"cognac" poems
Trapped in this madness,
This thing called love.
Addicted 2 the sadness
now my brains on drugs.
In the eyez of a savage,
tear stains turned blood
Now torn is my status,
**** the pain with the blunts &.....
Hennessy
Is the proper remedy
For dealing with misery
Killin it with the trees
Blowing it in the air
Wishin she still here
But life is not fair
She’s acting like she don’t care
I’m a man baby girl, we make mistakes
Sexing with other women but they can’t take ur place
Something brown between my fingers and a bottle in my other palm
Now she gone, and me I’m tryna move on
Wishing.... that she was still seeing me
Wondering..... what did she ever see in me?
Tell me love, please you owe me that
Now I’m sitting her with the **** and the cognac
So I got a blunt in my right hand
And I got this drink in my left hand
And I’m just
Drinking
Smoking
Drinking
Smoking
Tryna get you out my head
And it hurts me more when I see
That you’re happier without me
So I’m
Drinking
Smoking
Drinking
Smoking
Tryna get you out my head
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 6:26 PM UTC
amidst Jeffersonian opulence
the Prez broke bread with his
GOP poker face friends
to solve government gridlock
and sequester predicament trends
citizens of the republic
hopeful for nonsense to cease
sat at the table asking
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
Obama perused the wine list
boldly choosing a luscious Merlot
senators ordered the finest hors d'oeuvres
the guests were all aglow
numerous delectable dishes
were liberally splayed on the table
revelers sipped flowing vintages
wine a surefire icebreaker
sparkling crystal Lennox flutes
tinkled with convivial release
while America’s disenfranchised
voices ask
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
chutney meat, curried hens and
sweet walnut rainbow trout
the table a horn a plenty
the guests gorged on fine cuisine
a blessed nations bounty
the feast consumed
the Senators sated
said it was some
of the finest ever served
but the taxpayers only
got a peak of the banquet
a whiff of senators nerve
and asked
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
the dessert cart was rolled in
with custards, cakes, creme brulee
cordials, cognac and VSOP tastes
rounded out the wholesome feast
when the check was presented
for payment all guests headed
for the door with haste
they told the waiter the bill of fare
was covered
by the guy asking...
“would you pass
the biscuits please?”
Music Selection:
Andre Williams:
Pass The Biscuits Please
jbm
Oakland
3/7/13
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
Monet was painting up my vision
while the droves were driven out.
We stepped out to the derision
of a tenor waterspout.
The town outside is dancing
in the ruddy neon hues
and I’m ****** whilst Amsterdam-ing
by the slam-dunk cognac blues.
And a cap was shaking coppers
in an out cove by the way,
where instruments and owners
had begun to play.
The bar stools are all swaying
whilst the festival ensues,
and I’m ****** whilst Amsterdam-ing
by the slam-dunk cognac blues.
With the rhythm of the rimjhim
and the stamping our feet
we sing our drunken-whim hymn
whilst we stagger down the street.
And we had sunken five; still sinking
Im strung out, slammed, and stinking
Four sheets to the wind and freaking
about what I had to lose.
so that’s when I got to thinking
had an inkling to the linking
between my errant drinking
and the slam-dunk cognac blues…
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 6:37 PM UTC
A true story of a chance gathering of strangers in the back room of a Gelato Parlor *** restaurant, two years ago, in a little village near the bay, on a land surrounded by vineyards. Come visit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gelato Nation
There is a place,
location secret,
mine to keep,
mine with which
you to tease,
make you envious,
a back room 'office'
jealous guarded
by a barkeep,
whose chosen invites sweeps
you into a reality that is
what you will it to be.
But nota bene, note well,
remembrances of things swell
from your past be the
only tongue spoken here.
Code word entry only,
a shared whisper.
Perhaps One Woman,
may reveal its pleasures,
if she so chooses,
which are:
gelato laughs, poetry snaps,
Beatle songs sung ensemble,
by rag tag strangers
self-collected accidentally,
sung de rigeur off key
by voices lubricated by
cognac, laughter, and
the coldest of white wines,
issue of the very soil
upon which we sit.
Words to value properly,
not in my possess to capture
the few moments in time when;
Strangers transform themselves
into a triple A nation united,
that will never be
S&P; downgraded.
A holy alliance
celebrating July 4th
all night long,
all participants
signatory witnesses to
its gelato conception,
as well as pallbearers
to its last drink dissolution,
the fullness of its lifetime
a vintage of a few hours extant,
a vintage, once drunk, is
a history, forever gone.
Mixologists please record:
One playwright, a psychologist, bond trader and a social scientist
with a dash of museum director,
and do not forget the
Hundred Year Old Woman,
whose Dowager Princess Daughter
(she, a mere eighty)'
from Central Park West
clarifies all of life dilemmas with
the singular analytical tool of:
But is it good for the Jews?
**But t'is the barkeep
who is the leavening
in this evenings human
pastry-petrie dish.**
He makes the pastiche,
the ions of personalities,
coalesce best,
guitar strummer,
singer of songs that were our
multiple national anthems
when we were pseudo-rebels
starting out on our
long and winding roads.
Long the King of the Keep!
Long live the memory of our
Gelato Nation,
may it stay sweet in
our antique collection of
the best moments of
our intersecting lives.
July 2011
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 6:00 PM UTC
Welcome to my home, oh won't you come in?
Allow me to show you around, would you care for a drink?
Tell me your poison, maybe a highball of gin?
I keep it in the kitchen with the coffeepot by the sink,
or maybe you'd prefer a tumbler of crown?
Whiskey is right in the foyer by the doorstop,
there's nothing like a nip right before I bounce.
And if it's wine you crave, it's in the living room atop
the tube television beside the VCR in it's place.
But if you've a tongue for peach schnapps
then make your way to the crawl space.
Whilst your up there I say, would you do me a fave?
Look in the attic for the bourbon, it's beside my baby pictures,
and bring it down for me. I'm sure that I saved
some from the last time I was up there alone with self-stricture.
Oh you don't care for bourbon, then maybe some brandy?
The cognac is somewhere down the basement,
but ignore the rope and the candies.
You're unsettled you say? Then rum's how to spend
drinking the night away with me in the den.
OH! Just send a beer your way?! you should've just said!
A six-pack's in the bathroom, right next to the head.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
There came quiet
the colors of your cinnamon skin,
its taste, persimmon
spread in red syllables
and quicksilver spills
in the folds of this tickled silence,
Laden with prophesy
the white thought of love
leaps through the tamarack pastures,
suet to the shadows of dahlias, flesh
you say, is water
and its symmetry, a penetrating
sound of pure ebullience,
Love, in the pale baton of light
you coax from cognac eyes,
open my veins to every thorn in the garden,
rumors of rain,
say nothing and endure,
Spread over panes of glass
where butterflies drown
in the sweat of our charms
and moths drop from the true color of lunacy,
cold depths lapse softly into my flesh,
I hurt, in that quiet shatter of light,
and from moth-eaten thighs
you soak the ****** of earth
with velvet tears and lavender,
spread its dark balsam to quell the quick faith
with sighs, as reluctantly,
the soul speaks what the body has written,
and gives-in to its asylum....
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC
Ingredients for 6-8 people
• 4 egg whites
• 2 egg yolks
• 100 g (1/2 cup) of sugar or 5 tablespoons of fruit sugar (alter to your own preference)
• 500 g (2 1/2 cups) of mascarpone cheese
• 4 small coffee cups of espresso coffee
• marsala wine (or brandy or cognac)
• 400 g of savoiardi or lady fingers (sponge cake fingers)
• dark chocolate powder
Preparation
1. Make espresso coffee, sweeten, and add the marsala wine (or cognac) to it. Let it cool a bit.
2. Separate the egg yolks and the whites of two eggs in two bowls.
3. Beat sugar into the egg yolks.
4. Beat the mascarpone into the sweetened yolks.
5. Add two more egg whites to the other two and whisk until they form stiff peaks.
6. Fold gently egg whites into mascarpone mixture.
7. Quickly dip both sides of the ladyfingers in the espresso mixture.
8. Layer soaked ladyfingers and mascarpone in a large bowl or pan (start with fingers, finish with mascarpone).
9. Sprinkle dark chocolate powder on top.
10. Refrigerate for one hour.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC
six-inch heels abandoned
in lampless corner grimy pennies embedded in carpet
rent's due
wedding band girl "fab polka dot frocks"
waterfalling past knees outta place
on casino bus destined for rest under Ft. Worth stars
now, now ********* borealis speckled dice
true love waits
socialite lip balm and bourgeoisie hips compete
in bidding war over which black face triggerpulls
which black face eyes the ground
passerby the red light the green light
all night diner egg on chin coffee-stained porcelain teeth
"I forgave, I think. I forget."
crowded and paranoid in the left lane the right lane
empty and weak and surrender and soiled underwear in ammonia nursing home
children is a word time is a lie the polka dot and the interstate ain't selling
divorce the consequence of acoustic shadows
reblog undo #sotrue reblog
living through x-ray radiotherapy the dotted gown
never the veiny calves or the blush or the eyeliner
somewhere in North Texas shawtys are in the club
shawtys are backin' it up shawtys are dropin' it down
hit me+hit me+hit me=blackjack mishap
the marvel of the wind and of wind turbines
cognac decade brides the epitome of class and natural elegance
standing like oil derricks and treated like oil wells
so secretive and philanthropic
this taxon remains nameless
casino turned dance hall dance hall skinny ties still a thing
this wine is good. is it a merlot? no. this is purely recreational
for birthdays for weddings and Ft. Worth missionaries
10-50 passengers we've got 53, no 54 #hahahaha #whoops #party
who needs unprescribed drugs? me, me (!)
decomposing mascara sweat on brow the interstate no longer lit
polka dots has got the suicide by Manet pulled up
on her iPhone the financial stress which shudders warm-blooded moms
on her lips every mother a librarian every mother a swing-pusher
but digression next to bitterness the lowest sin
edging the cultural gateway of the old west
miracles in and miracles out of tradition following
the slender bends of middle ancient Trinity River
children a word pattycake a game
and time time a lie we left to museum panoramas
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
Laying on top of gold tiled floors
in a black bathing suit with gold painted nails
wearing her baby's rolex
smoking her baby's gold tipped cigarettes
smelling like dark cognac
Dark cognac from a wide shallow glass,
Vintage ***** 20's ****
here in the middle of the
middle of the night,
offering her baby a warm lavender bath,
warm silk sheets and torso.
Maybe he'll give her that bag of money.
She'll sit in front of the stock exchange building
and buy a better life.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 8:29 PM UTC
new wave thoughts
about me
no more writing
about love
for other people
12:41 and no more
writing about
all the ways my girlfriend
can't love me the
way i love her
before our time
little white men sold
her mind away
cerulean boat trips
from the promise
of emotional security
into the land of
avoidant attachment and
rich dreams of
comfort before falling
and living but
not feeling
everything
how the **** do you
live if you don't feel everything?
i feel the beginning like
18 years of virginity
and broken starts
almost a lots and
never anythings
the middle like
sifting through
oppression and finding
the ******** and the love
intertwined like rice
in braided hair and
messages in old hymns
breaking bread like
whisper-talking through
the bad times
going down on
you parting
your red sea
like moses in heat
your breaths unfolding
like the duality of
old ***** spirtuals
and the interpretation of
dreams
the end like loving you
being nothing of a
choice
born into a
system where black
love isn't enough
i bleed cognac for
you
when midnight
isn't dark enough
to capture
your mind before
it's capture
all the beautiful things
before 12:41 you
left back
in the motherland
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 1:48 AM UTC
The bank account overdrawn,
the west coast -- naked, easy --
passenger seat and head resting on cold glass,
seeing the pines turn to ash to evergreen to redwoods to sand.
I bit her ear and asked for her name,
in Before George's sanctuary,
blush, blushing -- finger to lips hushing,
drinking cognac and speaking in flaming coal
I saw the clouds behind the night sky,
I saw Jesus teach himself to fly,
and I hallelujah'd and amen'd and carried
her to the shore, Samantha, she said,
bulging mind,
anorexic action,
I bit her ear and asked her room number,
in the ocean's frontline,
hush, hushing -- backs of hands and blushing,
drinking cognac and speaking in simmering oil
I saw the night behind the clouded sky,
I saw a fly transfigure into Jesus,
and I hallelujah'd and amen'd and frayed
the remnants of grassroot and buttercup,
drunk high tide,
sober dry iced,
The bank account cleared its throat,
"Room 210 and I'd like a ***** and coke."
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 2:45 AM UTC
The air smells like you
Like a bottle of givenchy
Cologne, except brand new.
Like the thought of me and you,
The thought of something actually being true.
I think back on that afternoon
Where we downed that whole
Bottle of cognac.
When you said the three words,
Your pronunciation so exact.
You saw all of me that day
And I admired all of your
Charismatic ways.
The lights were kept off
And I took in every bit of your
Neatly kept loft.
You'd said that I was the only
Girl you brought to your home
And for the first time,
I didn't feel alone.
And I remember all of what you said,
Every syllable, every vowel I clung on to,
Cause I always think back on that afternoon,
Praying that for the first time
What we have is actually true.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 12:46 PM UTC
I've been going right on, page by page,
since we last kissed, two long dolls in a cage,
two hunger-mongers throwing a myth in and out,
double-crossing out lives with doubt,
leaving us separate now, fogy with rage.
But then I've told my readers what I think
and scrubbed out the remainder with my shrink,
have placed my bones in a jar as if possessed,
have pasted a black wing over my left breast,
have washed the white out of the moon at my sink,
have eaten The Cross, have digested its lore,
indeed, have loved that eggless man once more,
have placed my own head in the kettle because
in the end death won't settle for my hypochondrias,
because this errand we're on goes to one store.
That shopkeeper may put up barricades,
and he may advertise cognac and razor blades,
he may let you dally at Nice or the Tuileries,
he may let the state of our bowels have ascendancy,
he may let such as we flaunt our escapades,
swallow down our portion of whisky and dex,
salvage the day with some soup or some ***
juggle our teabags as we inch down the hall,
let the blood out of our fires with phenobarbital,
lick the headlines for Starkweathers and Specks,
let us be folk of the literary set,
let us deceive with words the critics regret,
let us dog down the streets for each invitation,
typing out our lives like a Singer sewing sublimation,
letting our delicate bottoms settle and yet
they were spanked alive by some doctor of folly,
given a horn or a dish to get by with, by golly,
exploding with blood in this errand called life,
dumb with snow and elbows, rubber man, a mother wife,
tongues to waggle out of the words, mistletoe and holly,
tables to place our stones on, decades of disguises,
wntil the shopkeeper plants his boot in our eyes,
and unties our bone and is finished with the case,
and turns to the next customer, forgetting our face
or how we knelt at the yellow bulb with sighs
like moth wings for a short while in a small place.
2k
We sat cozily on the couch listening to Miles Davis
She, curled up with a glass of Chardonnay, me, a warmed brandy snifter
It seemed an eternity since we made time for each other like this
We enjoyed our home in silence, absent our attention grabbing offspring at Grandma's.
I savored the scent of her lavender infused body snuggled in my arms
Her beautiful brown eyes reflected flickered light
The candles we transplanted from our earlier bath, burned slowly
And "Kind of Blue" transported us as we held each other.
"May I have a sip of your brandy?" she asked coyly with a smile on her face
"Of course," I handed her my glass
"Not from your glass," her smile turned into a mischievous grin
The vanilla and oak from the brandy permeated the air above the gulp I took into my mouth.
My heart rate increased, my eyes closed, and our smiles met pressed together; Heaven is real...
Her lips parted, she pulled the brandy from me along with my tongue that now danced with hers
The fire of the brandy that left my mouth warm, now slid down her neck in one smooth swallow
We took great care in kissing each other, sensuously, passionately, time stood still, for us.
Luxuriating in this kiss, a tear fell from her eye, met only with the tears that fell from mine
As our mind's eye recalled the love we have endured over these adventurous years together
Brandywine never tasted this divine as from the lips of my beautiful lover
Lightheaded, more so from her than from the alcohol, I smiled and held her closer to me.
"I Love you Husband!"
"I Love you more Wife!"
-----ChawzzyScript
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
roaring fiery flames
fill the empty void
inviting colors of ambers and golds ablaze
the room animates
different atmospheres of coziness
sitting back in retrospection
flickering fire entertains
with each crackling octave
creating peacefulness and calm.
whilst the flames aglow
playing Chopin
sipping cognac
burning scented candle of pine and rosemary
watching the felines and canine
congregating together harmoniously
mesmerized by flames
coruscating shadows on the walls
flames succumb catatonically
embers retire for the night.~~lorilynn
copyright*lorilynn 2010
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 6:23 AM UTC
Your name is like champagne
Bubbly crisp refreshing
Your body is like red wine
Cabernet.. a few more glasses closer to numbing my pain
Your voice is like brandy
Cognac... a few more sips to settle in an alternate universe
Your kiss is like Tennessee honey
Whiskey.. a few more shots to keep the branch of thorns tight around my frail heart
Your soul is like smirnoff
***** wild and ice cold
You are exotic eccentric exciting
And I am nothing more than a cheap beer from a ****** bar.. hanging from a chain tied to your rist... along for the wrong ride
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 4:23 AM UTC
I like a bowl of collards
You like brussel sprouts
You have a taste for cognac
Jim Beam just knocks me out
You went to that big college
I flunked the seventh grade
We ain't got much in common
Till we pull down the shades
CHORUS:
THE ATTRACTION OVERCOMES THE WALLS BETWEEN US
TO UNDERSTAND OUR BOND WON'T TAKE A GENIUS
OUR LIVES ARE CONTRADICTIONS
BUT THE FUN OUTWEIGHS THE FRICTION
THE ATTRACTION OVERCOMES THE WALLS BETWEEN US
In our healthy love-hate thang
Sometimes hell breaks loose
But when the big moon rises
We wave a flag of truce
Our fussing's just a pastime
Between the mountain peaks
But by evening time we tangle
And the making up is sweet
CHORUS
BRIDGE: It's natural to differ
But the difference ain't too big
We meet right in the middle
When it's time to build a bridge
CHORUS
Sep 7, 2011
Sep 7, 2011 at 10:59 PM UTC
I said that I would black your boots when,
in reality,
I would do so much more.
When I say the things I do.
the terrible words that I see douse the lights in your eyes,
I cannot help it.
They flow from my mouth like wine from a bottle,
a bitter cognac into a cup,
and though your flame should sometimes be fostered by the alcohol,
at times it is too much.
For that, I apologize.
I would be better for you.
I would fight your battles,
be the brunt of every joke,
be the example of those who do not care,
take any punch your enemies might throw.
I would believe.
I would feel passion enough to believe in something.
I believe in nothing,
but
I believe in you.
In your light and darkness,
in your speech and silence,
in your disbelief in me.
I said that I would black your boots when,
in reality,
I would die for you.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 11:50 AM UTC
If misery was a gift
she had Christmas every day.
Her clouds had clouds
and she traded the silver linings
for an overstock of black mold.
She once had been happy,
but peace never challenged her
the way chaos did.
Now, the only thing she loves
is tending her garden of discontent
with **** rakes and spades
for 50 shades of defeat.
If she achieved every goal on her checklist
she kept Einstein’s,
Hawking’s,
and Jesus Christ’s in her pocket
to remind her of the insufficiencies.
She complains that she has no friends
and assures it
with a magnifying glass of faults.
The profile for her perfect man
is rigid. So rigid
that even God didn’t qualify.
If she found a glass half-full
she’d grumble that it wasn’t Cognac Champagne.
She has long since forgotten
the important thing -
the power of light.
For light heals
light brings hope
light always dispels darkness
unless YOU become an eclipse
between it and the world.
[VERSION 2.0]
SHE FORGOT
If misery was a gift
she had Christmas every day.
Paper and bows
she’d wrapped herself,
hand signed cards
To: Me, From: Me
every box opened
then rewrapped
and opened again
with tattered Scotch-tape scars
unsalvageable
like the excitement of a child
who found her hidden presents
in the closet 10 days
before Santa would come.
And clouds! How did you know!?
Gray, snowless,
pointless holidays
hopelessdays
all her days.
Her clouds had clouds
and she had traded the silver linings
for black mold.
They always fit her just right.
She once had been happy
but peace never challenged her
the way chaos did.
So she labors passionately in
a garden of discontent
nurtured year-‘round
but always growing winter
watering resentment and acrimony
with bitterness,
drawn from a barrel full
of moldy cloud rain.
Regardless of what she might achieve
she reminds herself
of others doing more
comparing checklists with Jesus Christ’s.
If she had fed the 5000,
she would still be
lacking the crucifixion.
You see, nothing grows
by accident in a well-kept
garden
including withered friends whom
she weeds, though beautiful
assuring they will never be more.
Those she doesn't pluck, she bakes
under her magnifying glass of faults.
She knows nothing of content
whether love, or God,
or a half-goblet of possibility.
If she found a glass half-full
she’d grumble that it wasn’t Cognac Champagne.
She has long since forgotten
the important thing –
the power of light.
How it heals and grows
hopeful sprouts, green
through struggling soil.
Light always dispels darkness
unless YOU become an eclipse
between it and the world.
When you cast your own
shadow
it’s easy to forget
the way flowers
grow back on their own
every spring
the way the clouds
sometimes break
unexpectedly.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 1:37 AM UTC
.
Most of the violence, and that such as he is in the Senate,
The prince wounding thousands, you have to help the helpers
and leaders; I do not want to go down; I do not know
what you are doing, The first server design uses a classic
program and she shows her sports bra - on the Sky Cam and gets a pair of free 3D
x-ray glasses,
Of brandy and white wine from the radio station to a wedding
Weddings are, and not before.
No trading, financial world. Of all the words
The reason why those,
who did not do this, that I may know I can
read the book to know how to administer treatment to
The Wall Street markets, for with thee, I will purchase other
The application will be podcasts, but also superb.
Radio and I shall not find a place for.
to worry about. And the best way to work on that.
Glasses, a robot face.
it is. 1, as John Rose after warning
Atọjade was from England, | Paul was
He moves those, it cannot be that there
are no radio waves. radio
Wedding wedding Cheer
An old man, wish to remain in the water
of the room. if we keep
I do not think we love each other.
Out of four miles he wants to get her for me; I do not know what
First, he planned to meet Temperance
When [ysbryd] appeared, | they and all the games in the program.
Cognac-colored glasses and allowed to sit in the box. for;
the radio and the wedding ceremony
One of the adults, it is said that it is not a piece of wood.
If we take care of the child and the mainstream trafficking
All the words that you know. As part of the book reads
A new way to Wall Street
Fish poisoning complaints, which is also Dutch
Big J Ray
housing; Providing a file's variations.
And a stack of channels, and the best of the best
More, and the other is not. Other applications
Best to be on the radio, and they are most suited.
Where you can also find your location color
The glass on the left hand strongly
that's the best way to a work a gram:
According to John Rose and the beautiful woman
Web England, San Pablo flies.
With the radio waves on
The radio side of the water.
|
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 3:06 AM UTC
30 years of this and that
tea with cream and sugah please
the dress has changed
the color soft, the
panther walk returns
butchered biscuits sweet jam too
cautious crouch she roams the room
sitting perched a chatty chair
his cage lair fare
framing faces firelight
white glove distance dynamite
sippin heated cognac tea
they just gotta believe
speechless curtains cooling flames
she's easing into her humanity
dust drawn ellipsis sputter crack
his arm he almost reaches out
his meteorific muse starlight shade
conceptual covers commence
subtle surprise he's sittin sidetracked
his design devised, his
pipe dream purring panther
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
Sometimes it’s hors d'âge
cognac
in neat round crystal,
pinned back and
twisted perfectly
to complement
this uniform.
But he prefers it as
amber lager,
spilling over in rich
loose curls,
filling him up
and making him
tipsy.
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 8:38 PM UTC
impassioned fascists lash facts
together working to bash
brash young activists
envisioning a lasting planet
****** Janet
congress loves the Jews
and the blues of today
means we’ve all flown
over nests impressed
with obese flying flesh..
resting festival goers flow
over Bohemian Grove
with row boats toting
goat cheese
and if it please the court
I will bring back Bermuda Shorts
and with elegant reports on contortionist’s
abortion risks and whisk farm fresh eggs
with Barbie Doll legs in May
under the sway of a fine cognac
Black light heart attack on the first night
after the fourth Blood Moon
bring gloom to the tomb of the unknown
soldier, whose older brother
drank Folders crystals whilst *******
about the listless whisperers
still recklessly wishing for some
environmental recognition or maybe
a shift in the disposition
towards deep sea net fishing
and phishing scammers flooding servers
in service of the undeserving
reservationists……..
native brethren living together in
harmonious balance
with the nature around us
astounds me
and if’n we could only see
that, peacefully
we could be free….
is it only a dream to me
as if Frank and I
were going home,
together –
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC