"amstel" poems
The Amstel. Christ.
Kilner jars full of fireflies
on redbrick windowsills.
Hormone therapy. Jesus.
Angel boys from Europe
trailing around behind me wondering -
and not caring - what the hell is in my pants.
Cold morning breezes
on scarred chest tissue and needle puncture marks.
Rows and rows of bicycles
and a fluttering pink scarf in the wind.
Roaring screams and sexless smiles
cold split knuckles and nonchalant breath.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
The night is young, most lights are out. You're a sad one if at the end of the night you are without. You fail to flash flair if you dare have doubt. It's the nightlife and there are multiple exchanges. It's wild, the young are free and they don't fear the dangers.
The saaz hop pops and the syrups drop. Jack is swallowed, Daniel follows and sons feel like paps. The captain is shot down and Johnnie leads the way so even in the morning they'd keep walking. It's a feminine thing at the Red Square when joy and tears are shared. All feeling bubbly they smoke on hubbly. They reach their destination when the Three Ships land at the breeze of the Southern Comfort. The boys walking down the streets reeling say hi time and time again - but it sounds like Heineken. It is a thriller, she Miller, when she sinks and the body turns into an ocean.
These syrups, energizer potions, inspire wilderness. They get loud and walk proud as friend and he have fine girls for the night found. Scream "uhm-I'm still" for it is the beverage that tells - it is Amstel. High and drunk, in loose mode, the thought reeling in mind is "take off clothes" - play with pole. Sleep with the girl that he has stole. Stories of old, not for folks (only amongst peers are told). It is he weak a man, he who chokes. He who can't make it to the morning.
Drunk emotions are starting, it's time to head for the bed. And all the while, the thought reeling through their minds as they move side to side, is that it was no fantasy and conclusion that reel is real
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 4:57 AM UTC