"boozy" poems
China charges 1 million annually
For each panda in our zoos
If we won't pay in full
Then the pandas we will lose
Nasty Panda's the exception
No one wants him here or there
He was paid 1 million dollars
To abscond and disappear!
Here comes the Nasty Panda
~He's much more than you can bear
He's such a nasty panda
~He leaves cooties everywhere
Beware of Nasty Panda
~He do anything he please
Stay clear of Nasty Panda
~He eats shoots and leaves
I smelled him 'fore I seen 'em
That black and white pariah
Slippin' slidin' in my kitchen
On smooshy mushy pulp papaya
I yelled for him to stop
And I told him where to go
Wink and laugh was all he did
With a Homer Simpson "D'oh!"
Here comes the Nasty Panda
~He's much more than you can bear
He's such a nasty panda
~He leaves cooties everywhere
Beware of Nasty Panda
~He do anything he please
Stay clear of Nasty Panda
~He eats shoots and leaves
He hasn't bathed in ages
Masked by quarts of cheap cologne
His furry skin sweat-sticky
From the surface to the bone
Smelly cigar and ***** breath
Plus an air of upper-crust
Please keep your kids away
Cuz that nasty bear can cuss!
Here comes the Nasty Panda
~He's much more than you can bear
He's such a nasty panda
~He leaves cooties everywhere
Beware of Nasty Panda
~He do anything he please
Stay clear of Nasty Panda
~He eats shoots and leaves
If you meet up with Nasty Panda
Better turn around and run
You're bound to lose your money
And your wits before he's done
Don't shed tears for Nasty Panda
Cuz he likes the way things are
Don't forget to hide your keys
Else he'll drive off in your car!
Here comes the Nasty Panda
~He's much more than you can bear
He's such a nasty panda
~He leaves cooties everywhere
Beware of Nasty Panda
~He do anything he please
Stay clear of Nasty Panda
~He eats shoots and leaves
Here comes the Nasty Panda
~He's a scoundrel and a ***
He's such a nasty panda
~He's as nasty as they come
Beware of Nasty Panda
~He's gonna raise a stink
Stay clear of Nasty Panda
~He's much nastier than you think
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 6:58 PM UTC
We all want to be liked
To have people see
The version of ourselves
We choose to be
And say, yeah
That's someone I admire
I aspire to be like
We all want someone
To look back on
The snapshots we've accrued
Over years of holidays,
***** nights,
And picture perfect food
And say, look
Here's someone who's got things sussed
We all want someone
To validate our lives
To comment that we're doing just fine
You're great
You're pretty
Your smart
Well, I guess that's a good start
We all want someone
To click that **** thumb
And validate the effort
Of keeping the mask on
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 3:07 AM UTC
Is it my priestly duty
to be denied?
love—time and all else, at all cost!
while he went home alone to watch a movie?
Another victim
sacrificed
having squandered all my pieces in his game?
Trudging home
along the river
slow, in snow
I parse my losses
At the outskirts of a homeless camp
I pause below a viaduct
hauling passion by a leash
warming hands
avoiding hovel-eyes
Flames flicker on our faces
receiving absolution over embers
of a burning embrace
There trace
in glowing holocaust of skids
in human bleatings and crumblings
our smoke rises— pure obscure
Appease with boozy-blur
the icy, stinging God of winter stars...
G’nights inaudible as blessing
Am I derelict enough to be worthy?
Fallen far enough?
from the porches of prosperity?
to escape it all?
That wedding white
the newborn’s head
that numbing denial of decay?
Am I depraved enough to make it?
to the pages of your tragedy— minus poetry?
But the angel said
“The poetry’s more!”
Than leaving me—beyond you
...in the shambles of my words
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 10:16 PM UTC
Tonight I married a graffiti artist.
This is the third time I’ve been proposed to
at some ***** house party.
This time there was an ordained all-faith minister
on the porch smoking a cigarette. That was enough.
I said yes.
We’re all strictly first-name-basis here, nicknames are even better.
So to him I’m just Mimi. Focused intently on my hand,
he draws my wedding ring with a permanent marker
and kisses each finger as he finishes.
There is a tiny replica of his tattoo on the underside of my finger
in addition to my gigantic drawn-on diamond.
It is my favorite part.
We talk politics and eventually art.
Turns out he’s sort of an amazing artist.
He said he’d put my name up on a wall but I don’t believe him.
Intricate, passionate, and thoughtful.
His smile is adventure.
That’s why I married him.
He asked to read my poetry and in my fuzzy judgment I let him.
Maybe he even liked a few phrases.
And he was polite as a hopped up boy can be.
Getting me home before three,
lending me his jacket without me asking.
I know he’ll forget to call, or that he even has my number.
and that we won’t watch Pulp Fiction
tomorrow.
That I was really just a glorified
snort of some white powder,
I am like all the glitter that fades in the morning
like smiles do, or permanent marker
after a few washes.
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 1:24 AM UTC
a loop of spume immune to fumes of eastern tombs
a burnin'; a mad flash of candied wrath
and junebug randy newman;
what rumbles jest in vestments yet
to loom a knit or pearl two... a ****** crest
of ***** wrecks and rubber necks
to view you...
a nop of lopsy,
fever pitched in thicket rich begonia;
and roman roads
too golden
kicks
from hydro
in
your hedge
row.
a droop of noon in cool remove
from gypsum dim sum laude.
a drowning witch on boney creeks
of needles and salami.
untongued. a pool of fringe
rhymes with orange,
yes a door-hinge,
off it's moorings...
off it's Meds
death beds
for trampolines
in petrified forests...
a nop of lopsy, frogging Gatsby,
greatly famished to the Nines;
an olden toll of wish fits
then nothing
comes.
and that's
Life.
Oct 15, 2012
Oct 15, 2012 at 2:11 PM UTC
The soft machine is my body, said Sonia, it gives pleasure to men. I sit in my bath, rinse away the touch and feel of them, while in the other room Dimello lies upon my bed, gazing up at the ceiling, smoking his fat cigar, singing between puffs some song he thinks I like, some verses he’s remembered from some former times. Mi máquina suave, he calls me, his soft machine, supple, malleable machine. He knows little of me; his mind is of lower things, of orifices and ******* of ***** drugs and ***** deeds. He knows nothing of my needs, my little wants and desires. I lay back in my bath, let the water soothe me, my ******* sit upon the water’s skin like dolphins about to skim the waves, but these just sit and wait, two small whales, my fingers touching them as if some lover had felt and loved. Sometimes I embrace this soft machine, my hands around me as if some secret lover held me close, or I kiss my arms with my soft lips, mocking Dimello with his damp thick lips, his ***** breath in my ears, his words like pinpricks on my flesh. Besaré la máquina suave, he says, I will kiss the soft machine, he repeats, his smile oily, his eyes dark as prunes. Last night he made love to me, his body like some pounding shark, his teeth nibbling my flesh, his fingers entering, feeling their way in the dark, his coarse voice mumbling his words of lust and love. My uncle loved this soft machine, he would tickle and touch in the summer days when I stayed for the holidays when my parents were away on their business trips abroad in other climes in my childhood times. Nuestro secreto, Uncle said, our secret, none must know, he would whisper, his hands seeking smooth my flesh, to soothe my troubled mind and me. The water in my bath grows cold; I hear Dimello singing from the other room, his head on my pillow, his cigar smoke invading my space. I arise from my bath; look at my soft machine, my body, with its suppleness, its litheness, its agility. I know each inch of this machine, feel it with my finger’s touch, hold it in embrace, kiss it with a self-love, a tenderness lacking in other’s touch. Dimello calls, his patience lacking, his lust returned. Apresure mi máquina suave, he calls, hurry, my soft machine, my body awaits your return, he says. I want him gone, want his body from my bed and home. He does not love as I wish to be loved, his love is of a lower kind, his wants and lusts feel me with dread. I look out of the window and see the morning sun, see the day coming with its freshness blooming, the birds singing from some nearby trees, and Dimello singing like some strangled cat, his voice echoing through the walls of my one roomed flat and lowering my lips I blow a kiss to the birds in flight trying to forget Dimello and his lustful night.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 2:47 PM UTC
The most interesting man in the world says
it’s harder to be confident
more difficult to say hello you're pretty
if you do not have a secret supply
of the endorphins of love
harder to feel happy
at the dog park at midday
chatting with the ***** real estate ladies
while you lust after the tatted chick
with the nose ring and the Rottweiler
she is 40 years younger than you
you were born before her parents met
and it’s more difficult to believe
she would be interested in you
than it is to just go home
and read MEN’S JOURNAL
so you do the hard thing
you stroll up with your Ridgeback
nervous that you wore a tank top
and you say
I am lonely
estranged here in the sawdust
with those women my age
who look like my grandmother
and I bet if you would just listen
I could tell you about a miracle
and she looks at you
like you’re mental
she ***** her head interested
tell me, she says.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 6:51 AM UTC
I tap my index finger on the top of my cigarette,
The pier of ash that was building topples off the end.
The can is at my lips,
A pleasant burn on the throat when swallowed,
Imperial stout,
The warming burn reminds me of good bourbon.
The ***** beer agreeing with my palate.
A hard day started early,
My early ending is it's own reward,
To relax,
Kick back
And let the tunes carry me away.
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 2:59 PM UTC
easy visions of hopeful future days
boys with dark scarves and fingertips and
tongues carved like needles
unwound with blue lace
smoke like curling paper scraps
the sky is violet
yellow and gray and aching
the trees are paintbrush silhouettes
home stock draining roots
i caress your ball-bearing palms
like drawing lilies from water's edge
inside the sunbeam we cannot see
dreams of once upon a time late nights
held between bitten fingernails and chapped lips
of fourteen years old
a smoke hazy and ***** loss of consciousness
of movement
of loss
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
The feeling is lead.
Stubborn,
It sits in my chest.
I remind myself
Not to dare name it.
I remind myself:
If you name it,
It becomes real.
Suddenly, people will see it.
Label you for it.
It will define you.
I ignore it
When I can.
Suppressing him
As best as possible.
Still, he manages to
Shrink me.
******* me.
He strains my knees.
Curves my back.
Hangs below my eyes.
I plead with him.
Beg him.
Try to compromise.
But this thing is
Deaf,
Dumb,
Simple—
He is oblivious.
He lacks understanding.
Incessantly, he fails
To recognize
My pain;
Perpetual discomfort.
Unaware, he forces me;
Knees ******
Crawling to my vices.
Frequently
I drown him.
Hold his head low.
Well at the bottom of the
***** reservoir
That accumulates
Each night in my gut—
I drink one
After the next.
My hand never
Leaves the glass;
If I can help it,
The glass never
Leave my lips.
Until finally my world—
Our world
Falls below the, thick, black,
***** soaked veil.
Often
I choke him;
With thick, grey,
Clouds of smoke.
The clouds burn
Deep in my lungs
Lifting the burden
From my chest,
Back, knees.
For a minute
My mind isn’t
So crowded.
For the moment
I feel relief.
Some nights
I numb myself
With casual company.
Women,
Who like I,
Are acquainted with he.
For a moment
We might distract
One another—
In that moment
There’s sometimes bliss
Temporary,
Fleeting,
Transient—
But undoubtedly,
Bliss…
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 12:00 AM UTC
To hold a pen, all trembling nib and leaking tip,
At your mercy, supple in your hands,
Over the skin of soon-to-be words, people and places:
Gently exploding ink bombs of which I cherish total control –
Until I have to let them go -
until they are released and left to their own free will.
They bend and curl
And I bend and curl with them – through a place of rubble and debris,
Of clear water on emeralds and grey, creamy smoke.
A wasteland – but far from empty – a silvery mire filled with all the things of this earth.
Something both post and pre-apocalyptic that smells of old wood and heady incense,
Nostalgia and new memories.
Accidentally, messily, flawlessly crafted.
I wait for more sporadic dark poolings,
And they happen within quick succession of one another;
Splaying,
Isolated limbs and drops of a purple chemical
Spreading, bleeding, dissolving
Over the grainy paper.
The page is torn and frayed at the edges
Where almost fabric-like fibres
Were unable to withstand the impact of a knife’s blade,
Ripping all the tiny seams which bind them together,
Coming apart,
Undone,
Strand by dusty strand.
What is finished, what is done –
Is what has been given kindness,
And settled to rest.
As if drunk, sleepy, disorientated but somehow acutely aware of exactly where you are.
The feeling of dizziness where everything is hazy, fuzzy, blurry –
Inducing a comfortable, ***** slumber
In an old *** and vanilla shop.
Aureate, bronze pearls slide over each other, silky and luke-warm,
As you peer through glass and lace,
The spheres chinking together, a thousand times over.
A pen held above the paper, now still and impassive.
It is mine and I am its,
And we stand alone on the corner of a pavement,
A streetlamp
Rendering the scene golden in the rain.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
Staggering you stagger out
a trickle tout lager lout
a beer abuser a loser
with morals looser
than the crude jokes you spit in bars
EDL violence
Daily mail intolerance
you dog beater
with talk cheaper
than forgotten junkyard cars
***** dog breath
bereft of what’s left
When you’ve rinsed your words away
alienating while fornicating
with bottle after bottle
day after day.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 9:44 AM UTC
"If i was killed in prison, that would be a blessing right now."
-Jeffery Dahmer
november twenty eighth, he prayed
to god, to mom, to sun and shade,
gave thanks to all the boys he ate;
november twenty eighth, he laid
and thought till his last ***** breath:
"well, this has been my life, i guess,"
as scarver beat him blissfully
into his deliquescing death.
he thought of all the things he did
while down came scarver's metal bar
(and not because he'd killed those kids,
but 'cus his pranks had gone too far).
the guards went home that night and slept
while someone, somewhere, soundly wept.
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 8:50 AM UTC
Portrayed in an artiface
Of long and grey rhymes
Replayed in a video
Of really bad lines
Lost in a tangency
Of bitumen and brick
Tangled in quagmire
Of cigarettes and sick.
Lurching through life
In yesterdays clothes,
Acting the part
That nobody knows,
Chic desperation
Apparent to all
With the certainty
She’s for a terrible fall.
Miasma of moods
Through a ***** blue haze,
Insulting a friend
In an instant of craze,
Sprawled on the street
In a leopard skin skirt,
Makeup awry
Broken nails in the dirt.
Screaming abuse
To the well meaning hand,
Lost, alone
In a drug ridden land,
Fearful of shadows
And clinging to those
Who lustfully use
To so casually dispose.
Blond hair falling
Down over her face
Mascara running
In smears of disgrace,
It’s dangerous to stagger
Through traffic in rain
With lost high heel,
Tear streaked in pain.
Vagrants for company
Hunched in a cell,
Shivering cold
And ****** to hell
In a moment of clarity
And startlingly clear,
A small shimmering hope
Lies so distantly near.
Marshalg
@theCoalface
Victoria Park Tunnel
8th May 2010
May 7, 2010
May 7, 2010 at 12:36 PM UTC
A busy night last night, heaven knows
Must have had more ****** than a rose
Love the money, of that there's no doubt
But I'm really ****** completely worn out
It was my choice I know, to become a *****
But not sure how much longer I can do it for
***** breath , fat old farts grunting and groaning
Me, pretending I'm enjoying it with fake moaning
Was only sixteen when I first started in the game
Head, hand jobs or ******* to me is all the same
Happy to try any game the customer wants to play
As long as they have money and are willing to pay
I caught the ***** once from some ***** old ******
Another time I did catch the dreaded venereal disease
Other than that I have kept a nice clean and healthy box
Guess condoms and good luck have kept away the pox
As i get older though, I think more about settling down
Maybe one day I'll be able to rope in some rich old clown
Don't want to live forever in the fast lane running wild
I would even like to give birth to my own sweet child
But now it is day time and I really must get some rest
Because again tonight I'll be out doing what I do best
I'll be ******* policemen, doctors, lawyers and scholars
And again I'll come home with another fist full of dollars
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 6:18 AM UTC
The owl and the pussycat went on the randan*.
The boat was in dock for repairs.
Roller skates borrowed from friends of the Sandman
Proved helpful, but not on the stairs.
The Sandman was eager to help with the journey
The Ferryman told to watch out
The feline and strigidae rolled on the jetty
With meat pies and plenty of stout.
On boarding the ferry they found some dry sherry.
An Amontillado from Spain.
The owl soon felt woozy, all seasick and *****
The cat tried avoiding the rain.
At the end of the trip the two friends would quip
That the pies were amazingly nice
The filling consisted of mustard and biscuit
That compliments meat from blind mice.
Despite witty banter and skills of a chanter
The sun was elusive and grey
Twas then they decided to be less misguided
They’ll book all inclusive one day.
*Scots for party/merriment/thedancin’
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 7:34 AM UTC
Saturday Afternoon
Im sitting in a pub drinking coffee
Theres a big crowd already in
Most of the boys are drinking Guinness
Except for an old doll drinking gin.
There's horse racing starting on the tv
and the guys start reading the form
The noise is starting to get louder
The bar 's starting to get warm.
I can see that the guys aren't winning
You can tell by the sound of their sighs
But theres a fast horse starting to run now
Their moneys on at sixes and fives
The ***** is starting to work good
Its doing its usual routine
The old girl is starting to drop off
And the guys are begining to sing
Its just a usual ***** Saturday
Like the ones that went by before
A weekend of drinking and gambling
Finish your drink and away out the door.
I dont know why I'm sitting down here
Theres nothing at all here for me
Except some long gone memories
and a want for how things used to be.
So i rise and finish off my cold coffee
And head for my house down the street
A want in my guts for a cold beer
And a shot of strong whiskey drank neat
Pat Rooney 2013
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 7:09 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
Unshaven, old, and nearly spent,
He slouched in his kitchen chair,
Lungs rattling each wheezing breath,
Radiation doing little then,
To control the mass within, or
To prevent the Mass he knew
Would soon begin.
Hard to believe a man
So tough as Rubin always was
Sat stubble-faced and wan
In that early morning sun.
Two years ago,
At 65,
He and his son
Put a ****** on,
Fought a cop,
Nearly won,
Stayed a week in jail,
Paid a $7000.00 fine,
Then bragged it all
Was worth the time
And memories.
I saw him jump,
At 66,
From a moving van,
Six feet up
Like a younger man,
Hell bent to take his fill,
Shovel hard, cursing still,
Cigarette hanging loose
Even with a rattling cough
(He shrugged it off),
And stop.
Always 67,
His last remains crave no nicotine,
No ***** wayward fights,
No carousing old man libertine
Out with his son at night,
And we who watched Old Rubin's days,
Paid our respects and went our ways.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
Small Tales
by Michael R. Burch
When Artur and Cai and Bedwyr
were but scrawny lads
they had many a ***** adventure
in the still glades
of Gwynedd.
When the sun beat down like an oven
upon the kiln-hot hills
and the scorched shores of Carmarthen,
they went searching
and found Manawydan, the son of Llyr.
They fought a day and a night
with Cath Pulag (or a screeching kitten),
rousted Pen Palach, then drank a beer
and told quite a talltale or two,
"till thems wasn’t so shore which’un’s tails wus true."
And these have been passed down to me, and to you.
According to legend, Arthur and Kay grew up together in Ector’s court, Kay being a few years older than Arthur. Borrowing from Mary Stewart, I am assuming that Bedwyr (later Anglicized to Bedivere) might have befriended Arthur at an early age. By some accounts, Bedwyr was the original Lancelot. In any case, imagine the adventures these young heroes might have pursued (or dreamed up, to excuse tardiness or “lost” homework assignments). Manawydan and Llyr were ancient Welsh gods. Cath Pulag was a monstrous, clawing cat. (“Sorry teach! My theme paper on Homer was torn up by a cat bigger than a dragon! And meaner, too!”) Pen Palach is more or less a mystery, or perhaps just another old drinking buddy with a few good beery-bleary tales of his own. This poem assumes that many of the more outlandish Arthurian legends began more or less as “small tales,” little white lies which simply got larger and larger with each retelling. It also assumes that most of these tales came about just as the lads reached that age when boys fancy themselves men, and spend much of their free time drinking and puking! Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, boy, boyhood, ***** drinking, beer, ale, tall tales, Wales
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 12:50 AM UTC
My beloved, I dreamt a dream,
A bright silhouette, a perfect gleam,
My name, I heard you scream,
That deafening pitch, aroused me of my heavenly dream,
You kept sending out those booming invocation,
As an unwanted solo, it captured my attention,
It aroused those never ending intentions,
And left me with an unending lamentation,
I've loved you long enough,
Constantly watched from afar,
Knowing you were off limits,
I've loved you in secret,
It hasn't been that small,
I just couldn't dream it,
I had to tell it,
I'm not ashamed to admit it,
You were everything I ever wanted,
Those times together in a pack,
Left me with that increasing spark,
I fell for you much like a sack,
But you did for him in just a blink,
He stood taller, you felt bigger,
It made me stronger.
I bowed at night
Longing for a glow of light
A spark to lead me to you
But you turned the other way
Took a step away,
Cast out our salvation
Blamed me for the situation,
Then broke our association,
You just couldn't see beyond the imperfection,
My damnation.
I became heart broken,
It left me wary and marred
Those hidden tears, I give as a token,
I'd fell for you in a minute
You shattered that in just a second
How I wished you could see me now?
Those ***** dreams are over
I'm all sober
But you still captured my mind
Your spark I've still intend to find
My daily measures of you are real
They are not those reflected in the mirrors
Or those of your faithless minions
It's far countless for their opinions,
You are all I've ever desire
My love for you has never expired
Time must've skipped fast
But it never did pass
Your memories still last
I've loved you 'til forever
For as long as I can remember
I just wish you dreamt it too.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 10:48 AM UTC
There's a certain mix of alcohol on the breath that reminds me of a hug.
So, drunk *** doesn't bother me
as much as it's a preference.
My father drank himself into hospital beds
floating on his shattered tibia
believing it would carry him home.
But all good memories are ***** christmas lights.
Now, everything is more or less the same
except I sleep with you invisible.
I can't feel your heat
or smell the whiskey
but if my eyelids are tight I can feel you next to me
miles away.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
Advent at the Dollar Store
The ***** roachy desperation of
the unswept dollar store’s cellophane dreams
At Prices You’ll Love boxes of oilless
popcorn poppers deep-fat fryers massagers
to sweeten generational desperation
behind the counter cigarettes locked up
We Cash Work And Welfare Checks can’t afford
Lives collapsed so we console ourselves with
electric hair-curlers and boxes of chips
singing NFL coffee machines
shiny new bicycles to be stolen
before the end of January or
left out to rust in the February rain
dusty plastic holly shiny CD
players for the administration of
anaesthesia Jumbo Bargain Gift Wrap
for Your Happy Holiday Shopping Pleasure
No Shirt No Shoes No Service No, No, No
Hyphenated Industries of Chicago,
Tokyo, Seoul, and Taipei wishes us
a Merry Christmas
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 7:34 PM UTC