"breweries" poems
Tonic and breweries.
This home is beginning to resemble a boy again.
I don't remember moving in but
I don't think I'll ever forget each wall
As they stood around me, and
how unsafe I felt within them
Without them really knowing that I was there.
I've always had this theory that
Non-habituated houses collapse more easily
Than the habituated ones.
When put through a hurricane, you were the non-habituated one
And you didn't recognize my presence inside of you.
When we collapsed you only felt your own pain,
But I felt mine as well as yours.
I don't know if you know that I still feel it.
I don't know if you know that I feel it every single day.
The first time I looked for shelter again I found one of your floorboards
In the space where my heart was supposed to be.
I didn't know how to cordially invite you
To walk all over it again-
So long the creaks it would produce wouldn't scare people away.
It gave motivation to the dreams however,
I was in an empty home and you were always sending me postcards without a return address.
You claimed you were always just about to move in with me, in these postcards,
But everyday it said the same thing.
It was a recurring nightmare.
I hope you never need a return address.
I don't think I can stand the pain of feeling you smell my tears on paper from 100,000 kilometers away.
I thought I could, but not anymore.
The scent of your presence always reminds me of tonic and breweries.
Because you drink when I'm there and you drink when I'm not.
I don't know how I associate heaven with the scent of someone
Who loves to fill bottles with secrets and then swallow them down with someone else's pride,
But I do.
And now and again I still wait to see if heaven will keep me sober enough
To watch me get drunk without actually drinking anything.
We burnt down bars, night-clubs, wine-galleries and cupboards of bottles,
But I don't know why I felt the same euphoria then when you threw me into the flames.
Maybe heaven was really a smell after all-
I'm still trying to find a way to love its wrath without smelling its scent.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
I sit in the garden to think
she sits in the kitchen to drink
from the bottle of gin
hidden under the sink
didn't know that I knew
but
I help myself to a few in those moments of stress
when it seems that the more becomes less, the more you imbibe.
I go inside to find she has slunk to the floor
drunk so much more than a bottle or two
I must do
what I promised to do
to have and to hold to care for until old
and though I've told her I know
she'll still drink when I go
away from her side.
She did try to hide it
denied it
but she just couldn't win
the giveaway was
empty bottles overflowing, that dripped from the bin and the glasses I found hidden underneath chairs.
I said to her somebody cares and that somebody's me, but she couldn't see it was so.
So I'll go
and she'll drink
never stopping to think of the damage it does
to me or to her.
Still
I do care
it's the contract we made and I'll care 'til the day that I lay her to rest.
She says,
'it's best not to worry there's
no hurry for that
but when she's flat on the floor with bottles galore,all empty
it tempts me to think
that I too will drink 'til I can't drink no more and join my little darling
down there on the floor.
Life,
I ask
what is it for,
a tour around breweries
to stand before a jury of my peers,
to drink even more beers
to say cheers and depart?
A drink never mended a broken heart or stopped tears from falling
the barman's calling time
and time for another,
one for the road
which goes on and on 'til the pain has all gone
and she sleeps.
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC
The zine entailed a ton of work
that mostly went unnoticed.
He printed, folded, stapled
a slapdash publication few appreciated.
Stacked ten-deep, it festered unread in coffee shops,
indie bookstores, craft breweries.
A zinester isn't daunted by obscurity.
After all, a zinester is never voiceless.
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 4:18 AM UTC
The snobbish din of clinking cut-glass and a murmured ambient sound,
Of fine dining the Foie gras that seems so profound.
Seems like such a class divide from yesterday’s soiree,
Of the taste of fried chicken and chips that street food provided me, amidst its mad melee.
Tomorrow will be the oriental chimes to my ears and my palette of taste,
As I rate the **** of their culinary, taking my time and never in haste.
Never minding my late last night, quaffing exoticness in cocktails and dreams,
Amidst psychedelic lights, thumping music and frenzied screams.
For I am to decide the best of the best,
Of gastronomical delights that the nation offers, without a rest.
So awaken your senses and make ado,
For the show that’s a Tell All of the Top 10 in eateries and breweries, old and new.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 8:54 AM UTC
No, I don't feel happy
I don't think I ever did
I used to be an Angry Young Man
Now I'm just a grumpy old ***
I think that discontentment
Is all there is in life
We are unhappy being single
Then we're ****** off with the wife
If we were always happy
And all we knew was bliss
There would be no need for drugs
And we wouldn't get ******
So to protect the trade of dealers
And of the breweries too
We should accept unhappiness as our lot
Well, what else can we do
Nov 24, 2017
Nov 24, 2017 at 7:36 PM UTC