"budweiser" poems
Blessed are we all to live in a time
when the love of Craft beer exceeds that for wine.
Hops, malt and barley all now rule the day
When brewed up together in a nice I.P.A.
Who cares if some hipsters choose to babble away
about hints of oak in some obscure Chardonnay.
We are no longer limited to our father’s Budweiser.
The vast choice of beers would astound those old timers!
Cherry Wheat, pumpkin, and Oktoberfest
You’ll fall down on your face ere you’ve tried all the rest.
As Ben Franklin stated wittily and succinctly”
“Beer is the proof God meant man to be happy.”
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
Banana splits lickedy his spican-and-span throbbing
peninsula clock jar.
The scar from his far faux **** ignited his beating
hexagonal calendar.
Which is used to peruse the jujubees metallic books in the public
libation crazy train station.
His ecstatic adulation exemplifies why diamonds are
a girl gorilla's favorite soap.
His floating cubed boat is on a remote desert
impala growling at the turquoise toilet.
But his spoiled toys are annoyed about the choice between life or
demonstrative sponsored concerts by budweiser.
Woeful razor beaked birds marvel at absurd his Salvador
Daoist Dharma surreal cereal caramel karma flakes.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
Grown Up "Cool Kids"
Nowadays cool kids are wearing business
Suits and ties all the boring time,
Nowadays cool kids are chewing tobacco
Drinking Budweiser AND wine,
Nowadays cool kids are driving break neck
Speed to get to everyday places,
Nowadays cool kids are going to war and
Using bombs to "save us,"
Nowadays cool kids are paying $6,000 for
The cheapest pair of braces,
So this is what being "cool" is all about?
And this is what makes America so proud?
Where I come from being cool is being wise,
Staying clean and sober, honest girls and guys,
Who don't have to hurt their health
Just to have a really good time.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 5:30 PM UTC
Aye,..Uhh
where the weed...Where..(Where the2)..drinks..(Where the2)..weed..(where the2)..drinks..Uhh..Let's have some fun tonight mane, Yeah let's have some fun Aye..(Where the3)..weed, where..(where the2)..drinks,..Where..(Where the2)..weed..(Where the3).. Drinks..(Aye, let's have some fun tonight mane2)..(Yeah..let's have some fun*2)..Aye..
Burn up, Blaze up..Yeah burn up, Yeah Blaze up, Yeah po up, Yeah drink up, Yeah burn up..Yeah po up..Yeah..Blaze up, Yeah drink up.. let's (turn up2)..Yeah..let's..have (some fun2)..Yeah have fun mane..Aye..(Where the3)..weed..Yeah..where..(where the2)..drinks..(Yeah let's have some fun2)..tonight mane,aye..(Where the2)..weed..Yeah..(Where the2)..drinks..(Aye let's have some fun3)..Tonight mane..Aye..Po up Yeah, Blaze up Yeah...drink up ***** & burn up man..(let's have some fun..Yeah*3) man..Aye
OFTR, we throwing a house party like we in the 70s era dawg, yeah we gonna have this **** jumping like Kid n Play dude.., mane
The whole crib gonna foggy filled up wit hella smoke, aye..Yeah ***** that dope..Yeah that good kush aroma dawg..The only thing you can really see is the fire at the end of the roll up..Everybody drinking yeah Everybody rolling up, Yeah everybody coughing & choking & (having fun*3).. Yeah..my nigaa..Yeah we puffing on funky, Uhh.. Homie leave all the stress at the front door man..so
Don't bring no drama, don't bring no problems, don't bring no ******* don't bring no false ones, & don't bring no stank ho's please dawg..forget blowing ****** we got sticky icky grown organically, no pesticides Yeah mane..just straight THC Thats it..home grown , Yeah we..(having fun*3)..relaxing kicking back Yeah kicking back a young ***** had a long *** tiresome day, now its time to unwind get high & have some fun..Yeah..man..Uhh..
Yeah, its time to roll up,Yeah, its time burn up, Yeah its time to po up..Yeah, its time get super drunk..
(Yeah just having fun*2)
(Have fun*3)...man..
Yeah, we gone turn up tonight dawg, Aye we got 40s OEs, Aye we got champagne, clicquot mane,Aye..we got Budweiser, bud lights,coronas & 2,11s by the case load,..also ***** gin, & vsop..Yeah we getting ****** up like a white fraternity, please don't throw up mane,..make sure you eat..Aye mane, **** what people think about me I just live my life, who's the **** to tell me I ain't living right..nobody **** right..
(We having so much fun yeah*3)..tonight should be here dawg , come now, Noo we ain't stopping till the morning.. That's how OFTR party dawg..Uhh Yeah we party hard Aye..
(Where the **** at mane,Yeah where the drinks at,Aye4)...(burn up, po up, twist Yeah, don't stop..Uhh,Yeah3)..
/Don't stop,3../3...
ever nigga..let's go..
Noo I ain't done wit this song no not at all
...Ohh, that's what you thought dawg, **** I still got some more turning up to do.. Man I still got kegs & bags of marijuana that ain't even half way through we getting throwed ,like a football, Yeah we so gone mane..(Ohh*3)..Yeah dawg, Let's go..
(burn up, po up, twist Yeah, don't stop..Uhh,Yeah*3)
/(Have fun3)..Yeah mane/2
(Have fun*3) Yeah..Uhh
where the weed...Where..(Where the2)..drinks..(Where the2)..weed..(where the2)..drinks..Uhh..Let's have some fun tonight mane, Yeah let's have some fun Aye..(Where the3)..weed, where..(where the2)..drinks,..Where..(Where the2)..weed..(Where the3).. Drinks..(Aye, let's have some fun tonight mane2)..(Yeah..let's have some fun*2)..Aye..
Burn up, Blaze up..Yeah burn up, Yeah Blaze up, Yeah po up, Yeah drink up, Yeah burn up..Yeah po up..Yeah..Blaze up, Yeah drink up.. let's (turn up2)..Yeah..let's..have (some fun2)..Yeah have fun mane..Aye..(Where the3)..weed..Yeah..where..(where the2)..drinks..(Yeah let's have some fun2)..tonight mane,aye..(Where the2)..weed..Yeah..(Where the2)..drinks..(Aye let's have some fun3)..Tonight mane..Aye..Po up Yeah, Blaze up Yeah...drink up ***** & burn up man..(let's have some fun..Yeah*3) man..Aye
We doing what we want Yeah..we having so much fun man, we twisting & drinking we living free Yeah..we living freer..than they want us to be , Yeah..we breaking all the rules like **** Dat **** Noo, we don't care about polices, noo, we don't give a **** about nothing, like **** all the laws homie, Naw mane,
/we just do what we want..(Yeah2..)/2
we gone kick back & roll up the whole pacc, Yeah man,we gone wake up tomorrow & do the same **** again..Yeah man, we gone live it up..(Yeah, we gone have some fun3)..tonight.. (Yeah2)..Aye..Uhh
Where..(where the3)..weed at...Where..(Where the3)..drinks at..Uhh..(Where the2)..weed..(where the2)..drinks..Uhh..Yeah
Let's have some fun tonight mane, Yeah let's have some fun Aye..(Where the3)..weed, where..(where the2)..drinks,..Where..(Where the2)..weed..(Where the3).. Drinks..Aye, let's have some fun tonight mane..
(Yeah..let's have some fun*3)..Aye..
(Uhh..Yeah, Blaze up, burn up, drink up , po up, Yeah Blaze up, burn up, turn up, drink mo*3)
(Have fun6)..(Yeah have fun4)..
Man..
Let's have some fun..Aye
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 2:42 PM UTC
They gave us the sun to explore this earth, the moon to go back home ... For in your dreams is another reality, and one you rarely see... Lucidly at least... Your dream self has explored. Has suffered. Has laughed. Has felt the fear of not being able to run as real as you feel me pinch you. How can that not mean something? How can I wake up every single morning, and not take a second to appreciate the opportunity to go back home, but wake up here...
They had to make these experiences feel real. They had to make us believe that being "awake" was as good as it got. They can't make money off you if you live in your dreams...so they refuse to let you sleep...
Wake up! They scream. With their TVs and electro beats. With their Budweiser and whiskey. With there horsepower and responsibilities. With there everything.
Fall asleep. In DMT. find the path they don't want you to see, find the boy that needs to breathe, find the answer and use the key, because we have the power to accomplish EVERYthing. SCREAM. "LEAVE ME BE!"
Stay out of my bank account, stay off of my streets, take your big brother, and give me back trees....
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 2:19 PM UTC
I spent Thanksgiving
this year
not in the blue-collar comfort
of my aunt’s house,
nestled somewhere
within a well-buried suburb
of a quaint, but un-noteworthy neighborhood
with walls decorated with Budweiser signs
juxtaposed against portraits of the ****** Mary,
where a football announcer’s voice plays like
conservative talk radio
in the background.
Instead, to save the labor
of my weary immigrant grandmother,
we dressed in Sunday best
and drove ourselves in
three well-packed mini vans
to some elegant hotel restaurant,
ideal for people-watching
from the gaudy, art-deco staircase
while pretending to be in the Great Gatsby.
It didn’t feel natural, though,
that beside a modest turkey breast
with cranberry dressing, sat a beautiful
cut of prime rib, carefully ladled
with truffle au juis–
nor beside a humble dollop
of mashed potatoes and gravy,
should there be salmon to die for,
and berries slathered with brie.
The food I nibbled
with bites of nervous guilt,
as the impeccably dressed waiter
exhaustedly refilled our water glasses,
nodding his head reflexively
to my mouse squeaks of “thank you’s”
What monsters are we,
letting these people work on Thanksgiving Day?
Grandma said, calmly, that some people
are just happy to be paid,
recounting
her impoverished childhood
in war-torn Germany—
that to simply muffle
the aggressive rumbling
of a days-empty stomach,
she and her brother
would ****** a handful of
potatoes from a government farm,
not many, but just enough
as she grimaced
at the ever-so-slight mealiness
of her rosemary-infused pork chop—
the woman who couldn’t afford ham
until she became a citizen.
We nodded quietly and
swallowed our privileged guilt,
washed down with
politely cut bites
of perfectly cooked salmon.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
I think you're gone
but there is inside me
that voice
disapproving, judging
I had celebrated my freedom
with a Budweiser
and some tears
not realising like
Steven King's
Lawnmower Man
you had been released
into my every nerve ending
my very being
part of my matrix
in life you had the strength
of an ark angel
and as I stumble
over these words
I am afraid retribution
is at hand
I am still scared of secrets
to let too much show
you once asked if I still
write poetry after dissing it
well I'd hardly call it that
this is my fear factory
Oct 26, 2021
Oct 26, 2021 at 4:36 PM UTC
“The autopsy will confirm no trauma to the body
no foul play”
Face down in the river
whose name means forked tongue
A crow investigates
where water frowned in flotsam
face down—muddied
hair, mustachio
jeans and striped tee
whose--
“name has not been released pending...”
...His loves
tattooed on upper arm
“Coroner awaiting the next of....”
He'll wait a while
for “Mom and Budweiser” to finally check in
He may have...
“He may have been... ...a resident of
The Cozy Care Home”
where he paid for the care
questioned the cozy whose agent demurs—
“The turnover here is just so rapid... steady current of guests
No one ever noticed....”
“...this is Jacqueline Henry with WBSH News”
“The autopsy will confirm...”
First of the month
to town on a mission
Just a short hop
from stone to stone
from day to day
from rock to a hard place
Looking for a short cut
to Tasty Cakes, bologna
Wise Chips and a 40
cross the gurgling,
glinting light and liquid laughter
...This river has a forked tongue...
...a resident
...a resident
who paid to get missed
who one week before
on the easy way of an April day...
Knocked down, gasping
knocked down
and yanked through his forty-eight years pulled through panic
by lean muscle of current
wishing for something...
for someone
to hang on to!
The autopsy will confirm
This river lies
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
Half asleep, driving for hours
with Budweiser bottles,
warm from the heating.
The windows were all down,
we were smoking rollies,
all sharing one lighter because the driver
dropped his in a can of fanta.
Next thing,
the roar of an army of twincams.
VTECs, something insanely beautiful,
and incredibly ridiculous,
a convention of petrol heads—
Gardaí everywhere, searching for tax
and insurance. My God, I was in it.
Hundreds of thousands of them,
all excited like children,
the screaming of a million voices,
no exhaustion in the exhaust fumes.
The hills rose around us, the traffic
packed backwards,
expensive cars all sardined in a roundabout.
How loud can you get it?
Can she sing like a canary?
Can she find herself at the Letterkenny rally?
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 7:18 AM UTC
Budweiser cans lay on the floor like empty mortar rounds,
the smell of Jack Daniels as potent as battlefield blood.
Weekend wars where we fight ourselves for pleasure.
Waging conquest on the banal.
Losing limbs and liver for a life less ordinary.
The air in my apartment is stale like cigarette butts,
buried in mass graves in an ashtray over full.
Weekend warriors where we battle for a new fix.
Waging conquest on the week day.
Losing steady vision for a life less ordinary.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 5:25 PM UTC
The room was clouded with wisps of smoke, the smell of cheep tobacco mixing with the foul fetter of Budweiser's.
Heavy boots crowded the compact living room, some pacing on the floor, others resting on stools, and one certain pair standing on the couch. As the evening waned, their owners smoked and drank and composed.
The fan droned on above the huddle of men, attempting to counter-act the thick, humid air and suffocating clouds of smoke.
Likewise, the window hung open, a slight breeze entering in, attempting to remind the men that outside there was spring. However, not even the sweet smell of growing grass and greening pine trees could awaken the thinking mass of musicians.
Under the soft whirring of the fan hummed a gentle strum of acoustic guitars, two were in sync, one was free to do what he pleased.
At first the song was melancholy, an almost sickening minor protruding through the chords.
However, the two guitars which played this mournful tune were soon over-ruled by the lone guitar, this guitar introducing an almost ****** tune, sweet with lively colors, walks in the park; moody with aromatic evenings spent in wild-flower fields and peaceful nights sitting by the river, fishing and playing Texas Hold'em for pennies.
This strum of chords soon awakened the other musicians and as their ears perked up to the sound their eyes fell upon the man, the man with the boots that stood on the couch.
As the groups' gaze circled onto the man, he finished with a lulling C sharp minor and pulled the smoldering cigarette from his mouth, cocking his head towards the men and smirking ever so slightly as he proclaimed in his proud, deep, southern accent, an eyebrow raising to mark their heedfulness, "And there, gentlemen, is true music."
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
Worry is a scurvy rat
It is a man's main bane
It chews on your self esteem
It nibbles at your brain
It will take your precious time
Your energies will claim
It will hobble your very life
It will make you lame
You may try to capture it
But that is all in vain
Doubt is like a cancer
It eats at your bones
It takes breath from your very lungs
It turns your mind to stone
It makes you feel incomplete
It makes you weep and moan
Under it's all-nagging pain
You will retch and groan
It is resistant to all cures
And you cannot atone
Fear is like a little death
It turns the heart to straw
It strikes like a rattlesnake
With poison in its maw
It's like a fascist dictator
Who makes the harshest laws
It can take your greatest strength
Make it pernicious flaw
Like a sadistic doctor
With a large chainsaw!
How can a person battle
Worry, Doubt and Fear?
How can our lives get better?
How can we have cheer?
Jack Daniels has no answer
It's not Budweiser beer...
It may be elusive
At first just like a wraith
But once you have a hold on it
*The answer is our FAITH.*
SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/27/2016
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 4:42 PM UTC
He didn’t come home
again last night
And then he wondered
what started the fight
You’re 44 not 24
is what I said
His nonchalance had me
seeing red
I finally decided
on what to say
I believe in my analogy
to this day
I’m like Budweiser
just like your beer
This is definitely not
what he wanted to hear
You stray away
from your tried and true
But always come back
to the red, white, and blue
Other flavors tease
your senses
And you always want
the other side of fences
But in the end
you always come back
Come back home
to your reliable sack
When will you realize
it’s not always better
I know who you are
right down to the letter
You’d think at your age
this point in your life
You’d know by now
they aren’t your wife
What will you do
when I’m finally done
When I pack up the truck,
the kids, and run
Would you miss us
just a little bit
Or would you give up
throw in the towel, just quit
Knowing you, you wouldn’t
let us go
Even though you
chase after hoes
I’m so tired of this life
that I now have to live
It will soon be time to take back
my love I so freely give
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 10:13 PM UTC
I got into my space exploration vehicle.
(I got into my car)
I took off, and traveled on the intergallactic freeway.
(I drove down the street)
I was going to the lost planet.
(I was off to the drug store)
I took a few lefts at the asteroid belts.
(I turned)
I arrived at the lost planet, and landed safely.
(I parked)
The automatic entry opened.
(You know, those automatic doors)
The communication devices were greeting me.
(TV in drug stores)
I was searching for the mysterioous red and white cannister.
(I was there to buy a Budweiser)
I found it in the back, in a cold place, by the waffle demons.
(It was in the cooler by the ice cream cones)
I took it to the being, and we exchanged paper and metal.
(I paid)
I left, and got back into my spaceship.
(I got into the car)
I flew at light speed and altered my route to avoid the aliens who were also flying.
(I drove at the speed limit, and turned at the stop signs)
I arrived safely at my space station.
(I got home)
Thus has been
another of the continuing adventures
of Michigan Kongsaeng,
the great Nothing.
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 12:59 PM UTC
A rush so alphabetical droplets clotting in the vacuum created in the heart strings. Come here. You've been there across the bar catching eyes with sepia toned faces.
Thrice denied. This time is the charm and some loser looking at himeslf in the bar mirror waiting like a vulture for last call.
I belong here in the feast of loneliness bumping against one another and a white hand on my thigh. Wake up you look like a corpse leaned here against a Budweiser poster. Billiards tap tap along with your blink. Eyelashes so curled. A neck of porcelain. Delicate in presentation. A neck of porcelain I could shatter with a single grasp. Somebody came through and a call was made. We flew with windows down Indian River Drive and the city lights are hidden. How about my goodnight kiss? How about Driving off the road and into the river. Don't look for me. I will be seaweed. I will sleep on the sandy bottom and I will watch the sunlight dance on the surface
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 4:10 AM UTC
I lit the candle
with two hydros,
and burned the house
down with a bottle
of whiskey. The next
morning I wandered
through the ashes
looking for shower
invitations and aspirin.
Back in bars, filled
with screaming amps
and glaring ex lovers
I wove my way
in-between old friends
and mating dances,
losing Hemingway
and storm clouds.
I dropped the anchor
in your apartment,
falling mid sentence
into stain ridden furniture
and empty Budweiser bottles.
The only thing I broke
that night, was my determination
on not being a blow up doll
molded after some girl
I was never going to be.
So I laid there kissing
ghosts and shook
with a fever and chills
vibrating like telephones
on silent. And you wondered
where I went once
the door closed.
You can't define cordial as
branding someone
and mailing them back
to a delusional soul falling
in love with them
after. Hot metal
pokers weren't made
for joyous reunions.
They make sure you
always know where
you leave your scars.
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012 at 6:39 PM UTC
Spray paint still stains the driveway
From that gift I sent you
Boxed up in the red white and blue
And 'MERICA, welcome to the USA.
Who could have guessed that the paint
Would be more permanent than you.
You can shove the Budweiser t-shirt and
John Deere trucker hat I sent at the top
Of your closet and forget about them,
But I can't scrub the spot off my driveway.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
I’m throwing up on myself in the bathtub
and chain-smoking these Newport box 100’s because I need this nicotine but I could stop if I wanted
I have more willpower than any one person should be allotted
but that’s just the way it is
and I smoke them three at a time in hopes sometime soon this can **** me
its strange to say that I don't know you
when I was under you just a week ago
and you have that tattoo on your neck of the Bayside emblem
and when I traced It with my tongue you moaned in my ear
and you smelled of sour diesel and Marlboro reds and Budweiser
and now im a little partial to that
because that smell is seared into my sinus
and in the morning I would struggle to find my clothes
wrapped in the sheets and try to sneak out of there
before you could grab my wrist with tattooed arms
and whisper “stay, please”
so this is me sneaking down your steps in my socks
and tiptoeing past your Christmas tree
and opening the iron gate in front of your walkway
and this is me driving away in the rain at 6 am
because I should not be sleeping with a 24 year old man when I am 17
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
the first thing I notice is the jetty
the waves littered with little feet and bouncing foam and
bobbing buoys of women, two of which
call me to remove my boots
and let water lick clean
old clammy toes
but I walk out on the jetty
past the rock where scuttling children fear their mothers will forget them
past the crop of young fishermen, smiling between tides of beer and
counting the fish they have yet to catch by the worms they have
in their new tackle boxes
past an empty can of Budweiser
past an old bucket of bait that even the gulls wont touch
deeper into the bird **** that paints this rock thumb
pock marked with bowls of orange soup-
carapace and minnow bones
denying a smoke in favor of the ocean’s oyster breath
trading the cooling molten gold of a California beach
for something I was sure would only be found
where this putrid jetty purged into the sea
and I was close
even as you drove me home
I couldn’t forgive you for following me there
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 6:27 AM UTC
He wakes up before the sun
Park benches and alleyways
cardboard boxes and piles of coats
he has nests all over the city
strategically placed
near the corner shop
fast food places
and liquor stores
on a good day
he can buy three
twenty-two ounces of Budweiser
so that by night time
he can forget himself
forget you
forget me
forget his home
a damp concrete floor
and a shirt pocket
filled with loose cigarettes
He wakes up before the sun
until the day comes
when he won't
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
why hadn't i thought of this before?
why are children hidden in the floor?
why is our mother missing and
why is carbon four hundred parts per
human? historical doubts, unusual droughts, i thought
i'd never say it but **** canada. **** budweiser, ****
saint valentine and his pagan oppression, bless my blood
for being dark. there is consciousness in the pores of corals,
a strong mind in the **** at the polar regions of this table.
i am not an arctic hare, i am not a vector
for your raging codependence, four meters
into the thermosphere i am not vulnerable to
methane, early snowmelt, or severe wildfires
but you are.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
Plastic covered sheets in a old home and the husband wants to burn it down
Weak arms in me today with another glass of water filling me up along with white dry bread and meat and cheese
I’ve be eating meat and cheese sandwiches all week with some beer on the side.
Always Budweiser
Why Budweiser?
Crystal angels on the dinner table in the old folk’s home.
They think the angels will save them
I dream of a tiger trying to bite my hand off and driving fast and ******* the number 8 girl.
Beer always goes fast
and the **** breaks are long
eleven dollars for a six pack
the bus is horrendous
and sometimes the people bother me.
Everyone likes to talk these days it seems,
where did the quiet go?
Where did the first one go? She left like that
It was nothing good she has feelings of gold and I sink down below the stinking *******
firing the bullets at the sea
Is worse than the people who lock their doors in the bathroom even though no one’s home.
I’ll write some poem at night when the sun is coming soon
People are sleeping
And I drink
I smoke
I write you dumb poems not even poems.
my poems- I listen to the music
- Being kind in rooms and beating myself- it happens.
Some while waiting for the bus have a tallboy hidden in their chest jacket pocket and sometimes they pull it out and take a big sip- they drink some more before the bus comes.
The bus comes
The people go
It’s freezing and raining outside
It’s spitting
The air smells fresh
some will finally accept happiness tonight.
Not me.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 11:28 PM UTC
So the Violets lived
in the long shadow
of a slaughterhouse,
separated from death
by cyclone fencing
and a scrabbly yard.
In summer, family time
meant sitting on the porch
drinking cans of Budweiser.
It took about a six pack
each to mask the smell
of cow and diesel fuel,
but the rumble of semis
and the relentless lowing
of cattle were inescapable.
In winter, woodsmoke
filled the small rooms,
slowly turning the walls
the color of ***** snow.
Icicles hung from gutters,
lengthening like knives.
The youngest Violet daughter
grew up, moved to Louisville,
and became a painter of vivid
abstracts.
I have one of her paintings
hanging on a wide white wall.
I like to pour myself a Scotch
and watch the mangled colors—
brilliant viscera sullying
a slaughterhouse stall—
the smell of peat and smoke;
the taste of earth’s undoing.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 9:33 AM UTC
The fire rages
throwing shadows across
the trash.
Pepsi, Coke, Malboro
Cowboy Killers.
Lightning strikes the midnight black pavement.
Please Lord,
keep us safe.
Is this how the world ends?
A puff of smoke
tainted with a subtle hint of
Budweiser.
Oh, the humanity!
The wound has grown too large.
A bullet whispering through the air,
landing in a young mans chest.
The world ends
surrounded in yellow caution tape.
Police Line:
Do Not Cross.
Here the guardians sit
on the worlds edge,
looking over at the chaos,
coated in yellow gold and
thick black smog.
Choking on past sins,
the curtain falls on this
vaudeville show.
The world doesn't end in fire
or ice,
but both.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 2:29 PM UTC
In a little roadhouse off the beaten tracks is where I did find her.
She was riding with the hells angels till they kicked her out for being to ruff.
And yet at seventeen the way she could down a budweiser and burb hello ******
Was a site to be held and i thought to myself
as she broke a pool cue over a man's head who played a song she didnt
like I knew i had met the woman of my dreams.
Sure she drank like a fish cussed like a sailor and hit like a frieght train.
But aside from all thoose good qualitys I like in a woman she did have her hang up's.
Its kinda bad when your first date involves knocking over a seven eleven and leading on
the cops on a five state chase.
And Im not bitter she didnt slow down to let me off.
Im mean the road rash wasnt that bad and I needed to drop a couple of pounds
of course it gives a whole new meaning to burning off the pounds.
And when I saw her about two months later I could tell there was something
there as she held a knife to my throat and looked into my blood shot eye's
and said.
Im gonna cut out your tongue out if you dont buy me a beer.
Yes this beer drinking spitfire had me at hey what the **** you lookin at ****** ?
What a true lady indeed.
Yes when i finally came outta a coma after that first night togather i knew.
That i probaly shouldnt drink outta open containers.
Or carry cash or major credit cards.
When going out with a five foot three spifire named Skeeter.
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 5:56 PM UTC