"artois" poems
In pubs with bar flies.
Kronenburg, Becks, Carling, Stella Artois and Fosters,
Dancing in our blood,
Utterly inured; we are endured by all:
The solipsism most profound.
And when Johnnie, Jack and Jameson join,
The sentimental and the morbid
Are conjoined.
And ****
In the custody of beer halls,
The shadows that draw, fade,
And calls – e’en Death’s! -- are put on hold!
No time; instead, before the last, another pint.
For in this hallowed inn,
Drinking what’s in the glass,
And espousing the glow within,
Cares regress.
No woes,
Or loaded psyches,
For when the pressure builds,
The best: a jet of yellow bliss,
Relieves the pain,
On Armitage Shanks' porcelain.
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 6:50 PM UTC
Neon Stella Artois lights and sly hellos
It commenced as we were flew spinning
Ticket stubs and ink -stains
Oh, as our love flirted we both were seeking
Brooklyn Subway stops and ***** clothes
We perched by the equator but only when beginning
Backwards flasks and *******
Then winter solstice was challenged by spring’s springing
Strands of soft pearls and wishing wells
We shivered the anxious touch of a faux July summer’s evening
Empty bar stools and firelight
It was still bitterly February but with the mockery of songbirds floating
Two Thirty Seven A.M. and sea shells
How can the world deceive us in this fashion: fools, we accept ever-knowing
Buttered bread and hindsight
Dawn will crash with frostbite and these daisies will pay the price of their beauty’s sinning
Wine before noon and payphone bills
Wind will eviscerate this moment for once you have touched the sun the ice is more than suffocating
Dry heaving and ribbons
We were only waiting then at the heart of a train station for the stretches of shadows to lengthen
First drags of cigarettes and blue diet pills
The glitter within the dew drops stolen from our tired eyes when our first summer was stolen
Cheap motels and kitchens
We could barely exchange syllables, our melodies quarreling, our blood had thinned
Calendar pages and black lace *******
The euthanasia of the spring would have hung us too if we had breathed it in
The Last calls and lollipops
One can repose more gently in the absence of color than in the theft of sin
Bitten manicured hands and autumn leaves
We used to sleep in a room with wonders, windows, and blankets within
Midnight whispers and rooftops
It was the only place that could soften the swords in all this ruin
****** wrappers and painting supplies
Today is cruel, it cannot be summer if the world doesn’t spin
Happy hour cocktails and goodbyes
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
We live in the unlighted state of America
Where what happens when we turn the lights off
Is dealt with darkness
And matters of delicate touch
Are treated with sharpness
When our only language
Is to inflict anguish
We cut connections in the bedroom
To clear our cynical head room
For contempt and judgement
People looking for a feeling to fall into
Or a reason to live
Must face frigid climates
When the public invades privacy
And ill fated ****** exploits
Pervade salacious tabloids
Our ****** regrets
Cut the deepest
Society reaps them
Sowing us together with resentment
We provide each other with relief
But not the relief we're looking for
We give each other hours of relief
Until those useless hours become days
And those fruitless days become years
That engender endless tears
As it remains warm in our car
But the winter outside freezes anything that breaks the plane
And our air conditioning only helps so much
When the spinning wheels are in our faces
There is a national coverage in the media
That presents a bleak picture of the ****** health of America
I feel I sit somewhere in between
*** offenders and a disgusted public
When I observe the observers
Who are too scared shitless to ever face their own emotions
Judge those for overindulging in their emotions
They lived their life in fear and safety
So they could be the righteous ones
To admonish the risk takers and mistake makers
Yet they are of the least value to humanity
They're the people who grade all your answers as incorrect
Without providing their perfect alternatives
While trying to erase the context
Because of what the context has to say about society
People feeling that they can never be emotionally vulnerable
Until they experience sheer desperation
And no dollar contract
Can replace human contact
Yet we give men so much money and power
And ask them to feel fine in our cold shower
Until we are soiled by their intention
A nation committed to selling Stella Artois
A nation full of Blanche DuBois
Humanity folds in on itself
When we attack with ***
Humanity does itself a disservice
By not trying to understand these attacks honestly
We forsake forgiveness
And embrace desperation
Until we become unbearably desperate
For attention
For approval
For ****** contact
For money
For validation
And sometimes our desperate desires become tangled
I'd like to think of that as love
And not a meeting between two practical rapists
That conjoin in the middle
Yet somehow come out distorted on the other side
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 4:55 AM UTC
*yeah, they cut out my third ****** from my shoulder blade and i turned into a bond girl; oh god, you're not one of those bulletproof people confused about love like a nurse confused by a disease? you are? oh god help me... you'll go far! straight to daddy's pocket purse and saturday night... you'll throw stilettos at chandeliers and expect a catwalk blackout... god forbid that should happen with everyone biting their toenails.*
between us we share the bathroom
and the bedroom,
we sit on the stilt framing see-through of it admirably
airy and welcoming stars:
wishing for foxes and women respectively,
all you can hear is a meow... meow... meow...
meow meow... moo... µ... meow... meow interchange
between these two rooms in the garden air,
it’s like a fetish orchestra giving ‘prior to sleep’ crescendos,
and it makes sense to write a forgivable poem
of this least content, content with the least as me writing it;
well d'uh, of course i had to write it,
i wasn't going to stage a boxing match with stella artois
losing care for words and taking care of action,
i was going to mediate the page like a kite being passed
on with paddington bear's secret inscriptions to get from
london to sydney; i hope it worked.
the drunkard? oh... he's either silent, crying, laughing,
or simply reading.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
That stuff called alcohol,
Wow what a mess,
The healer of tension,
The reliever of stress.
Clouding the brain,
Intoxicate the senses,
Together they're deadly
As they both drop their defences.
Bottles on the bedside,
Cans on the floor,
Stella Artois is watching
In a bin by the door.
Have a shot of Russian water,
And see where you end up,
Either stumbling on the streets,
Or topping up another cup.
The controller of minds,
The master of confusion,
The leader of disaster,
The commander of delusion.
Oh sweet, sweet alcohol,
You cure me when I'm not sober,
But one more swig from a bottle of Jack,
And it's game over.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 5:10 AM UTC
Drinking a stale beer
that I snuck out of the fridge
I feel so grown up
I am here alone
struggling to open this
was a bad idea.
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
i want to go back to the nights
by the lake and under the stars
smoking **** and drinking stella artois
i want to go back to the nights
the summer nights
with you
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 12:16 PM UTC
The sun on my face distracts me from my father,
as he yells in my ears how much of a disgrace I have become.
His voice, shadowed by the dark clouds that hide the sun,
becomes a tiny speck of mud. I stamp on mud on a hill run.
The smell of stella artois spills from his mouth,
as he warns me of the dangers of birthing a dark child or none at all.
His impatience grows louder, as I gaze at the white streak in the sky above,
internally questioning whether it is
A. a chemtrail, that casts nauseating ignorance, as evident by the neanderthal beside me
or
B. a magic carpet, that could transport me somewhere else; somewhere the sun shines and the clouds never have to come out.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
I took the pills.
Took the long way home
Nirvana blared through heavy atmosphere
I cleaned up and took the dog outside in the rain
I watched some evening news
Continued making things nice so when the others come home they will be happy
Washed my hands, poured ice water
Took a new picture of myself
Put it online
Put on a comfy shirt
Started recording the Red Wings game
Turned off the TV
Took out my guitar
Pressed record on the smartphone laying there
Played what I played for twenty-two minutes
Did more things, making nice, getting comfy
Sat at computer
Turned on Elliott Smith's new release, "I Figured You Out"
Wrote this ******* cause I'm doing it all
Turned on "I Figured You Out" again
This time no headphones
Loud over the computer speakers
The walls need to hear this song
So does the dog
Cracked a large bottle of Stella Artois
Poured it in a glass
All so I can turn on that Red Wings game and start doing nothing at all.
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 7:58 PM UTC
Artois is where art is
and I love bank'y's
for there that day
art was
and today is not at all
and to me that ment some thing.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC