"carling" poems
In pubs with bar flies.
Kronenburg, Becks, Carling, Stella Artois and Fosters,
Dancing in our blood,
Utterly inured; we are endured by all:
The solipsism most profound.
And when Johnnie, Jack and Jameson join,
The sentimental and the morbid
Are conjoined.
And ****
In the custody of beer halls,
The shadows that draw, fade,
And calls – e’en Death’s! -- are put on hold!
No time; instead, before the last, another pint.
For in this hallowed inn,
Drinking what’s in the glass,
And espousing the glow within,
Cares regress.
No woes,
Or loaded psyches,
For when the pressure builds,
The best: a jet of yellow bliss,
Relieves the pain,
On Armitage Shanks' porcelain.
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 6:50 PM UTC
There was a man from Darling*
Who stole a case of Carling ~
He drank it all up
In a small plastic cup
And then was led away, snarling.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 6:36 AM UTC
I think about the
word alone
Not really feeling alone
but being alone
It’s like the fear of death
just slowly carling up your neck
It impossible to escape
the darkness that it makes
I wonder if happiness is a thing
for people like me
Cause I don’t stop think about
the indispensable thing
That’s a constant ring like
birds in bight morning
Apr 13, 2021
Apr 13, 2021 at 9:34 AM UTC