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George Anthony May 2017
I know that there is a table
in a Catholic high school in my local town
with an etch of the letter "G"
next to boredom-inspired vandal,
jagged lines, circles,
perhaps a few ******* shapes
as silly high school boys
are prone to draw.

An Advanced Maths textbook sits on a shelf
with a little doodle
of a peace sign next to an emo smiley
from a time where I was caught
between two phases,
tight black jeans and a flowing turquoise shirt.

Tobacco stains smeared
over the wood of a sealed off door
just outside my bedroom,
evidence of the first time
I tried a cigarette, seven years old,
and then panicked and tried to
flush it down the toilet,
only to have to fish it out and stuff it
in a little crevice, to be hidden and
remain there for seven years.

We leave all these little marks
and stains
in places we've been.
Spilled food, spilled ink, spilled drink,
tobacco stains and pools of blood.
"The marks humans leave are
too often scars."

I have scars.
Left forearm. Right calf. Right wrist bone. Both kneecaps.

A scar across my ribs and chest I was
so desperate to be rid of,
I bathed myself in oils and it was
the first scab I
never picked at; but a couple of weeks ago
I dreamt it was there again, fresh.
It tore open in front of everyone, bled out,
and I woke up gasping, drowning in my fear,
agonised, clutching at a wound that'd long since faded
convinced I could feel it splitting me apart again.

I have evidence all over my body
and more buried deep within the recesses of my mind,
scars so jagged they put knives to shame,
shining, pale, like diamonds in moonlight
not half as precious
but still invaluable.
Evidence of the marks humans leave behind.

I'm not innocent.
I don't pretend like I am.
I know there is a man out there
who gained another scar to add to his collection
when he was fourteen years old.
I know my hands carved it into his skin.
I know I used to use my fists
when others used their words to hurt me.

When I die, I know that I will leave
pieces of myself
everywhere
I've ever been. Whether people know it
or not, whether they
remember me
or not. There are ink stains
and coffee spills. My blood
is still on the floor of his house.
The high school cafeteria
has a circle of red
from a nosebleed I didn't realise I was having.
There are parks wearing my graffiti
and children donning my old clothes, and people overseas
still alive because of me

(or that's what they'll tell me, but
all I did was talk.
Give yourself the credit you guys deserve,
you're the ones who chose to listen.
You're the ones who had the strength to
pick your head up and carry on)

There are exes who still think of me
and friends who will one day
come across some article of clothing
or a piece of technology
I left behind after a sleepover.
Teachers who will remember
that smart, sarcastic student
who had panic attacks in their classrooms
and drank coffee in the mentoring hub with Mrs. Hume
whilst buttering bagels and functioning on no sleep.

Maybe our place in the universe is
insignificant. Or maybe it's the
most significant thing
of all.
Maybe the Buddhists are right.
Maybe we are the universe, together
as one. I sure think it makes sense.

Streams of consciousness
and spirits that need healing.
We work the sun
without even realising we're doing it.
We destroy it, too,
which is perhaps why we
are so self destructive in turn.

Maybe we're
smaller than specs of dust
but that's okay.
You don't have anything
without the particles required
to make things up.
Everything is a collection of atoms:
the tiniest things of all
yet they're the centre of everything,
the beginning of everything.

So when the end comes and
we burst back into the sky,
stardust and souls and
blinking little lights,
we'll have left our marks on the earth
regardless of who remembers
and we'll still be there, twinkling,
a collection of atoms that came from a supernova
essential to the makeup of galaxies
and life itself.
What could be more beautiful than that?
I don't know. It was... some sort of stream of consciousness, perhaps? I blanked out halfway through writing it.
Tilly Dec 2012
Heralding new, in skeletal chariot;
she chases fodder across Solstice night.
Bright ribbons, on garlands made of *******.
Beiwe feasts.
For Karl Johan, with a pat :)
My neighbour, mad Swedish friend, and awesome story teller.
I found him, putting butter around my front door, so Beiwe can eat it on her way onwards...hence the title!

The Saami, indigenous people of Finland, Sweden, and Norway worship Beiwe, the sun-goddess of fertility...
& sanity.
MdAsadullah Nov 2014
For bright prosperous future,
They say oiling is required.
They inform buttering is must;
If in job promotion is desired.

Butter increases cholesterol.
It is not at all good for health.
I say no to such promotions.
Poverty better than such wealth.

I cannot **** my conscience;
To make tomorrow brighter.
For oiling I've a jar of kerosene;
And I always carry a lighter.
Riley Finnegan Jun 2013
I want all of you
I want your messy morning hair
Your sleepy smiles
Your tired eyes
Your sloppy kisses
I want to wake up with your arms around me
I want to wake up warm from your body heat
I want all of you
I want your soft pajama pants
I want your smell on my linen sheets
Your hand in mine
Your soft touch
Your anxieties and tangled thoughts.
I want to get up with you
I want your toothpaste lips
I want to watch you while you pick out your clothes
I want to watch you as you get ready
I want all of you.
I want your scrambled eggs in my tummy
Your freshly squeezed orange juice on my table
Your hum in my kitchen while you cook
Your silly morning things
I want a whole bunch of magnetic poetry words on our fridge
I want to see the silly things you put together
I want to see all the lovey things you wrote
I want all of you
I want to curl up with you
I want to lay by the fire
I want to paint our minds on the walls
I want all of you
Your warm kisses
Your fingers
Your skin so smooth
I want your passion
Your skin running against mine
Your fingers roaming
Your lips tracing
Your mind yearning
Your heart racing
Your exaggerated breaths
I want to be with you
I want to do things and know your mine
I want you to tell me everyday how much you need me, in person
I want to lay with you and watch movies all day
I want to lay under warm blankets and drink cocoa
I want to feel you touch me
I want to feel our two souls becoming one, our hearts beating in rhythm
I want to go on adventures
I want all of you
Your curiosities
Your wonders
Your fascinations
Your skills
I want to discover every inch of you
I want to conquer amazing things with you.
I want to hold your hand every day while we drive
I want to kiss you in the rain while we stop to watch it fall
I want all of you
Your ways of making me smile
Your ways of comforting me
Your beautiful eyes and your beautiful words
I want to shop with you
Picking out our favorite foods
Dancing through the isles
I want all of you
The way you pick out soaps
The way you push the cart
The way you gently place sodas to keep them from fizzing
The way you hand the cashier money
The way you politely give her a smile and make small talk
I want to spend every second with you by my side.
I want all of you
I want the way you sing to music in the car
Your walks
Your jumps
Your skips
Your hops
I want to dance with you at random times
I want to know that you care about me
I want all of you
The way you stick up for me
The way you do what I want
The way you're always there.
I want to go home and catch you staring at me while I'm sitting in our chair reading
I want to feel you kiss me randomly
I want to feel you lean against me
I want to know that I'll never lose you.
I want all of you.
The way you look when your scared
Your nerves
Your happiness
Your shakes
Your ponders
I want to garden with you.
I want to rake and **** with you
I want to watch you work and wonder how you became mine
The way you tenderly water plants
The way you pull weeds right from the roots
I want all of you
Your ***** hands
Your sweaty pores
Your delicious produce
Your never ending breaths
Your sunburnt nose
I want all of you
I want to cook dinner with you
I want to sit outside listening to crickets while I watch you grill
I want to talk to you when you chop vegetables
I want to set the table for two
I want to light candles and turn on music
I want all of you
The way you tenderly mix foods
Your ways of buttering breads
The condensation on your water glass
Your fork clinking
Your way of  making me laugh
The way you talk about your day even if I was there
I want to clean up with you
Washing dishes with your hands on my hips
I want to wipe the table and look at you
I want you to be my encouragement
I want to go for a drive to the beach
I want to hold your hand as we watch the sunset
I want all of you
Your glistening eyes in the sun
Your breath as you talk closely to me
Your giggles
Your frustrations
I want to put my feet in the water and feel you follow me
I want to wave goodbye to the sun, knowing it wouldn't matter if it came back or not, because I'd have you.
I want to listen to seagulls with you
I want you to tell me stories
I want all of you
Your creativity
Your needs
Your wants
Your pleasures
I want you to build a sand castle with me when the orangey glow of the sun is still around.
I want to go get ice cream with you
I want all of you
Your ice cream on your face
Your napkin hands
Your chilly tongue
I want to go home and do laundry with you
I want your way of separating darks from lights
Your clothes intermixed with mine
Your socks
Your detergent
Your breaths as you pick up socks
The way your fingers seem to dance as you fold clothes
I want to fall asleep with you
I want to crawl into the same bed as you
I want to lay on your chest
I want you to play with my hair and sing me sweet words
I want you, all of you
Your heart beating in my ear
Your closeness
Your hands tracing my bare skin
I want to kiss you before falling asleep.
I want to know you're right there with me
I want to trace hearts on your skin
I want to share cold feet and fluffy feather blankets
I want all of you
Your dreams
Your snores
Your beautiful eyelids
Your limp muscles
Your head soft on my pillow
I want all of you.
I don't just want you, I need you.
Kyle Williams Apr 2012
We are in an empire of a thousand sons,
but in the end we all count as one.
We will do our best to not act glum,
but when push comes to shove there will always be one.
Spontaneous heartache,
a natural disaster.
Poverty stricken nations,
A dictator for their master.

In my heart and in my mind
I’ll still find the time,
to teach every bird how to fly,
and every person to live the perfect lie.
We will wish for better days,
look to the skies and we will prey,
but in my heart and in my soul,
life’s love lost moments eat us whole
as we engage in our final goal.

If she even remembers me
for flying off the handle,
for broken picture frames
and a life that’s been dismantled,
then she’s like a flame,
flickering forever on my candle.

Like my mother used to say,
the days remain bright but the sky always grey,
a reminder of the past time
a substitute for the right way.
We set our stage on the shore-line,
blankets laid beneath us,
gazed at the endless night sky,
waiting for Augusts rush.
Amanda Jan 2014
Is this how happiness feel like?

Oh, the way my lips gently curve upwards is like..

Sleepy eyes kissed airily by sunshine,
                                                                ­               buttering toast on a bitter cold winter's day.
                                                   When it is so very cold,                                                            ­                
every breath feels like toothpaste and mint.    
It is the worries being unknotted.                                                       ­ 

                                                               ­                  Little inexplicable sparks that can light even the darkest        souls.
There we go! Smile sweetheart.

x
Nylee Sep 2019
The more we know, the less we say
All the spoken words have its consequences
The more is told in silences

The words omitted but heard clearly
What we listen, the words crafted carefully
They deceive the ears that surrounds

Every other agenda works on
What favours whose manipulation
The smile contains no smile
The efforts put to take another mile
Snooping and buttering on sides
Friends and foe, no one decides
Act so nice, what is inside
no one knows till the very end

Dress so good, please all eyes
Give help when it is noticed
Out of sight then eyes vanished
Deceptive tricks up the sleeve
It matters not whom we believe

All playing game with roll of dice
Keeping friends close, enemies closer.
neth jones Aug 2023
who re-marrowed this hollow tree ?
thought themselves of mythology ?
processed death into the dying **** ?
blunt   blackened hope
           buttering up what god ?
                                   what mischief maker ?
: Loki the crow with his promethean nose ?

covering his crooked actions
                          the defiling of a life
  murderer
  a coward of failed coupling
congress    a night down the pub
    the gender polar pair collided
            sottish upon their union
genitals bragging through urgent gaps in clothing
but that urgency deflated
it muttered away
he felt baited
and
  humiliated    
             he committed to ******

crude amateur throttling
  a ***** sogged brick  
an indiscreet botch up
    and a stolen wheelbarrow  
        to ferry her away

'The Mourning Tree'
           despondently sifts for nourishment
its gummy combs of branches
  sashing particles  from the night solution
the tree ; a cavity
too verrucose and fleshy to whittle the winds
                                               or fife a tune
a rubbery craggle     foreign against the landscape
should   rather   make out its' habits
                  off the floor of a deep sea trench

roughing in the corpse
head first   down the gullet thirstily
skirts up and claustro
between spread limbs
to ***** puckle in the hollow tree
evicting the bird of Minerva
      ‘whoing’ into the charged sky
  blooded over
             the night blackens further
               brooding on the event

who re-marrowed this hollow tree ?
married themselves to a mythology ?
force fed life   engorged within deathly seed ?
upended crime     in lieu of a sacrifice
           he offered a glass of woman
               to oder the night
he strummed teasing fingers
      raked them humming
         through the heady resistance of the air
electric creeping warmth   over the skin
                        erecting the hairs
   museum silence
   an arena    as fraught equal    between magnets
       clouds cut the moon
      moon cut the eye
    sinful kiting to mend a link
ramblings kinked
he makes sparking incantations to the gods

one scatting madman
one corpse woman


that same bled night
where the furrowed fields
            meets natures disarray
children approach this woodland border             
children with empty baked bean tins
      that they joined with lengths of string
trying to reach out their ears
    extend their timid range
       to sprites, nymphs, pucks or faeries
an older kid strikes up a cigarette
one of the younger ones squats to ***
         and be mocked

one brave girl of ten years
  runs a tin and the line into the woods  
it jerks taunt after about thirty paces
she wedges it in a tree fork and runs back
the children crowd the receiver tin
spooking themselves
eavesdropping   
        upon the hollow wisdom of small gods
            that mask their shame in the dark
influenced by ‘ Who put Bella down the Wych Elm? ‘

misuse of the word 'sashing'
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
imagination: the crucible of inanimate things getting the modern physics makeover of dynamism in quanta of crosswords and dalmatian; imagination: **** static without the fizz of carbon edging to oxygen in the nightclub; imagination, when you assume unmovable things can be moved not disgruntled by not seeing the image of such feats formalised for applause and a nobel on the clean sheen buttering the scalp; oh yeah, what else? ah! me shampoo steve on the maiden to scrap lanky, me talk aboriginal, continent to continent, me talk each cult dialect of tribe without chief, me smoke tobacco with glee, but back home, i'm like the aboriginal: i say socrates is pop, they say kerry katona is popper, i might as well be among the **** naked cannibal lepers eating themselves to the salt shake of maracas - mmm, extra flaky; chisel those fried pouts into ducky of chalky lipstick: originating without mirror but a stick; but to be honest? the celebrity culture was a way to cut off the famous from 2000+ years ago; well, that was the original idea.*

i wanted to correlate the fascination from astrology
into phonetics, i chose the oak tree split to be the y,
i chose the sun to be o
and the moon to be c,
but i lost the constellatory plot from there;
so a beer and cigarette on a sunny day:
england owns september if you want me to compare
it to a zodiac; england owns september.
then i dipped into a canto dry lipped,
ushering people in:
man will be more heartbroken losing
his dog to a stranger than a woman,
with animals there's no free will involved you see,
pat on the head to the count of two
and i was leeched to 5am walkies,
but then i dropped the finished can, stumped the cigarette but
and opened the book, hiroshima sunrise
of bleach white pages in the sunlight,
shadow those twenty-six digits in for the eyes to see.
i want literature, i don't want oration,
not the kind of politics of arson with pre-pepper sneezes
of applause on the cue, life, the automation of queues,
i want spontaneity and the outer reaches to shake
a banana into a pistol in a magic trick,
with the bunny turning into a rabbit-hare mongrel,
or a ******* left *** wiggle for the photoshop, you choose.
so i said: but i want literature, i want to read
books so complex that i can't incorporate them into
my cognitive narrative, and i can't even speak about them,
i want books like that, books that will
not allow me to speak about them, or join a book club,
or become a critic for a newspaper when the **** is hot,
i want... literature... pure and simple...
i don't want tea break talk folding a ******* into jam and cheese
benevolently housebound to smear cat **** on walls and simply
call it diluted beige.
Sabila Siddiqui Sep 2018
Unfortunately you are not for everyone. Not everyone will like you. Not everyone will love you regardless of what you do and how nice of a person you are. Not everyone will vibe with your energy and not everyone will understand and support you.

Even though it is a bitter pill to swallow at times don't let it make a turmoil of your emotion and deplete your energy. Because your time and energy is so much more precious than exhausting yourself by shapeshifting to pander to the whims of others, moulding yourself to fit in every where and hence retaining no shape to call your own.

Choose not to sacrifice your uniqueness to succumb buttering up their bread. To Be selective with your energy by politely waving them goodbye to stand by your values and lifestyles that most deeply resonate with you. Choose to take social risks regardless of the awkward glances and haughty whispers. Choose to not care of what others think to the point it stifles your ability to take risks and disrupt your social satisfaction.

For there is nothing more liberating than to not waste your life allowing the faultfinders to dictate your actions. To seek to align your actions with your heart. To stand up for something, to do and believe what brings  content regardless of it being disliked. It is beautifully candor being your authentic self.
Endo Oct 2015
There's only so much a man can take
There's only so much bullying, so much shoving
There's only so much faking and denying
There's only so much swallowing and deflecting

For every man that is 'spinning plates',
There's is a boy being stepped on.
For every man that is buttering up,
There is a boy that is being deceived.
For every man that is lying,
There is a boy that is being lied to.

I tell you this so you can
Neatly and promptly
Get your head out of  your ***, as
If you're not cheating and lying,
If you're not faking and denying,
If you're not shoving and bullying,

You are no man at all.
Gaffer Jan 2016
Okay before you start, I’m a lesbian.
Wow, put that straight into Paul’s knockback book.
Just didn’t want you to waste your time.
Okay, what we’ve got here is, brickwall syndrome.
Is that bad.
It is, but there’s a way through it.
There is.
Yes, what we need to do, is to create a situation.
How does that work.
Well, you pretend you want me to chat you up, but you want a great chat up line.
Sounds a bit pointless, but go for it.
You are the tea to my coffee.
Not feeling that Paul.
I can see us growing old together.
You’re right, I’m aging in front of you.
Nice one, I’m going to buy you a drink, but I don’t know your name.
Never heard that one before, I’m Candice.
No, that wasn’t a chat up line, what are you drinking.
Oh sorry, you got me there. Gin and tonic.
Right, back to my lines. You are the chalk to my cheese.
Never a truer word said Paul.
I saw you across the room, and I just had to speak to you.
Oh, I like that Paul. that would do it.
Well Candice I think my work here is done.
Can I ask you a stupid question.
Sure, go for it.
You do know this is a lesbian bar.
Can’t say anybody told me Candice.
It’s not written in stone, people just know it as such.
Does that mean I’ve tarnished your reputation.
Well I did get dumped last week.
Me too, fill me in then.
Would you believe she said I was selfish.
Looking at my glass Candice, I’m sort of agreeing with her.
Is that a hint you want a drink, even though the gentleman is supposed to buy them.
Nice one miss selfish, you’re enhancing your reputation.
Okay, same again. Why did a great guy like you get dumped.
I couldn’t explain the situation I was in at that particular moment in time.
You mean she found you bed with another woman.
Yeah, her sister.
That’s shocking, so how are you just not going out with the other sister.
Well.
You were going out with the other sister, weren’t you, I’m seeing a new side to you Paul. Hopefully being double dumped will teach you a lesson.
It has, I’m talking to you.
Well in that case, god is definitely punishing you.
You might be right Candice. I think in our next date, you should use your best chat up lines to cheer me up.
You kidding, you’ll try to turn me straight.
No I’ll leave that to the third date.
Do you know something, I think I’ve moved into the twilight zone.
Great isn't it, just think, half an hour ago you were expecting some super model to sweep you off your feet, and now you’re talking to me.
I know, I don’t know if I feel sorry for me, or feel sorry for you.
We’re being punished Candice for being bad.
Excuse me Paul, I don’t think being selfish is in the same bracket as double cheating.
In a way it is, I’m with a beautiful woman i can’t do anything with, how selfish can life get.
Never looked at it that way, I’m feeling all apple crumble now.
Is that lesbian speak for I’m a pudding.
Jesus, do you know you have a great capacity for lifting people, then dropping them again.
That’s my cack handed way of saying I like you.
You’re still not turning me straight.

                                  TEN YEARS LATER.
Was there ever a time I could’ve got you into bed.
Yes, all the times I got dumped and cried on your shoulder.
What, you might have said something.
I couldn’t, I was too busy listening to your perils of wisdom. You always built me up and sent me away in a better frame of mind.
Are you due to get dumped anytime soon.
No, no, and no. I’m in love. Plus you wouldn’t want to bed me, it would spoil our crazy relationship.
That’s true, plus I don’t fancy you anymore.
Yeah right, bet if I said do you want to go to bed, you would jump at the chance.
I wouldn’t, I respect you too much.
Right, I’m going to get naked, I’ll be in bed waiting for you.
( Finally. )  Why aren't you naked, and sort of waiting.
So you thought you’d try a little reverse psychology did you, Thought I wouldn’t see through your little charade. Good try, but not good enough.
I was just buttering you up.
Still trying to straighten me out. Right, it’s our anniversary on Friday, don’t be late.
I’ll check my full diary, see if I can fit it in.
                        
                                     Anniversary Ritual.

Okay before you start, I’m a lesbian.
Wow, put that straight into Paul’s knockback book.
Just didn’t want you to waste your time.
Okay, what we’ve got here is, brickwall syndrome.
Ps, I got dumped today.
Jonny Angel Mar 2014
Smooth like hot butter
I slice a piece of sweet bread
It never grows old
emma joy Aug 2013
1/2
It is quite dignifying to imagine
one's self to be invincible, but
at the end of the day
we are all submissive to nightmares
mirrors can't help but reflect despair
in bloodshot eyes.
I have lived on this planted for
3 years and 20 centuries
and I can tell you that
sleeping pills don't work and
buttering burns makes the suffering
more savory.
Fire will always be enticing
and smoke will seem like clouds after a while
you can **** as many mosquitos as you want, but your blood will always belong
to the earth
and when you are drained like sandy bath water you will understand
what it feels like to be curious
Jonny Angel Jul 2014
She speaks five languages
& works her *** off
in an eatery
buttering croissants.
A single mom of three,
she still has the spirit to
smile like a summer sun.
What a pretty sight,
there's no wallowing in
the mire for this waitress,
she's still got fire
& no time for *******,
'cause she's making it happen
on her own terms.
Creep Nov 2014
I'm very good at
-smuggling food
anywhere :)
-acting,
so I might hate you for what you're doing to me,
but I'll keep a smile and pretend I love you.
- -sheepish smile- buttering up teachers.
-being *****, then playing innocent whoops
-questionable flirting (?)
-blaming others
-lying
-trying too hard
-sending signs without meaning to, just trying to be nice
haha i dont think they r all sins XD idk this is for embers challenge :) you know who she is, ember evanescent, the awesome chick who write amazing stuff
JB Claywell Apr 2016
In her leggings,
and her striped
Cape Cod dress,
we meet Kim.

She’s in possession
of ankles the circumference
of Kennedy half-dollars,
a wasp’s nest of black curls
piled on her head,
she’s a straight line
from shoulder to heel.

She’s a real catch, Kim is,
and she knows it.

She has no idea that
she looks like a peacock
dipped in motor oil,

she’s giving ol’ Josh
the goldfish eye.

We’re all here to see The Freight Train,
The Rabbit Killer, but Kim’s hoping
for more.

Kim’s looking to get her
bunny stuffed, she
don’t care much about who
does the stuffing,

but she’s hoping for Mr. Clark,
he’s her mark, no doubt.

Now, Josh bought Kim
a beer, but was asked to
leave the cap on,

He looks at me, confused.
“It’s so you can’t Rufie her.
She wants to *******, but
she wants it to be her idea.”

Josh nods;
so does Kim.

As the evening proceeds,
and we’ve all done
“The Freight Train Boogie”
it’s become increasingly
obvious to Kim that Josh
is not agreeable to buttering
her biscuits, she moves,
which is to say stumbles,

around the room.

Every so often she’ll climb onto
the lap of some guy she’s known,
biblically or otherwise, before.

Sam, Bob, Steve, Ralph, or Charlie,
it hardly matters.

Earlier, she’d told us about
the 6-year-old twins,
the teenaged daughter
at home, ex-husband,
boyfriend, whatever, in jail.

The Freight Train moves ever
onward, but I’ve seen too
much of ol’ Kimmy’s show,
now depressed, it’s time
to bail.

*

-JBClaywell

©P&ZPublications; 2016
There is a band, locally, that is called Freight Train Rabbit Killer. They are astounding.  The first time Josh and I saw them, we left the venue and vowed to see them play as often as we were able.  This poem is set in a tavern that housed the second time that I’d been able to see them play live. Sadly, both Josh and I left early this time around. Kim’s dealings with Josh and some of the other guys in the audience was pretty intense and really hollowing. I hope she finds what she’s looking for.
Jen Rem Jan 2014
For months you have a funny face,
our love mysteriously has shifted out of place!?!
Have you found another or is it drugs?
You mock my questioning, my grave is dug.

You reappear and claim your love
offering a dollar or shoulder rub.
My instincts quickly understanding
He is selfish and quite demanding.

For everything he asked of me
I did with greatness; to the best degree
Apparently not enough
Because now there is she.

I get the news of proud daddy with another!
just hours before...Kissing me, no talk of others.
Buttering me up, being a good man
just to tell me how you ruined our plan!!!
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
"z małej chmurki duży deszcz," wódz apache mały obłok.
"czołg kości i gniewu rozpacz ," wojownik głuche ucho.

i was partially wrong about the cantos,
for one, the fifth canto is easily
read in silence, it is almost desperate,
but what's striking if anything is the line:

   a wet cat gleaming in patches.

since it appears twice, you can see that
in lyrical poetry, the driving mechanism
of a poem, the mechanism of lyricism
is not a technique as such, by the holding to
dear life on a ledge with your nails
with only one hand / line.
you can see that ezra did not want to
abandon what he already started, given
that the above mentioned line appears
halfway through the poem, yet it's what's
driving the poem to a finality,
otherwise this canto compared with the four
prior seems mediocre, mediocre
in the missed bombast, therefore read
easily without loosening the larynx
or buttering it with wine while it dries up
in utterances; and yes, the line appears
a second time, right at the end:

    tiber catching the nap, the moonlit velvet,
    a wet cat gleaming in patches.
    "se pia," varchi,
    "o empia, ma risoluto
    "e terribile deliberazione."
    but
sayings run in the wind,
   * ma se morisse!

                                     (canto v)

the beauty of it now though, being oblivious
to the rigidity of term-trick-entrapment,
because if that line was changed in its consistency
into a metaphor: a wet cat gleaming in patches like...
the poem could not regain a momentum,
because the poet would then pause
and try the comparative route, which would leave
him panting and acid aching to the marrow
to try and substitute this image for another
on an polaroid chessboard of imagery,
but it comes nonetheless, spontaneously like
a winding river, this might be called a metaphorical
couplet, in that the searching for comparison
ends with the cat representing tiber.

so the gods noticed - man's wisdom ushered in
the winds which took man's wisdom into the vortex
of the seven tornados, and from the seven tornados
no wisdom spoke, yet the gods ushered in
the fires and sinews and there they spoke
engulfed by some hysterics to speak once and seize
condemning by the joy of the original craft intended,
and so as a puncture the foolery leisured itself
listening to the harvester of man's wise sayings,
with man's wisdom so given unto the winds
returned as only a flute-like whistle in public
on the gentle goat hoof heel trot
(i know, had but goats hoofs and heels
and cats thumbs, but it's poetry,
sounds don't necessarily reflect pythagorean
rigidity in utilising the sounds
that hardly reflect with pristine images
of rational conformity - couldn't spare
the extra hatch to be ** ** honest).

both... extensive typo, that produced the last
scratched bulge ending with
the goat playing the castanets with its hoofs.
Anderson M Sep 2016
Truth’s a double edged sword
And true lies have a façade
For each occasion that’s mundane
Or otherwise and when peddled they’re mostly plain
Eliciting brouhaha meant to send mixed signals
Kind of “stones” hitting an “undisclosed” number of birds.
A crop of good fellows, politicians that is
Barely ever leave the populace at ease
Buttering them up with falsehoods, platitudes even half truths
And by virtue of being inherently over-excitable, these verbal missiles
From ‘slingshots’ cause strife, discord, discontent even apathy
In all manner of forms and so nationhood and integration atrophy.
Funny enough this happens from a seemingly divided
Front “truth” is there’s a common denominator, self-preservation and that’s farsighted.
line separating friend and foe in matters politics is blurred.Methinks it's actually non-existent.
betterdays Apr 2014
when i want
to build a wall.
i take the stone,
formed by,
anger or hurt
from my gullet.

wash it, so it's
dark facets shine.
then place it,
in the footings,
of my insecurity.
find another and repeat
til they form a line.

using as my mortar,
pain, embarassment
and indignation in equal parts.
mixed with tears and bile.

and then, i begin again
buttering bricks and
offsetting, them.
i want, no need,
my wall to be strong.

tho i never build,
my walls too high
three or four courses,
never, no more.
i want to be able to,
step over them
and be free

i have seen those
and watch them still,
thoese who, built a high, formidable wall,
a fortress, it does become,
with them, still locked, imprisoned inside.

so i learnt to build,
walls strong, but squat
so i can,
when ready,
emerge.
righteous and graceful.

but this is my folly,
the flaw, in my scheme.
my walls, they run
*****, nilly, everywhere.
and over them i trip
**** over beam..

so now...
i must find a school
to teach me the art
and give me the tools,
of how to deconstruct a wall.
with out the haphazard use
of a wrecking ball.
napwrimo day 24
prompt; write a poem of stonemasonary.
As migrant workers in dire need of buttering their bread
To Libya, the hardest way, some Ethiopians opted to head
They spent a portion of their life in a sweatshop
Clinging afloat a better-tomorrow hope.
Tragically, they were intercepted by ISIS members with
A brain, inured, petrified and dead
After blood-thirsty, heinous, ill-motivated and bad shaped.
ISIS demons, who lavish atavism, ironically the faithful behead
With faith-based hatred. Putting on a mask, they
Bullied 30 cross-necklace-bearing Ethiopians to a desert shore,
Showcasing the brutality they adore —the way a cat
Plays with an inescapably captured rat-
Rattling a sabre at the kneeling down victim's back
Making sure their brutality to others proves stark
Like a Hollywood movie they ordered 'attack! '
Oblivious
'Even slaying a sheep or a hen
Must be handled in a way that doesn't inflict a pain! '
The Prophet's word ISIS members misconstrued
"The Muslim Faith owes Ethiopian Orthodox a gratitude!
So Never attack a peaceful Ethiopian! "
What do they care, disciples of satan,
When an Ethiopian Muslim challenged them
"Where is your logic or reason? "
They shot him, taking his act as a treason.

It is martyr's soul that goes to heaven
While the unrepentant terrorists' souls
Are destined for hell's oven!
A true story that happened years back
infinitetune Mar 2012
in Portugal austerity is biting...
good luck everybody.


Sat around the crowded table
Wrangling chair legs and buttering
Conversations about banalities whilst
Being bathed by full cool moonlight
Is of course a fair enough sweet delight.

Yet there is smoke in the air!
Then one by one my souls depart;
Stunning my heart yet keeping me close
Causing fears to become unshadowed.
As somehow, I must open my eyes to find
There is always a child quite near.

Oh how do I keep it fed?
a name Aug 2021
she looked worn out and wrinkly.

her date in comparison was wearing a beige suit, but under the dusk light he looked like he was the same color as the building paint. he could almost pass as presentable.

he was a business graduate, and he recently had some sort of corporate deal that would grant him some sort of something.

she didn't care for it at all, whatever happened with him and such.
all he is to her was some old college friend of a friend, who happened to approach her a few weeks back.

it had been a while since she had talked to anyone from her old school, and she was almost bewildered that chuck asked to take her to dinner. she couldn't refuse; despite of what she thinks of him, or what he would think of her, she was not one to refuse activity.

all she is expecting now is company, and a good talk and a good dinner. she expects that from him, but not from herself.

taking her seat, she felt a bit lightheaded.

the restaurant was glamourous. it looked liked the insides of a department store furniture section. hardwood beams and hardwood posts and matte black stools with velvet cushions. the lights were incandescent; the type of light she loved, that reminded her of four o'clock sunshine and reflections upon amber fall leaves.

𝘪𝘧 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, she pondered. her mind began to wander.

"𝒂 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆
𝒎𝒂𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒖𝒎𝒏 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕...--

"Hey, are you alright?"

she was staring at the lightbulbs. she was startled

"Oh, sorry. Long day. Can we have some water?"

they gestured to the waiter. chuck had the flair of a high class yuppie. all around her were upper middle class couples and well dressed demoiselles drinking brightly colored cocktails. she felt small.

the waiter gave them a pitcher of cucumber water and their menus.

𝘦𝘶𝘨𝘩, 𝘤𝘶𝘤𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘥.

"Order anything you'd like" said chuck. "I'm not afraid to spend tonight."

"Are you sure? We can split this later, I got paid and all-"

"Please, it'd be rude of me to make you pay. Especially now."

𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯?

she looked at the menu. it had all sorts of cuisines, european and exotic. she could order something from spain and eat her way through the mediterranean and the alps and end up eating desert from japan.

𝘪 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵

she hadn't eaten for hours. shame went out of the window.

"I'll have the fillet. And the mushroom soup. And the swordfish. And this. And this... how do you say this? Yeah that..."

chuck was stone faced. he ordered the same steak. he then asked about the wine selection. the waiter asked her the same.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I don't drink. Maybe the iced tea."

the waiter went off with their menus.

"You don't drink? I thought in college you were a connoisseur of sorts." chuck asked.

"I don't drink now. College was ancient history."

"It's been a while, huh. Do you still talk to the other guys? Your old dorm mates? Mel?"

she shuddered at the thought of mel. she hadn't even thought of that name for years.

"No, I haven't talked to them. I barely talk to anyone these days, other than work."

"Oh, okay."

their appetizers arrived. a basket of italian bread was on the side; she immediately went for a piece.

"I've been working with my old mates." said chuck. "We were part of a merger of our company and that really was a stepping stone for us-"

"Yeah, yeah, mhm." she wasn't paying any attention. she was busy buttering her bread stick.

"And that gave me a lot of opportunities and stuff. I got a new house, new car, first class on business trips..."

chuck went on clamoring about his mcmansion and second hand ferrari. it went on for a few minutes.

"Yeah, that's great." she mumbled, with bread in her mouth.

she went for the last two pieces of foccacia on the basket.

"Aren't you going to try the bread?" she asked. whether it was out of shame or politeness she did not know.

"No. You're emptying it anyways. Don't fill up."

she looked up and saw chuck with an expression of mild annoyance. she sat straight and offered him a bread stick.

"It's fine." chuck went to have a sip of his wine. "How about you, what have you been up to these days?"

somehow, she didn't expect to be asked that.

"I'm doing good. Stable office job."

"Yeah. Mhm."

there is a silence within the hubbub of diners. the bread she was eating tasted like it suddenly turned cold.

𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘮𝘦 𝘪 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘺.

"Soooo..." she mumbled. "The food here good?"

"You must be hungry." chuck tensed.

"Yeah, I'm sorry. I was just tired the entire day and I didn't get to eat lunch..."

"Don't apologize. This is a dinner. We're here to eat."

"Yeah, and to get together."

"Yes."

𝘺𝘦𝘱, 𝘯𝘰, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘱. 𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦.

"You did order quite a lot." chuck finished his wine.

"We'll share."

"It's fine. I'm trying to reduce, actually. Been working out and all."

"Oh, are you? Back in college you were quite big."

"...yes. Yes I was."

𝘪 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵.

"Anyways..."

"Oh, excuse me." chuck had a phone call.

she looked around. everyone looked like they were enjoying themselves. she could see herself in one of the bar mirrors, with a pallid expression and subpar hair. she looked at chuck. he looked busy and executive. she could not deny that he looked well and good, but in her eyes she still sees a plump frat boy with badly oiled hair and spots painted with acne cream.

chuck's call ended as their order arrived. as it was all set she immediately started on her mushroom soup.

"Enjoy." chuck had another glass of wine.

she ate quickly. she ate her soup before it cooled down and ate her steak before it lost all of its red. she topped her italian swordfish with an orange mash potato and ate it with her salad. she downed three cups of iced tea and ordered another pitcher of it.

chuck ate his steak quietly, sipping his wine occasionally.

"You really are hungry." chuck finished his plate.

"Mhm, yes I am." she said, while admiring a piece of arugula.

chuck stared at her. she kept eating. this went on for several minutes.

"You know, I didn't expect this night to be like this." chuck leaned back.

that set her aback. she looked to see chuck looking slightly displeased.

"What do you mean?"

"Look, I have to leave in about thirty or forty five minutes. My boss needs me. Can we check out early?"

"Oh, yes, of course." she dropped her fork. chuck called for the waiter.

her lightheadedness returned. the food did not help

"What did you mean you didn't expect the night to be like this?" she asked.

"Oh, it's nothing."

"No, come on, please. I'd like to know what you mean."

chuck swirled his wine around. "It's just that it's been a while, and I thought-" chuck paused for a moment. he took a sip.

"I thought you'd be different. I mean I don't mean different but you're different in a way I didn't expect."

𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵. "I don't get it."

"No, I mean- you're not whom I expected. You know, I thought you'd be that old talk from college, you know-"

she was beginning to get it. "Did you talk to Geo before?"

"Yeah, I did." he finished his wine. the bottle had two more inches left.

that ruined it for her.

"I remember you being cheerful and chatty back then." said chuck. "You know, back in the old days, you were the girl who everyone looked up to, loud scholar and activist and all. Geo and your dorm mates had a lot to say about you."

𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘥.

"And they always say, 'you were a mean drunk, you always wanted to talk, always had something to talk about.' Nothing that happened in your day was uninteresting for you, they say."

she pushed her plate away. "Well it's been a while, Chuck. It's not college anymore. Not that I agree with you, just- ugh, I dont know..."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. I didn't mean to ruin this date."

"Oh, yeah. It's a date." she feels like she needs to run away.

"But I hope you're doing well. I hope you enjoyed the food, at least."

"Okay." she said.

they sat in silence for a minute. chuck's eyes were still at her. she checked her phone. no charge.

the waiter came and went with the bill. they sat in silence as chuck finished the bottle of wine. she felt the need to say something.

"You know... I saw a weird hat earlier." she blurted.

"Hm?"

"It was round, and made of plastic. It was like a bowl..."

"You mean a hardhat?"

𝘰𝘩, 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦... "Yeah, something like that."

more silence. it was beginning to turn unbearable.

she had to think of more things to say. she looked around, looked at chuck. she remembered. "What's in the bag?" she had to ask.

"Oh, nothing. Just my stuff." he raised it up. it looked like a fresh shopping bag.

𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵. 𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘴𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘦, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘢𝘨...

"Anyways, I have to go." chuck stood. it was barely thirty minutes

"Oh, I'll come with you." she stood and went. it is raining outside.

his car was parked in the back, they had to run to the shade.

"Can I have a ride?" she asked, worriedly.

"No, I'm sorry, I have to go." chuck went and left on his rip off supercar. she was left on the sidewalk, in the pouring rain.

...

she arrived home, soaking.

she went straight to the bathroom. the rain was cold on her head, and gave her shivers. the lightheadedness turned into a headache.

she kneeled on the can. she threw up steak, and swordfish, and iced tea.

she took off all of her clothes and dried herself. she went to her living room and laid down on the carpet.

𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵, she thought. 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵.

she sat and took her pen from the clothes bin. she opened her notebook.

"𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔
𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒑𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒘𝒐 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔...

𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘪𝘵. 𝘨𝘰𝘥 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯.

she ripped the page off and wrote on a new one.

"𝒄𝒉𝒖𝒄𝒌 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒖𝒄𝒌 𝒂 𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒌.

𝒈𝒆𝒐 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒔𝒍𝒖𝒕𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒈𝒐

𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒂 𝒃𝒂𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒕."

she closed her notebook. she stared at the ceiling once more.

𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘩𝘶𝘩. 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘢𝘥.

she closed her eyes and slept.
if you reached this far, that's awesome.

i won't make all of them that long, wink, but this one had to be long so that it's made clear how boring that date was.
Poetic T Feb 2020
I was plugging your woman,
            see she was the socket,

And I was the one that gave
          Her the charge.
She was the amp, I was the watt..
Arching her back,
  like I'd electrocuted the g spot.

You were a one use battery,
         dead on the first use.

I'll recharge her when you at work,
               earning the bread.
But I'm buttering her with my tongue..
                                       spreading it even.

She needs you.

            Wants me.

The reason that you don't
                   have a florescent
             bulb in your bedroom.
It would be like shooting stars
                         across the sky.

I'm the javelin thrower,
   you the tap drip,
            drip,
dripping in the bedroom.

A Rottweiler growing, you the poodle.
                                      But don't worry,
                 not here to ruin you bro.

  Just to ruin her wet spot,
                    And I'm already thirsty.
Logan Robertson Jul 2019
jack fiddles life away on his thumbs~
the little digits beating like drums~
over loaf he brows~
buttering skid rows~
from his jam, he awaits for crumbs

Logan Robertson

7/08/2019
Jack's stuck on the corner of life, a quarter here, a quarter there, is his angle.
Salmabanu Hatim Jun 2019
laundry done house cleaned
dad wants to be in good books
needs something from mum.
3/5/2019
Sam Temple Jan 2015
piano keys dance slowly
as the smoke curls
gently
around gnarled fingers
holding the fate of nations
mindlessly
fidgety interns wait for orders
secretly regretting promoting military service
rooms full of children
interested and in-tune
signing up to die –
blankly looking at the clipboard
experiencing wetness in the corner of distraught eyes
visions of burning children and screaming mothers
entire cultures blinked from existence
once again sits at the forefront of options
no longer dissuaded by position
the smallest sound escapes pursed lips
echoing forever in the void –
crimson rivers cascade down suburban streets
the sins of the youth collide with the aggression of the infirm
and treachery once again rules the world
placeless faces taste rusty train cars
the ovens still work, even if they are museum pieces –
daybreak beckons and broken bearded *******
bent on beguiling those beneath themselves
barter for breadcrumbs
billing services and
buttering palms
sit atop fanciful castles
waiting for the next royalty check
……the invention of war
still is prosperous in the right families –
Dave Hardin Oct 2016
Driving In Ireland

Try buttering toast with a tulip
on horseback.  Skittish nag, twisted chaps,
flogging a slice, reins in your teeth,
waving a battered Black Parrot  
heading a slow parade.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
the "abstract" fun of drinking wine
from a bottle on the day
you find out your mother is a pain-killer
******...
a: near-death experience of...
flashing... memory cinema...
   of every single time you experienced
love at first sight...
and you know the cast.... by names...
the "abstract" fun of drinking wine
from a bottle on the day you
decided: drinking is becoming boring...
literally: you have drinken so much that...
what the drunk you said of sober
you: said of sober per se...
now the sober you is saying of the drinking
you that the drunk: of you...
  the moral hangover is a *****...
i don't want to feel sorry for...
   something that's not akin to drink-driving...
but i am...
but i am... drinking some wine from
a bottle...
after all... that tally-game of:
             100cl of whiskey...
                divided by 3: divided by ||
                                                             ||
                                                             ||
                                                             ||
  and sometimes over-stepping the division...
all wonky...  
                               ||||||||/|||...

eh... drinking beer from a bottle...
no head... beer... glass... afro... head...
beer... glass... afro... head: albino afro...
better than bleached afro... head...

  a totally different experience when drinking...
wine from a bottle...
but... it's not a red... and it's not a white...
it's a rouge... a... rho-z\y...
  ****... it's a... rosé...
                                 4am and sitting up so late...
that was... fun... when...
i still had... all the love for writing in me...

but the funz not there...
anymore...
    porphyria... no syphilis...
                paraphernalia: chiromancer...
necromancer... and that lost one...
pyrotechnic... fire-reader...
   or no other alternative...
the electrician...
                      chequers with fuses...
in the plugs... sir...
   before one... throws away...
                      a perfectly good appliance...

there were two variations of a sentence...
but then... the sentence became too long...
the original...
   the "abtract" fun of drinking wine from a bottle...
vs.
the abstract "fun" of drinking wine from a bottle...
and: drinking wine...
  also... drinking wine...
                   from a bottle...
not smoking a cigarette for a whole
day... i say... cigarettes go best with wine!
drinking wine from a bottle...
a welcome break from drinking that sort
of knock-out bourbon...
invested in purpose: wait and hour...

oh the heavy "stuff" doesn't kick in...
so early on... it's no fun...
not enough... sugar...
             it's no fun... clearly none...
    s. beckett's watt contra... anything by dr. seuss...
anyday... that sparring...
        i'll bet on that... too!
rhyme rhyme rhyme: confined to rhyme?
   rhyme is best guised by an importune surrender
of chance...
a champagne: a discovery of champagne...
not that... repeated...
hammering of a horse's head against
a wall because: it has a grain of sand
lodged in it...
      a rhyme by no surrender...
by chance... a rhyme by no caging...
   this pretty pretty pretty sore-spot
of.... buttering the exit... for a thorny sort...
sort of "soul"...
   the joy of drinking wine from
a bottle... the need for a glass...
    when drinking beer... for the head: froth...
crown... head: afro: froth... head...
all the joys of drinking wine from
a bottle.

— The End —