"corks" poems
Marry me.
One day.
Keep me .
Captive.
No one else.
Can abduct me like you.
You embrace my faults.
You love my corks.
What is it like?
Too be loved this much?
When your inside
Can you feel it?
The longing for everything
All of you
Forever?
Are you scared?
I am.......
But its the type of horror that keeps you at the edge of your seat.
When your heart keeps beating at a rapid pace
And your palms stay moist
No matter how many times you wipe them
But you dont care because you'd rather have swetty palms
Than no one to hold at all
God its the fire that burns
behind your eyelids
Scorching hot
Just one look
Its the effortless
conversations that last until dusk
Until you both are slowly dozing off only too dream about eachother
So scary
That one moment
Your worried all this stuf just a bunch of ********
But then someone comes and changes everything
You don't care about those meaningless things that once seemed so important to you
They seem so tiny and insegnificant
Your the only thing I want to care about anymore...
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 4:10 PM UTC
THE FUN AT EASTER
i feel that easter is the best time of year,
you see we give eggs to all the kiddies
and we play easter egg finding games
and don’t forget Mr Chickadee will run right up
and catch 15 easter eggs and 27 chicken baskets
with a lot of syrup inside it
yeah, what about the chocolate
it is so tasty, as, i love it, you love it, we can all love it, woo
let’s party, let’s party, pop a few champagne corks
and when we finish we throw the bottle on the ground, glass shatters
and the people yell out a big ****
It’s hard to understand why do people eat chocolate at easter
i don’t understand why people suffer with weight gain at easter
i understand that easter is the most desirable time of the whole calendar year
hop hop goes the bunny
hop hop goes the bunny
yeah, mr bunny goes hop
hop hop goes the bunny
yeah mr bunny
the mighty bunny goes hop
you see there are so many people
who wish each other a very happy easter, ****** hell
happy easter from the bunny
the bunny is extremely funny
ha ha ha, the mighty easter bunny is funny
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 5:18 AM UTC
They chase them down
through field and town
intending then to eat em'
with plastic forks
and champagne corks
they wallop and they beat em'
They chase by day
and most the night
though I can't understand em'
through thistle grass
and snowy pass
with knives they roughly brand em'
With Caber tossed
and y-fronts lost
these skirted men assault em'
big burly men
with beards yer ken
you really cannot fault em'
With claymore sharp
and Scottish harp
they catch and set to roast em'
with whiskey ryes
And blood shot eyes
these hunters fair do toast em'
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 6:19 AM UTC
Her figure, a fruit salad: little corks and knobs
jellyroll thighs and a smooth muffin top
unripe blueberries decorated here and there –
I would wrap my arms around her like a basket
protected from bruising or peaches robbed:
the perfect sphere unpeeled, pink honey bared.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
Before you came,
the lighthouse.
Aging, silently,
saw it blink
as if it knew me,
was stalking me,
a tiny inflamed eye.
Reds popped as corks,
smudge of blood
on a north-eastern
summer sky.
And then,
in a second
as quick as a pulse
on a wrist,
a flick to white,
a shard of champagne
light latched
upon my attention.
Back to red.
And back again.
Two colours breathing in,
blowing out,
calling you.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
Races run
Medals won
Now before you go back across the sea
May I ask if you'll take some time
And come with me...
Let me say what's on my mind,
I find it hard to be too subtle
The sight of all that muscle
Turns my head I find...
I'm really thinking legacy
Specifically from you and me
I'm so glad we have connected
Could we perhaps play catch-up on the bits neglected...
We could take it nice and slow
Pop some corks, lights down low
Then dive into the midnight pool
Stir some genes around
Hell really, what's a girl to do
When her ideal partner's found?
I have this ticking bio clock
So will you fire me off the starting block?
This is what we could do-
Make olympic champion 2032
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 4:11 PM UTC
money is sacred to me—
because i never had it.
we borrowed bread
from neighbours
at the end of the month,
waited for donations,
and watched my father
settle his debts
to bar owners
instead of us.
i learnt to sit small
in the corner
with peach juice,
while he ordered
beer and pálinka.
he kept bottles in the pantry,
pretending we couldn’t hear
the corks easing free.
when i left,
i carried eighty pounds
in my pocket,
with a luggage filled with air,
a week’s worth of clothes,
a soft blanket, no duvet.
but a hunger for something
i couldn’t yet name.
it was freedom.
never money.
now, that it’s mine,
it does nothing to me.
it bends, but doesn’t hurt.
i saved, built with it,
learnt to breathe
on my terms.
it comes, and leaves
when it wants.
and that, to me,
is wealth enough.
Aug 31, 2025
Aug 31, 2025 at 6:52 AM UTC
Dos cervezas por favor in De K’ffe,
Cold bite of the first beer refreshes.
Una mas and workday fades to dull,
The night feels bright and hopeful,
The Palitos de pollo satisfies hunger.
Conversation flows to Cepas de Altura,
Three bottles later the stories repeat,
Groundhog day of interesting lives,
With eternal friendship in every bottle.
Six corks line up like truth bullets,
In an aggression of arguments,
Maybe he has just said too much,
Friendship of an unremembered hug,
Next day sorry and failings forgotten.
Dec 29, 2010
Dec 29, 2010 at 9:24 AM UTC
Above clouds that hide the earth
from the stars: slowly the receding city
breaking up into plots, dotted around
patches of green and winding rivulets:
that distant fire slicing through mists
this winter morning like a lamp lighted
to the skies; Thoughts emerging from
receding memories, reversed numbers
of the tailgating truck's plate on my mirror
that misty morning, receding skyline
riding into the frost in many shades
of grey cast on the car speeding past;
Giant eye of the fair: the same phantasm
emerging, enlarging, dimming, receding;
Hall of dreams in a castle of darkness:
waves of events playing out again and
in smoke and shadows amid resounding
chambers, a costume and a drama, a role
you reprise again, dreamed of your past,
approaching and receding, breaking
everything, my heart; that wanton night;
The fair is up, one broken slipper of a pair,
half-buried cup, corks, shimmering
trinkets, withered roses, pecking birds,
circling again and again; that distant fire
dimmed into the clouds, all now smoken
moss-pale around; We take off now.
Welcome to your flight to never-land
this morning, we serve you breakfast
and hot tea. Inverted numbers playing
in my head, some approaching deadline.
Net, 10 I tell myself, enin, thgie...eno..eno..
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 6:31 AM UTC
It is so very dark in the ark.
Forgive me Lord for I am afraid.
This lack of light has begun to burn
and I am suffocating, crushed
between pineapples and pigs.
Forty days and the flasks are all empty,
I drank every last drop of your blood.
Forgive me, for I was hungry and afraid.
Your Word was no longer enough.
Such stench and sway.
Such darkness, water and sick.
You promised me rainbows, white doves
and a rose bush when I die.
Bring pails and pliers, you said.
Gather corks, crayons, and screws.
Unwind the rhyme, you said.
Listen carefully: live.
But I am no sage.
I know nothing of verse,
even less of curses.
So I built it
and waited for wind.
You told me that I was your chosen.
That I was to carry the wine.
I believed you.
I should have eaten the pigs.
They're beginning to rot.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 8:46 AM UTC
GOD THE DEVIL AND BOB at easter
today it’s good friday and bob delahunty was going to church to have a
hot cross bun feast, and a hungry poor buddhist was going into the church
and asked bob, why do the christians like to eat over easter, what is it all about
and bob said, it’s a time where families, forget about their differences and share
a big celebration, with hot cross buns today after their service and then on easter
they will host family get togethers, where the kids are forced to hunt for eggs
that the parents hid in the garden, it is a very good day, and the buddhist man said
why can’t christians be nice to each other every day, like us buddhists ands bob said,
well, i guess your right, but life hands us problems to fix, like divorce and family quarrels
and battles that can’t be resolved, you see we are always away from loved ones and easter
is a way to keep updated on where our loved ones are, and then the buddhist asked bob
why can’t they scype every night and then bob said, buddy, no person really wants to do that,
actually, it is great to give families fun at easter, like sending kids on easter hunts, how radical dude
and have great hot cross bun morning teas, where we all can feast, yeah, if we did these things every day
we would get so fat, and kids will be so greedy, and we need every city in the land to pop
open the champagne corks, saying HAPPY EASTER DUDES, AND TO ALL A HAPPY FEASTING
you see easter if you add an f, could mean, the annual feaster, but we took the f away to make you feel great
and then the buddhist said, ok but what if you were fasting in a remote country and you had to knock
back the hot cross buns and easter eggs and bob said ok, yeah, if your fasting you must say no, i am on a diet
and the buddhist said, what if you went to a nightclub and got heavily ****** from vodkas and rums etc etc
and get too drunk on easter saturday, are you still expected to roll up to family get togethers on easter sunday
and bob said yes, then the buddhist said, how do you cope, HOW THE **** DO YOU COPE
this is how, you sing
god is the devil and the devil is grog
god is the devil and the devil is grog
god is the devil and the devil is grog
especially round easter time where drinking may send you back and forwards to the sink spewing
and the buddhist asked bob one thing, before he went to tiabet, he asked, is there really such thing as a devil
because every night i drink a whole bottle of wine by myself and bob said, well if the devil was grog i think
i am the devil, cause, grog is my cup of tea
and the buddhist went home and bob left saying this one word, misbehave, everyone who drinks grog misbehaves
and there is nothing wrong with that, bob said happy easter and went back to the devil’s hideout and the buddhist blessed him
saying, the devil, there is no such thing
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 6:11 AM UTC
twisted words turn into twisted people
as they run around trying to seem well
and when they're twisting themselves more and more;
and when they unwind, slowly and vapidly,
they all start to hit the floor.
the bottle slid down to the floor so long ago,
but you were the only one who were to ever know
the reason i'd twisted the truth so much into a lie;
the reason i'd twisted what you saw, languidly,
through your twisted eyes.
as we all fell out in our fallout shelters
our twisted lives all, in an instant, began to welter
to the corkscrew sound waves coming out now;
to the corkscrews and corks lying about, sadly,
because we were all gonna die here, someway, somehow.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 4:14 AM UTC
If love was blind,
we'd all stroll through life,
wearing rose tinted glasses,
faces worn from laughter lines.
We'd wear our hearts on our sleeves,
because there would be no need,
to keep barbed electric fences around
our fragile cores so they don't bleed.
There'd be a deficit of heartbreak,
No reason for our souls to ache
for the ugly monsters that rears their heads
as if it was the wrong decision to make.
Ignorance is bliss or so they say,
anger wouldn't seize control in the way
we lose our tempers like corks off champagne bottles
as love is blown away.
There would be no self destruct button,
we'd embrace the rancid parts of a person,
because what you can't see won't stain you
or strip love down to its origins leaving it rotten.
Yet I find love can be unconditional,
Battered,bruised and blunted
it can still flicker a flame in the embers
it defies all logical, an anomaly that's not rational.
When you feel this real tender love that is just kind,
whether its deserved there seems nothing that's enough,
to eradicate it's echo in the chambers of your heart.
A coin tossed wishful thought what if love was blind...
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 6:05 PM UTC
Sunny Side Up
Don’t despair
The rain’ll clear
The storm’ll
Change it’s coarse
Sunny days
Are on the way
So unstop
All the corks
Drink up life
With all your might
And don’t look
Back at you
You’ll never know
When you must go
So do all
You can do
By: Bill MacEachern
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 11:21 AM UTC
I want nothing more
Sea floors where we find the remnants of ancient merchants
Sunken while simply searching for profit
Soul entwined in sand and phosphorus
Body becoming whole with the glimpse of tomorrow
The marrow of my bones dwindling as light becomes food for my soul
I want nothing more that this
That I set my youthful mind on a distant star
And even time that ends will not keep me from reaching
Wine corks opened by delicate hands
Fingers that touch softly making me feel more
The warmth of my skin
The sound of my love in your beating heart
I want nothing more!
Nothing at all
Not a fistful of money and a palace to sleep in
Private jets and private islands
Where the air sings my name as I glide through her
And the sand on the beach wants me to lay beside her
I want nothing more
Than to be as beautiful as I am to you now
In my prime years of life, young, and eager hearted
Your visceral experience that taught me to dream
My dreams that spoke through the fog standing heavy in your soul
Your soul as a place my beauty alone reaches
I want
As simply said as the forgotten memories
The dead languages and foreign customs
The consumed today as garbage tomorrow
The son of the sun only rising knowing he will set
And be a glorious evening before all manner of darkness falls
I want only
That the beauty displayed by my face
In it's fresh form and grace
Is not
Could not
Would never be!
As beautiful to you
As my soul grown old
I want
That you will think me
As beautiful in my twilight
As I was
When I was young
That with each passing day
You love me more
I want
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 3:39 AM UTC
.
Wine, enchilada and pickle sauce,
corks and safeties,
just like The Penguin In *******
in Ronnie and Kenny's shed.
The Idiot ******* Son
sits eating the deadly Yellow Snow,
whilst Joe hums Zombie Woof
at the Poodle in his Garage.
Dinah-Moe Humm finally gets off;
in the Dangerous Kitchen,
with the Muffin Man's ***** Love,
and the Illinois Enema Bandit.
The Fine Girl and the Latex Solar Beef
bathed in The Blue Light,
shout 'Pick Me, I'm Clean',
along Inca Roads, to Find Her Finer.
Cosmik Debris exclaims Zoot Allures!
From the fat, floating, maroonish Sofa
because the Bow Tie Daddy
sings Nasal Retentive Calliope Music.
Yo Mama! there's the Disco Boy
who gets in More Trouble Every Day,
so The Torture Never Stops,
with Damp Ankles, Peaches & Regalia.
Sam With The Showing Scalp Flat Top
dances with Camarillo Brillo upstairs,
catching Stink-Foot once again,
like In France from the Valley Girl.
And so the Watermelon In Easter Hay
rides off with the Duke Of Prunes
to the Carolina ******** Ecstasy,
visiting Billy The Mountain, and Montana.
© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)
Frank Zappa
(21st December 1940 - 4th December 1993).
Musician, Diplomat and Lyricist.
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 4:43 PM UTC
Farewell, Santiago
The waves chortle in ripples; his boat
corks from side to side, slapping the surface
with a bone-bow and starving fingertips:
both have lost their names. But he
gurgle-speaks to the gull and whispers
ancient lore along the foam-crackled crest.
He’s hooded and hunched,
an old scalawag that never found home
anywhere that didn’t drift like him.
Sand doesn’t speak his language anymore.
But the interwoven arms of corals
can tell stories by the North Star,
times when he was agile and supple;
knee-deep in seaweed and the salt-burbled edge.
The night he slit his palm with a pocket knife
and offered life bounty to the tides
in brotherhood; one drop in,
many drops out over the years
and frayed nets, unfurled ropes.
The redemption of hope glistened in cobalt scales
and weighed at market like poison vials,
polluted inky clouds tarnishing
every coin—hardly worth the bloodletting.
Not anymore.
Dusk fans out orchid and orange blaze;
he yawns a welcome to the mako at last.
Sep 7, 2010
Sep 7, 2010 at 8:13 AM UTC
Corks of bottled pasts are popping,
Fury trains are slowing...
Stopping.
Recognise the ifs, the buts,
The wings, the ruts,
The shadows hopping.
Corks of bottled pasts are popping,
I'm a fury train and I need stopping.
Tinted blood,
Liver sopping,
Fetch a bucket,
It needs mopping.
Steam-rage bursts from veins and ears,
Peace erupts and all he hears?
"You've ****** me up for years and years,"
"For years and years and years and years!"
[Where is home?]
[Where is home?]
[Where is home?]
[Where is home?]
Not here,
So I'll destroy everything that you own.
"Restrain her!"
"Restrain her!"
Corks of bottled pasts are popping,
Fury trains are slowing...
Stopping.
Recognise the ifs, the buts,
The wings, the ruts,
The shadows hopping.
Boiling rows,
And dripping mouths,
And pools of vows
That now need mopping.
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 8:41 PM UTC
On the pavement littered with cigarette butts and desolate corks. The street lights flicked on and off as I traversed the path that leads me back to you.
The soles of my shoes cratered the lane as I trod along the alleyway that knows your name so well; on the bench nest disappointment and question, discussing what had happened; arguing what could have been. Around my legs hovers the hollow of my footfalls, trailing the breaths we have exhaled, the sweats we have perspired.
Perching on my hair were the shards of our glittering kisses. Faintly they flick, on and off, to the touch of the moon every time the light passed through the bar, or whenever the bar passed through me. Its silver glow sleeps and snores.
Empty alcohol bottles standing beside the bin reminds me of the hours we have exhausted, your jeans and our dreams stretched between you and me. I can vividly remember the sound of our uneven gasps fluttering around like restless butterflies. Sometimes, it perched on the wall, on the curtain, on the window.
Sometimes, on your hair. Sometimes, on mine. And sometimes on my hand flat on the door while the other fumbles for the key as the entrance slowly widen and summer steals me away from the world outside.
I tossed my shoes, balled up on the couch, dissolved among the creases on the blanket, consumed your smell then closed my eyes.
This dawn , I shall be meeting you.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC
I've been looking down the bottle for so long my eyes are corks
When I'm drinking liquid bread there isn't a need for forks
The only reason I'm here is because my father shot the stork
And my mother was wearing that white dress like it was her corpse
And their love sounded more like morse
Constant disconnect, hoarse
Things get a little ****** when you're having sangria dreams
When you're void of love, and you're falling asleep on mail you never opened, and bills you've got to pay, and pills you never want to take
And a pile full of your mistakes
You brush off, you shave, you work
Or you don't, and you sit in bed all day with guilty insides
And you open up another bottle of wine
And you think about love, mishaps and ***
But this time it doesn't hurt
Till that bottle of wine convinces you the pain is a flirt
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
An announcement, dear spoons, it has come to my attention,
That knives are in fact the superior invention,
They cut and they dice, and they bring us sliced bread,
While for spoons, I'm afraid there's not much to be said,
They're good for the stirring and sipping of soup,
They can help you eat anything; well, as long as its goop,
They can't even manage to show a proper reflection,
Try gazing at one, it upends your direction,
Oh spoons, you buffoons, you round-bellied fools,
Try slicing, not scooping, you inelegant tools,
Knives dress to **** while you spoons are such slouches,
And knives are quite charming; you lot are all grouches,
It's clear that knives are the superior race,
They'll put you dumb spoons back into your place,
At the bottom of the drawer, way down with the forks,
Alongside the can opener, and a screwer of corks,
You're the **** of the table, I despise your skullduggery,
That's why I declare knives the finest of cutlery.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 12:41 AM UTC
Your friends' new place is by the Red River;
You notice the wood signs hung on their wall:
Stencils with the first letters of their names
comprised of corks from bottles they emptied
and another--"Pasta and wine, good times".
When they talk, it’s about
parties with beer, wine, and ***** spilling
out of cups, down dresses onto the floor;
recalls of day-drinking
and smoking cigars on the balcony
in college and oh, just last-night’s partying
yes, at Jason’s wedding
reception in the Ramada ballroom.
Don’t forget the leprechaun loop of bars
downtown on St. Patrick’s.
or the party buses that bring you there;
the first stop will have a schooner waiting
with Long Island iced tea.
This talk of drinking makes you all hungry,
at Barbacoa you order tacos
and margaritas.
and think of ordering another round.
Another day, you drink pink lemonade
at Olive Garden and ask, How would it
taste in a cocktail?
At work, coworkers laugh off a hard day
and someone says, “I need a drink.”
And someone adds, “We all need drinks.”
At the bonfire on Saturday night,
someone laughs about the campus’s bikes
being thrown and found in the Elm Coulee
and another adds, “We like to drink here.”
Someone says, “That’s why I have a big cup.”
Who needs a bike anyway? They have cars.
Some of your friends drinking are driving home.
When the cup passes to you, you sip some.
The fire flickers and blows smoke that flies
into the wind over the rest of town,
over a river that can’t quench its thirst.
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 5:24 PM UTC
Waking up in mid morning.
Waiting for your beautiful words to cross my brain waves.
Wondering when I might be graced by your heart racing presents.
As the day goes by I think of you and smile.
I give my dearest to you.
I wait and watch the world pass me by and I wonder are you another passer by,
the man in the mask,
a looker,
a watcher
as well I surely don't know.
Nothing seems to matter in our world everything just floats around as we embrace.
At night I wonder if we'll spend nights together in the future.
Will you be my past and present
I won't ask for future I'll leave that with you.
I feel as if all my little corks and silly fears will never bother you
as if I could be perfect.
Beautiful to you plain to others.
I can wait forever to spend open time with you as long as it takes.
I'll sit on your corner. I always imagine my future not with others in it until you.
I could never hate you.
Love is all I have.
I stay awake dreaming of us.
Waking up in mid morning.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 12:15 PM UTC
You:
Text book Manic Pixie Dreamgirl, all blonde hair, blue eyes, and have you heard this song yet?
You call blood pomegranate sludge, and tattoo your toes with safety pins and spoiled ink.
Your freckles are corks, we understand, and your pain outweighs your grief.
You once found solace at the bottom of a bottle, now it lies crumpled in a lover's hand.
Bad kids! We were, but never bad enough for you.
Not twenty-five miles per hour, beer in hand, the sun is setting, we might not last till morning, but we'll go on driving anyway, bad.
You are cross-country dazzling, where-will-she-go-next? Paint brush lusting, vintage sweater.
You have spark plugs in your ears.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 10:42 PM UTC
My concoctions is dangerous.
They have no labels.
I cannot find the right words to sprawl on them
so people will understand.
The mixes are too complex.
The feelings
too real.
I bottle them up with corks and stack them high on a shelf where no one can reach,
but the shelf collapsed.
My jars shatter and everything is blended together again.
But this time I cannot separate them.
The mixture created a fog so thick that even I cannot see.
My sight is blurred, but glasses will not help this time.
It has gotten so bad that now whatever direction I travel in doesn't matter because
somehow the fog is everywhere.
Friends, family, everyone seems to be shouting my name, trying to lead me in the right direction.
But I can't find where they are standing.
It is impossible for me to reach them now;
I am too lost.
The shouts I used to hear have turned whispers,
and the whispers
faded
to
black.
I know they didn't stop calling for me,
but my ears stopped working.
I gave up on myself.
But it is my
mistake.
I forgot to label the bottles TOXIC.
I didn't know the damage this could cause.
How badly the solution I made would burn.
But It does not affect the flesh; instead it crawls inside and rips at the heart.
Swallows it whole.
And the red.
It drips everywhere,
covering everything,
both
inside
and
out.
And as it eats at me, it spreads to everyone around me.
The pain is too strong.
I used to be able to make it go away,
but not anymore.
I stopped walking a while ago.
Now I lay here.
No one will find me
but I gave up hope a long time ago.
The only thing that is with me is
my dark passenger,
but it is hardly comforting.
It used to be in one ear, when I could still hear the shouting in the other.
But now the passenger surrounds me.
And just like the fog,
it consumes me
whole.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC