulless and efficient, bred for duties destructives
Capitalist fodder, programmed ready for earth's ****
Regulate as required, inputted subs with pigs hearts
Made followers with voracious appetite for blood
mechanised barbarians on leash with one track mix
Human shire horses in designer shods and faulty gauges
Manufactured manufacturers limited and corollated
Factories, dormitories partnered with like, watered
and bedded till tomorrow, audiod to the Sterling whip
Given ample ales, keep blinded and chained
Distract and cater to baser instincts, *** *** ***
Free 'love' free *** valueless values, what values
Enjoy kids must return to work desk seven on the dot
Time is money, clogs and production
waits for no man, do or your pleasures denied
Money, money money, honey for bees, honey for drones
Soulless, dehumanised, pale, aged at thirty, heart attacks next
Vacuous ghost programmed dunces
Malfunctioning entities devoid of humanity
Superficial plasticated robots, destruction default
Industrial pieces with industrial minds
Chemicalized drunks with wired brains
They roam around screaming freedom and power!
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 8:28 PM UTC
Beggars line the busy streets
cup and cloth outstretched
the look of desperation etched on their faces
like the dawn shadow of a carved lithograph
they don't ask me for spare change
just a simple nod of acknowledgement;
even after a shower and a change of clothes
I must have their look, that broken beaten look
the look of the street.
George Square is busy today
tourists happy clicking panoramic memories
admiration of forced foolish bravery at the Cenotaph
a list of names they will never know
and marvel at the antiquated architecture
to later revel in the wonderment of how anyone
in a civilised and modern society can do without skyscrapers
while they grudgingly share a half-measure of a single malt
I sit on a bench that marks a families love and remembrance
to the passing of a woman named Judith
the pigeons flock in carnal mass gatherings
knowing I've been there for 3 hours already
because I have the look of someone who hides his crusts
because I have the hungry eyes of the look of the street.
The well dressed man at the end of the alleyway,
the plume of carcinogen cigar smoke
like a coal fired power station in the sunlight
this is where they go for over-priced craft ales
with Sautéed Wild Rabbit starter and £65 Wagyu Tomahawk Steak
a place for fine pickings in the alleyway ashtrays
dispensed cancer sticks left disregarded
the half-finished defiance of another £9 packet
that was simply spare change to begin with
I hover around making false promises on a deadline phone call
pretending in mime to be semi-OK
that the compadres are running late
and "tell me about the theatre show later"
the misdirection amid the camouflage of plastic peace lilies
while my other hand rummages the unspent tobacco
and the black-on-black door steward keeps clocking me
because I have the look of the street.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 7:53 AM UTC
can there be no shampoos? no cakes?
no ales?
do you understand my
disdain for my own
self? i am alone in a room right now
it is a small room
on the eleventh floor
of a mediocre apartment
in a mediocre part of
the greater toronto area
i can hear bad music
coming from the room
above the one i
am currently in
i think it is some sort of dubstep
like, bon iver or something
it is the kind of music that
wins 17 daytime emmy awards
and a ******* from a
dead president of the artist's
choice (a lavish ceremony)
like a dairy queen in
late september,
i weep creamy tears
that taste like creamy
frowny-faces
i weep creamy tears
over a non-existent
lover who is right now
dancing to bon iver ft. drake
whilst punching me in the face
my non-existent lover is
also a stalwart lover
and i resent that quality
i resent my non-existent lover's
stalwart twitter account,
too because
it reminds me of myself
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 1:55 PM UTC
pound the table
another round
here liquid courage
is to be found!
out flow the ales
pour forth the meads
hoist axe and buckler
there's mighty need!
For bearded froth
and battle hymns
tonight we drink
we drink from skins!
we drink from cups
we drain our steins
we'll drink until
our eyes go blind!
So hoist yer glass
join us tonight
put up yer fists
prepare to fight!
Put down that barstool
Ha! Ya missed
And sing the
Cadence of the ******
Then pound the table
one last round
there's liquid courage
to be found!
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 11:03 AM UTC
I didn't come here for the overpriced beer, that's not gonna cure what ales me.
What ales me is here, hidden beneath the cure.
Inaccessible, leaving hope that makes it only more painful.
They don't know what to make of me, for I am not defined.
But it's their indifference that chisels away at parts of me until these parts are no longer mine.
I am not crazy, repeating these patterns.
Dropping placebos and falling victim to patterns.
The deafening music, sweating skin and the passion.
I watch the others take it in, it's my only distraction.
And she'll turn to me at the most awkward time, maybe buy me a drink or feed me a line.
And she knows she's just fishing to see if she's still got it. And when I force a half smile she knows for a second I bought it.
If I turn her away then I'm the **** and mistaken, I'm left with only myself to blame.
If I tell her we've never met that it's her that's mistaken, she'll have her confidence restored and her senses awaken.
She'll move on for the night and look to upgrade. I'll sit and try to explain away the trap that she laid.
It gets late enough that I can pretend that I tried, and I make as if I have a reservation with a cabbie outside.
We're all born alone. Everyone dies. But for a few seconds, a few get to lie.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
Seven New Poems For Seven Days #6 & 7: Live like you're dying
Perhaps you know the lyric, the song?
Live like your dying.
Dying caught my ear, my eye, can't imagine why.
Con-Textual emendation, Natalino style.
Live like your writing.
Yes, that makes sense...
Embrace with passion each new session
Charge every second stanza with ruminating rhythms,
Cut the wires to the air traffic control sensory tower, go solo,
Pulse each word, beat all into a plowshare, even the anger,
Even the hate, dressed to **** in words, forgivable...
Grant the mundane, the insane, even the pain of tragedy,
You refuse so hardily to glorify, grant it and
Record it all - a moment,
A royal audience with all
Your writing parts.
No fancy footing, keep it simple.
No jesters in rain puddles,
Let images of clouds of sand
Born and perish in other's eyes and sighs, let verbal games bedevil other
Wooden puppet princes drinking fairy ales.
Huh?
Write clean and clear,
Let the sheerest wonderment of a new combination,
Be the titillation of the tongue's alliteration,
No head scratching at oblique verbal gestation,
Let words clear speak, each letter a speck,
That gives and grants clarification, sensational.
You, afternoon quenching Coronas, white T shirts,
Sun glazes and later, a summer eve's Sancerre,
Wave gazing on the reality of rusted beach chairs,
Babies sandy naked, washed in waves of Chardonnay,
The traffic-filled word-way highways and bay ways,
Exiting at the Poet's Nook, for exegesis & retrieval.
Write of:
Body shakes and juices, skin-staining tongues,
Taking her, afternoon, unexpectedly, her noises your derring-do!
Broken tear ducts, the Off switch, so busted, write about
Real stuff.
Write not in fear of dying
Angels delivering bad news in vacuum tubes,
Write joyous, psalms of loving life,
Live like your writing,
Write like your living,
So you may die well.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 6:06 PM UTC
LEPRECHAUN (3/16/12)
The leprechauns are singing and dancing
Around their *** of gold
For they have a story that must be told.
Of a man who they called St. pat
Who through his fear pulled in the welcome mat.
He knew that the wee people were mischievous beings
And all they done he was seeing.
They would play jokes on all around
Although they couldn’t be seen, and didn’t make a sound.
They would go to the nearest inns
And spike the ales and the gin.
Once they saw that everyone was polluted
They would go in and their purses would be looted.
This was how they could fill their pots of gold
Or at least that’s how the story was told.
They knew that most would tend to forget
And this was the easiest way yet.
Being robbed and not recalling
And their wives would start their balling.
Now if one of them could be caught
To their pots of gold, that person must be brought
But On this *** of gold there was a spell cast
That if taken- it would not last
It would be spent drinking the night away
And in the morning, the leprechauns would once again play.
So enjoy this ST. PATTY S day
For in their hands the gold will stay.
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 8:33 PM UTC
**Full of charm, 'The Old Kings Arms'.
appendage of my home
a smiling face, a friendly place
a venue that bids welcome.
Ales on draught, cask or keg
Irish stout or cider
a glass of wine, from the vine
all for the connoisseur drinker.
Or should you fancy dining out
for daily brunch or luncheon
served while two, upon the menu
you'll find a wide selection.
Charm is seen, composure serene
a smile by far the sweetest
since time was rang, her name Joanne
your Hostess with the most-est.**
... ... ...
Jul 9, 2011
Jul 9, 2011 at 5:01 AM UTC
She gave me the Plankton
The lowest lifeform of her being.
Anointed with this discovery
I too gave in and shared with her a deep
and impenatrable solace within me.
Such truths arent always shown in sight
of others.
Nor are they whispered in ear shot,
But somehow
She burrowed right through them.
Empathy in a female form!
And not jaded and wrought with thoughts of imorality.
Day by Day she would come and take frlom me these
deviant caverns and restlless ideals sprung forth from
absence of maturity in child hood and loss of faith
as a growing man in the seamingly uncommon trait and
beauty each human claims the next has deep within.
The savage mastication of delerious greed
Usually self righteous. Sweetlt nipping at the arms of the impoverished.
the malady spreading further through while the ogres stomp their feet for attention
puffing up their chest like creatures and only for a moments pay they contract a virus
all to familiar in their learned ways.
her delicate hands grouping at the flesh id presented brushing away the small
inconsistences and as i vaguely remember now and to this day
she slipped a finger inside and in the membranes and masses an ease would fall over me.
the rush of expelling all that ales you within is a euphoria like no other.
Yet each time she would leave something behind.
Mar 15, 2012
Mar 15, 2012 at 5:28 PM UTC
my eyes bleed to the sound of the city
made my heart stop to the silence of the noise
birds so quiet as the sun burnished my body
Is this the place where the end does come
ant like features as they move with a purpose
stop at nothing ...nothing but a stare
no care for another ..no greeness here
aspiration lives as they break our bones
the town was of pearly ..cockles and eels
gone is the pie ,mash and real ales
gone is the love of a place we called home
london a city lost to the throws
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 1:40 AM UTC
Your stolen kisses,
Gifted me such blisses,
Your ironclad touches,
Clutched me so feathery,
Your piercing blue eyes,
Enticed my body to tithes,
Your coursing black hairs,
A wood, lost flesh, no cares,
Your moisty, heated breaths,
Such mead, what ales to taste,
Your broad, booms, shoulders,
Let my sails out, into yonders,
Your mossy, low, peaty voice,
Laid me down without choice.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
Timeless, shapeless and colourless
Yet I demised after your fading trail
Excruciatingly hallucinating of a dark veil
Sobbing, for my torment is painless.
Would I deserve you at any era?
Shame would keep me from you.
I could be Zeus, you could he Hera,
But such wasn't destiny’s brew.
How powerless are my sails
Against a windy, furious sea
Maybe trying a couple of ales
Will make me invite you for tea.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 2:13 PM UTC
No medals for those who die on Site,
Just silence, till the Ambulance has gone,
Then, disconnecting like a crumpled kite,
The twisted scaffold, he had fallen from.
No more teasing his taste in Sandwiches,
Or Football team, that lost, again,
Just back to gable-ends steep pitches
As bosses begin, to shift the blame.
After the Funeral, we drank to him,
He, who was one of us,
Those who risk life and limb,
Gathered tightly, into a nucleus.
Hushed, we lifted Whiskey and Ales,
To a life, that rang with hammers and nails.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 7:16 PM UTC
transitional times
*midst the ordinaries, not paying close attention,
the yet to be baked batter of chatter while driving past the familiar,
a plain pasta with butter conversation,
the human carbohydrates of our racing consuming energy,
she slips me up, by slipping in two words,
her icing on the cake phrasing
"transitional times"
pull over to the side of Menantic Road
in the early of the late afternoon, Saturday's reclining sunlight,
question her closely, CIA taping her words to my brain:
did she mean the late afternoon hours of our lives when
reflection of sun sprinkles on our bay voyages us as voyeurs
past the old longings and into the future recalling?
perhaps, the au contraire, the steady stepping,
sneaking away of the sheltering night so that the earth's
inhabitants and organs may be revived in yellow golden greens of damp grasses and the whiteness of a Sunday's fresh milk?
of course, of course, the times when the horizon calls,
saying come to me, cross the transition to the newness
of everything, in the ages and days of celebration of
unfamiliar entrances?*
No, no, she answers, bemusedly grinning,
not everything is a poem,
you thieving wordsmith, simply did I observe
that having an extra pair of sunglasses in the car for
transitional times
was a good idea!
*pulling back on the road that goes past the
Tuck Ice Cream Shoppe, the island treasure hunt Dump, the ordinary homes on the range, all along the way to the boatyard where are kept and stored and stockpiled each summer colored sunset evening along with the drinkable French pink Rose wines and gleaming yellow Sancerre and golden ales of Nantucket,
I think to myself,*
nuh uh,
*every transition,
every glorious mindless conversation,
even in the town dump,
treasures in each word, in everything, especially the
extra extra-ordinaries,
is a poem*
June 25. 2017
5:20am
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 5:42 AM UTC
Again I fail
Retry, but to no avail
Wish I could kick the pail
But that also I'll fail
My face went pale
As I set sail
Might need some ginger ale
But I could only wail
In comes a male
Said he, "I'll throw you off the rail"
Again I wail
All because of this mail
Guess I'm going to jail
All I have is my pail
As I walk, as I flail
He is now wagging his tail
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
Dylan Thomas, drunk-ass poet,
uncorked nouns, imbibed the verb
downed six pints and thought about it
sitting unsteadily on the curb:
“Winds of word unleashed in drink
will fill to the full my poem’s sails…
though it may totter on the brink,
my drunken boat defies the gales.”
Floating on wreckage to distant shores,
our ***** bard beheld the deep
where whales spout forth their lyric stores
while the inebriate muses weep.
This postwar lush and lyrical fad,
was the biggest pint in the bar called Wales.
While not the worst, his verse was bad…
(but better after seven ales).
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 7:18 PM UTC
The bed's been alone,except for only I.
The big round red chair says he spent a long time talking to her that one night, when I was away.
The computer monitor won't share, what it saw went by.
And the shower head won't say that it saw us both cry.
My car said it saw her, before I took over
The garage door says nothing, but shelters me ever.
The dog just looks at me sadly misses him here
The pillow states it's been days since I shed one tear.
My coffee cup reports that it has seen me dancing
Alone to unwind, while the place gets cleaned out,
My wallet concurs, the new cards at me glancing
The car echoes softly I've been out and about.
The scale will echo that I've lost some weight
And on the stove, the omelet pan looks satisfied.
The fridge says some ales have met mysterious fate.
The eggs say their fellows have all been pan fried.
The dresser says hey, but his socks are still here?!
The mirror mumbles something, about a reflection
Not knowing the ending or where they will steer.
And all of them feel that it's one strange direction.
©November 06, 2006
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
*Some art and poems— our strokes on paper
And walks among green mountains and sea,
On weekends of a friend visiting, time tapers,
Simple riches, words over ales, wine and tea.*
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 6:52 PM UTC
My friend asked me the other day
"Why are you so sad? Tell me what's wrong. Please."
I told her nothing, but she new I was lying.
"There's someone else living in me, too. It's not just me!" I told her.
"Tell me about this someone else, then. Tell me about this person." My friend replied.
But I shook my head.
Because I felt the other part of me getting slowly angry..
That someone else, you don't ask about him.
Him.
Gender neutral, but I'm sure it's a him.
My other side of me.
He can be nice, funny.
But.. he's the angry part.
The part that lets out the sadness and the anger, even the rage, the want for revenge.
He's what makes me feel paranoia, what gives me pain, what makes me cut, what blinds me, what make me want to die.
He doesn't leave me alone.
I call him Ales.
Because he is what ails me.
Ales.
He's the part that makes me lose friends and fight.
What makes me want to **** things, break things.
What makes me want to scream, shout, jump.
Neither one can win.
I fight with you like I fight with a sibling.
You're not a sibling, though.
You're a part of me.
He's what makes me bored with lovers.
What makes me feel fear.
He's what makes me cry, sob, toss and turn.
What makes me unable to sleep.
What makes me lash out on impulse.
Yes.
He's my impulse.
I don't think when it's his time to play.
I act on impulse.
In chemical swirls
Swimming slowly through my brain
There you are
I'm not alone in my head, I'm not alone in my body
Multiple mes, multiple yous.
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 7:18 AM UTC
A queer world
My local pub won't do posh grub,
but sells beer from the wood.
You can't get wine nor cocktails
but the ales are all real good.
There's always sport, on the tv,
the wooden floors are bare;
so when two 'pretty boys' minced in,
they caused us all to stare.
Both had high-lights in their hair
and make-up, on their faces.
They ordered half a lager each
& two straight ***** chasers.
A quick look round however
and they soon made up their mind:
our rough&ready; local
didn't cater for their kind.
But, as they quickly minced away
and off, through the pub door;
up spoke the bar-room know-all,
like many times before.
“An article I read, last week,
said ten percent are gay.
Not all of 'em dress-up like that
nor try to walk that way.”
Someone said,”Shut up, you fool.”
while we just kept on drinkin'
but what he'd said, stuck in our head
and we began a-thinkin'
My mate says, “Watch the barman, Bob,
he wears a lot of pink
& holds his little-finger out,
each time he has a drink.”
They reckon Bill, who works away
and only comes in Sundays.
Goes in the cubicle to ****
when wearing his wife's ******
I know it's not conclusive
but I thought it pretty queer,
when Tommy took his wife out twice,
to see that Mama Mia.
Then there's Big Jack Smedley,
though he's muscular and manly;
he has his body waxed, each month,
by that hairdresser – Stanley.
The more we talked about it,
as we downed our beer & stout;
the more we realised,
that not everyone's come out.
We now accept that being camp,
is not the only way
and reckon that there's happen more
than fifty shades of gay!
Briz 14/6/13
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 3:42 AM UTC
Transient summers,
Forbidden Bluebell fields,
Tough times symbolise the pouring of ales.
Manicured lawns,
Cider drinking Saturdays,
Routine discussions about the sun and rain.
Hijinx down the watering hole,
The great unwashed congregating on Market Day,
Smog penetrating the lungs,
Forlorn eyes, social decay.
Leaders of austerity,
Riddled with oppressive policies,
The tedious endurement of the morning commute.
Sirens cut across Westminster,
A quintessential rave anthem,
Boxing Day sales,
Sheer pandemonium.
Revelling in satire,
And curtain twitching,
Reading racists newspapers,
Disenfranchised youth.
Icky dance floors with raging hormones,
Breath heavy with hops and acrid tobacco.
**** drops and winding waists,
Ladies bathroom, evil eyes exchanged.
Sundays spent hanging,
And Mondays depressed,
Holy communions,
Cladded in your best dress.
Suppressed thoughts,
And baited breath
An Albion filled with oppression and dread.
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 7:08 PM UTC
I overheard a relationship
Between our toes
pushing back and forth
on each others calves
toenails scraping lightly down the legs
wiggling, writhing and twitching
until it was safe again to be still-
****** of the pinky toe
I overheard a relationship
Between you and me
I was crying and you were yelling
Then I was yelling and you were silent
Then everything stopped.
I overheard a relationship
Between you and that ticking gadget in your chest
So cold
So abnormal
So you.
The cruelty- I wanted to fish it out of you with my tongue
Make it mine, overtake what ales you,
But it’s just not long enough.
I overheard a relationship
Between i and i
We kissed and made up
We said sorry and we forgave
Love was had.
(It was so good I couldn’t believe myself)
I overheard a relationship
Between the universe and my soul
It reminded me I could do better
I cried at its soil
And I forgave it for giving me what I have for you
I overheard a relationship
Between me and God
And
It
Was
Good.
Jun 25, 2011
Jun 25, 2011 at 3:37 PM UTC