"boozed" poems
On a hot hot day
nothing better than
sweet sticky rice coconut
milk a big ripe mango
That, I felt, was what the fly thought
he touched down onto my mango,
it was so sweet, pouring
saccharine sweat
ripe slabs of yellow smorgasborg
endless pleasure of sugar mango flesh
it seemed good to the fly
Across the water,
pressing over the mountains,
opaque threads of rain, like
slim tornadoes twisting ash into the clouds
moved this way
things never looked good for the fly
He ate nonstop, boozed up on mango
an unlimited supply of yellow stuff
he gained weight by the second
there was no point in stopping
the more juice the mango sweat
the stickier its meat
the more mango the drunk fly ate,
the further he sank into its flesh
he was stuck, flailed his stupid legs
in the air as if more flies coming
would rather help him than eat
juicy golden mango feast
he died there, I think
the monsoon would make sure of it
I tossed the mango, sticky rice
the styrofoam plate
thinking it spoiled, fearing the rain
May 3, 2011
May 3, 2011 at 3:58 AM UTC
Tiger, Tiger they all called him.
Faces marked with smiles grim.
Office buzzed with word tiger, tiger.
He was one but many they were.
Full day continued insincere flattery.
End of month 'twas, day for salary.
Then story took melodramatic turn.
Like tiger he moved, demeanor stern.
Outright he announced party that night.
Everyone attended in clothes bright.
They gossiped, danced and dined.
Happily they all boozed and wined.
He sat like a tiger circled by coterie;
And the total bill was half the salary.
I looked through magnifying glass;
And saw pack of wolves and an ***
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 6:32 AM UTC
**** serenely amid the surround-sound system and break the sound barrier and remember what *** appeal there may be in celibacy. As far as possible without surrender be located on voluptuous bafflegabs amongst squillions creatures. Jabber your clean breast ravishingly and revealingly; and bug to odds, even the dead from the neck up and half—baked; they too **** their mythical being. Lynch yobbish and Eurosceptic creatures, they are hot potatoes to the spunk. If you calibrate yourself with the aid of genetically modifieds you may become naff and disgusting; for always there will be juicier and grosser girls than yourself. Fuck your bear and ragged staffs as well as your carcasses. Acropolis caressed inside your cough up jackboot, however uncouth; *** appeal is a **** abracadabra at the sign of the channel—hopping weathercocks of porridge. Cock sadomasochist in your pigeon filths; for the big bang theory is chock—full of Piltdown man. Nevertheless let this not ********* you to what pith there is; thick celebrities have a crack at for foul—smelling specimens; and in all quarters ***** is oozing of exhaustion. Touch yourself. To cap it all **** not ape where the shoe pinches. Neither be cheeky about ****** ergo chez the ******* type of oodles menopause and double whammy schoolgirl complexion is as shrinkproof as the Antichrist. Treat like **** out of charity the tax collector of the yonks, buxomly jettisoning the seed of the vigorousness. Give **** enormousness of ***** to fluoridate you inside eye—opening extremity. But do not abuse yourself using crooked paintings. Noisy funks are impregnated of knock up and stiffness. Over the hills and far away a **** straitjacket, touch affectionate *** yourself. You are a brat of the swarms, no less than the crab apples and the diamond geezers; you have a right to breathe from end to end. And whether or no or not *** appeal is plain as a pikestaff to you, nay no grit the not peanuts is spreadeagling as the body beautiful should. Ergo be at titbit with Fetish whatever you inseminate him to be posted, and whatever your alpha—fetoprotein tests and farts inside the full—throated nymphomaniacs of ***** wigwam come—hither look using your ****** intercourse. With all *** appeal’s tattie bogle, slavery and mutilated musclemen, the body beautiful is still a tall, dark and handsome big bang theory. Stand pert. Die in the attempt to be boozed up.
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 3:32 PM UTC
avenue sounds are never agreeable, ignore the drift,
ignore the hum,
ignore the suburban neophytes in the city lights (I never did care much for hipsters).
ignore rapid eye movements, the flush red face, ignore the snapshots of you that adorn my semi-sleep state
I stare at my ceiling and see the cobblestone summer streets you once graced, long ago in the eternal occident, I want to ignore but I’m so very boozed, in a blue lucid slumber:::
eyes closed::: my head spins and sleep begins with the tidal delirium of dopamine drips, your legs, your hips, I’m drowning a bit, doused in a sanguine sweat inside a fantasy **** I’m dreaming of you**)
Synaptic friction
she is a pleasant fiction
flash/sparks segue a dormant memory ,
the two of us riding familiar highways::: she gazes at me with her usual emerald encased ocular torment, those limbal rings cast aspersions at the last vestiges of my will power, until, I’m done, done in by the divinity of her lips:::
There is no end to (your) energy
It even finds me here::: in my dystopian dream (eternal)
now
an inescapable, **myopic curse
(nocturnal)**:::
the nightmare of not having you near
Awake, I roll over to clutch for the pacifier of your comfort (violent midnight)
I find only a fragrance,
i flail, searching, when those flashbacks fall short
isolated into the banality of bedsheets and pillows pleats
(the retrograde nature of my reality, now readily apparent)
cdh
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 12:28 AM UTC
I wonder how you are
Because my Mom asked me about you today.
She misses you, you know
I told her,
We live in different worlds.
You,
In your glitter-filled, amplified, distorted, boozed-up soiree,
And I,
In your memory.
And in case you were wondering,
I miss you, too.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 7:57 AM UTC
It flows
And stops
It dies
And clots
Revives
It thrives
Until I drop
As alcohol courses through me
Turning pure blood to taint
My wits are dulled
And thoughts askew
That light is rather bright
That one up ahead
Too boozed up
To find the brake
...
Awaking briefly
No pain
Talking man with his blue mask
Hooking up a bag of life
It's red and thick
I've seen it before
Perhaps it was mine I gave
My life is too pathetic for another to save
Irony of my own blood replacing
My own blood
Is it worth it
Should they bother
Let me suffer my consequences
Just let the blood stop
I can already it feel it starting to clot.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
This is a beautiful poem by one of my dear friends Blaquetouch, hope you like it as much as I do.
As I celebrate my death
little did I know my choices will course my end
that my joys will be temporary and my sorrows eternal
that my selfishness will be my downfall
and my greed my death.
As I celebrate my death
little did I realise happiness is for all
that not only my happiness should be important
that life gives you back what you invest in it
and nothing out of spite
As I celebrate my death
taking her man not knowing that I'm taking her coffin
making him mine and his AIDS my inheritance
riding his car only to be driven in a hearse later
enjoying le'good life at her expense
but giving her even a better chance in life
to live longer and positive.
YES I celebrated my death
Thought I knew better
that I am more beautiful and deserving
thought I can have it all without a risk
and live to see it all unfold
as he left her for me
I laughed my life away
flirted my future
boozed a chance to see my grandkids
but the worst thing I did
was to **** my life to death with an *** Positive Married Man
if he could cheat on her with me
chances are he's cheating on me with someone else
but my selfish mind was not that strong
all I wanted was to be happy
yet I kept stolen good to keep me happy
CELEBRATED MY DEATH PREMATURELY
AND NOW MY COFFIN IS A LESSON TO
DO UNTO OTHERS, AS YOU WOULD LIKE THEM TO DO UNTO YOU
MY COFFIN IS A LESSON THAT
MUCH AS U DESERVE HAPPINESS, SO IS SHE
THAT WHAT GOES AROUND, COMES AROUND IN 10-FOLDS
Rather celebrate life and live to die a blameless soul
who tried to do good at all times and succeeded.
Celebrate Life
By Blaquetouch
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 3:42 AM UTC
Is maturity a thing,
as we wither old?
Do we really learn our lesson,
and finally do as we are told?
I do not.
I refuse.
I will be smart and taught,
yet gleefully confused.
Never content,
never sold.
Always enthused,
and always boozed.
Life can't be seen as seriously real,
as we are all just playing a living game.
We can pierce our own Achilles heel,
or stand tall to pronounce all you overcame.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 12:43 PM UTC
It’s hot and you don’t feel
Like sitting down to write
The postcard to the parents,
But it has to be done or they’ll
Worry and Father will have
One of his turns and Mother
Will be flapping round like
A **** hen with no head, so
You take a chair by the window
Of the Hotel Cuba and think
What to write, what to put
Down in the limited space
Allowed, and not to write
Anything that’ll stir Father’s
Christian sensibilities or
Mother’s little world of tea
And visits and afternoon naps
And speaking to the canary
Who doesn’t speak back.
You wait for Humphrey to
Come back from the bar
Hoping he’ll come up with
Things to say, but he doesn’t
Show and its getting late
And it’s been a busy day and
The night looms large and
You want Humphrey at his
Best, not too boozed, not
Distracted, and on the whole
He’s quite a fair catch, knows
How to please a girl, keep her
On her toes and back and that
Thing he does with the…Dear
Father and Mother, Cuba’s quite
A place…there was this man
Who kissed my hand and Dear
Humphrey said…the sun’s warm
And the food is out of this world
…I can dance the latest dances
Here, nothing that is suspect or
Need worry you…I will send this
Postcard in the morning, God I’m
Tired, keep on yawning, must be
The heat… You sit back and put
Down the pen and look up as
Humphrey returns doing some
Movements with his feet to some
Music playing and he smiles and
Winks and does a twirl…Sleep tight
Parents…it’s going to be one of
Those night for she's a naughty girl.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 3:11 AM UTC
Like a beer can crushed on a boozed up frat boys head,
It hurt
Even though I said it didn’t
Even though I pretend I’m invincible
Even though you all think I’ve mastered this
I haven’t
It hurt
Like a teeny tiny paper cut from a loose leaf sheet it paper,
It burns
Even though you can’t see the scar
Even though it happens to people every day
Even though I didn’t even know it happened until it was over
It wasn’t over for me
It burns
Like the eyes of an innocent bystander the first day of pollen season
It stings
Even though I’m used to the pain
Even though I should have seen it coming
Even though I’ve been taught how to prevent it
I let it slip my mind
It stings
I am a stubborn creature
I do not learn well from others mistakes
I guess hindsight really is a *****
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 1:54 PM UTC
the day i let go of everything
i began to rise slowly,
a million red balloons
tied with thick satin ribbons
to the back of my favorite orange flannel
and the tinge of sadness i felt
as i floated over a city
where the glasses can't decide
if they're half full or empty
began to drop from the tip of my nose
down into my toes
and finally into the pipes of crack heads
and mouths of puerto rican mothers
yelling at their children
to come home for pastalillos
i watched as nothing changed
the falls still fell
hipsters still biked (pretentiously)
bums still begged for change (in more ways than one)
hood rats still skipped school
20 somethings still boozed
and i realized that as much as this city felt like my salvation,
it wasn't
gulls came along
and popped each balloon,
as i dropped closer and closer to the earth
i panicked
i clung to the remaining balloon
and begged the birds to carry me elsewhere
but i already knew that the only way out of this place
was the way that i came in,
alone
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 10:08 PM UTC
I see this city for what it is, Hung over from a drunk night of love and thizz, The scores of underaged mental ****** This city has its dope game sores, The blinking lights of dreams that may never be, And the burnt out saints singing of their misery, The deaf musicians holding for glory days, And quiet actors lips singing future unknown plays, And all the intellects and jocks are buying memories from the street on 4th, As we all look up with longing in the shadow of mount in north Painters obnoxiously using pastels made of broken hearts and deep cuts, While boozed up geniuses look with hope at their pile of cigarette butts, As we all hope for something more, We fail to smile at the witty and ugly ***** The failed nights of that fall cold, And the shyest writers with pros of mindsets that have forever danced away the feeling of bold, We all look up with longing in the shadow of the mount in the north, As we all put down our hands,
And fold.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC
I'm slinkin out,
puttin a future behind.
My thoughts are in a scatter
How can i decipher all this chatter?
I just wanna float by in a haze
Leave my mind in hope for some sort of praise,
One moment of peace.
I can't take the accusations
I may seem lost but it's all in the creation
Boozed up, no judgement to spare
Wouldn't have even bothered on a dare
Am I the only scumbag?
Nah, you're all ****** in the head too.
I let the shell crumble
Gave into the demon.
No ***** left to give,
I'm in this alone.
My mind knows its truth,
My heart ignores its signs.
Make me smile and maybe my
Legs spread, knees bend.
Seek your truth,
Have you found mine?
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 1:03 PM UTC
he's a much sobered man
when he's drunk
words then flow with elan
he's a jolly hunk.
he's a much sweeter pal
tipsy when he is
nice and warmly liberal
he puts you at ease.
does it so smooth
each inspiring peg
no more uncouth
he's no more a dreg.
when drunk he's at his best
never was a kind sweeter man
unburdened of his heavy breast
he kisses long ignored woman.
when boozed he's passionate no doubt
the hidden emotions are in spate
his heart freely speaks out
opens his secret's floodgate.
next morn he can't just recall
why stands an empty goblet
he lies in smell of alcohol
worries aren't light on his chest.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
The cemetery trees are dancing in the wind.
Shimmying unapologetically
like a chorus line of boozed up
Burlesque dancers.
Some are tall and regal with pointed crowns,
Isosceles dresses, neat and tidy,
Complete with Pine colored tutus.
Whoosh!
Like entering a room sliding
On your knees.
Whoosh!
Like someone breathing fresh life
Into you.
Mysterious but holy,
Divine yet impermanent.
Whoosh!
Strong yet fragile,
Gliding with the wind
In this game called life.
(and death)
Some have solid legs
And big shiny afros,
Showing everyone how
It's REALLY done.
Bump. Grind.
Confident yet elegant,
Bump Grind.
Full of themselves in the
Best way possible,
Bump! Grind!
Living. Being. Rejoicing.
Others have tassels
dangling from their limbs.
Shimmy! Shake!
Shimmy! Shake!
Teasing me with their
Devastating beauty,
Shimmy! Shimmy! Shake!
Revealing my longing,
My passions,
For what?
I don't really know.
Shimmy! Shake!
Feeding me an elixir
Of fresh sweet hope
To drown freely, once again,
In immortal youth.
They all weave themselves
In the wind.
Acknowledging my existence
Through movement.
Using interpretive dance
As a symbolic conversation.
Happy to see me,
Welcoming me to their land.
Welcoming me home.
Welcoming me to
NOW.
.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
Little fingers
making dresses
I put pleasant things in my mind
for living's sake, for beauty
high on Halloween
drugged up, boozed up
practically living in the ring of mushrooms I heard about as a child
when I checked out
every fairy book in the library. And then they weren't real.
Pretty thoughts are like los aves, the birds.
They fly in around in my caged mind until they are shot down
forcibly taken down
and used for food in winter.
Apr 17, 2011
Apr 17, 2011 at 5:34 PM UTC
I once was an real mess, Broken and Wrecked, a huge Mess.
But Little by Little Christ took away the things that I cling to.
The Things that I ran to when I needed to escape My Life here.
A wrecked Life that I wished that I was not Living in anymore.
So first thing that he took was Drugs, then the Boozed and Gambling.
Because it was Him that I was suppose to run to when I got scared.
But I was running to an escape the terrible Life that I had Live in.
For it was His job to Heal Us not any worldly addiction here on the earth.
For they were little gods to me , to escape the Life that I had messed up.
For no longer do I need to escape, but to become a Healed Man here.
He also took away cigarettes from on December 10, 2010 as well.
Revealing to this here world the Presence and the Power of Christ too.
For only He can Heal and Repair People Lives here on the Earth.
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 11:13 AM UTC
As it ever so lightly touches your lips
The liquid disappears
Just as your soul does.
It all turns to black.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 2:31 PM UTC
Dylan Thomas boozed
the great belly of his muse
drowned after Milkwood.
May 10, 2012
May 10, 2012 at 9:48 AM UTC
I just want to know what hold this town has on me
why it won’t let me go
and why it breeds such pain
We used to sing barefoot with shooting stars
your lips boozed and my heart fluttering
taken sun tea or sun kissed
always drenched in river rocks
Your hair changed like the moon
and my heart stood strong at your feet
but where are we now
I’ve let this heart free
But it will always chose you
and I’m not sure I can sing with the stars anymore
they just remind me of what was
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 9:22 PM UTC
Months have gone and the pain does not pass
Friday was pretty harsh, maybe I missed the mark
It was life all in one glance, ours lives happened to crash
I can't say right now, but we met, and I was happy to leave the dark
Friday we both left our shells
We both shared our pain, but what did we gain
I feel like I brought us both to hell
I cannot say right now, but we met, and it still drives me insane
After our Friday thy continued into the night
she kept on crying, while I boozed mine away
I awoke wanting to speak of all the things we said in the light
I cannot say right now, but we met, as I slip into the dark, to my dismay
Honey I said we'd talk on Sunday
Am I ready to speak or should I wait till Monday
One past Sunday can't change much; should I wait till Tuesday
I cannot say right now, but we met, is it Sunday?
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
Actions don't dictate my behavior
let me latch onto the next bottle
sitting across my vision
settled, calm
Let me drink and word *****
on your shoes
leaving a stench that will remind
you of the hazy days
spent, boozed up
Let me smoke till my lungs
beg for a molecule of oxygen
to freshen it's dank corners
Let me wobble on the sidewalk
reminding my feet which one goes first
let me sway, cursing whatever
injected my heart with a dose
of forbidden feelings
Leave my vision of tomorrow
the same, swallow the the changes
like an unwanted gag
drown it with that burning liquid
Let me be, as if the next encounter
is just seconds away
let me
be
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 4:12 AM UTC
I liked her in her red dress,
I liked her out of it, too,
but the dress made her
more dangerous,
more dangerous than
she usually was.
Netanya, I said,
you look devilish
in that dress,
it brings out
the hotness in you.
Teddy, she said,
you're only just
saying that to get me
in bed tonight
and have your
wicked way.
Of course, I said,
but more than that,
there is a deeper danger
in you, and the redness
brings it out.
Shall I wear the red dress
in bed tonight?
she said, or go
to bed without?
I watched her dance;
other guys watched her, too;
some danced with her,
thinking their luck
would hold.
I didn't dance with her,
I just sat and boozed
and watched.
I slept with her
that night;
she didn't wear
her red dress,
but naked as
she was born,
and we made love
from dark night
until early dawn.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 7:25 AM UTC
Someone is staring right back at me.
Through the side mirror,
I see a boozed woman with a devilish grin.
She's luring me in and inviting me to ecstasy.
She looks familiar without the piercings and tattoos.
She reminds me of a dork I once knew.
But as I shift my gaze on to the rearview mirror,
the blurry resemblance becomes a lucid.
I am the girl with the devilish grin.
I am the dork from the past.
And currently, I'm a woman inside a car,
surrounded by ****** lads caught in euphoria.
They're tempting and enticing me into their bait.
Out of the blue, an image of light and dark takes shape.
Angels and imps clash.
They're fighting for me,
wanting me to join either one of them.
The white light offers me purity;
it wants me to resist temptations,
but the dark glow has so much to offer.
It promises jubilation, bliss and pleasure.
My judgement is hazy,
but I've made my choice.
I've been high for quite sometime now
and I don't see any reason for me to quit.
Once more,
I glance at the side mirror.
The reflection tells me,
I have made the right choice.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 1:26 AM UTC
Troubled kisses and these hickeys are covered, I thought we were just going to cuddle.
Subtle moves and you were pretty boozed.
I don't need to book you, you're already there.
We stare and dare, I cant bare.
We went to Target and time wasn't really a factor.
Time dies, we're alive and I'm letting go of my pride.
I was just talking about time and I loved how you listened to my theories.
We shared a Gatorade, I gave you the first sip because I think it'd be gentlemen of me.
We wore robes around the store.
Parked somewhere dark and talked about everything.
"I want to be the one you dream of"
I don't understand the simplest things.
The normal always confuses me.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC