"damnable" poems
self-congratulatory nonsense as the
famous gather to applaud their seeming
greatness
you
wonder where
the real ones are
what
giant cave
hides them
as
the deathly talentless
bow to
accolades
as
the fools are
fooled
again
you
wonder where
the real ones are
if there are
real ones.
this self-congratulatory nonsense
has lasted
decades
and
with some exceptions
centuries.
this
is so dreary
is so absolutely pitiless
it
churns the gut to
powder
shackles hope
it
makes little things
like
pulling up a shade
or
putting on your shoes
or
walking out on the street
more difficult
near
damnable
as
the famous gather to
applaud their
seeming
greatness
as
the fools are
fooled
again
humanity
you sick
************
13.9k
She comes to me with
seductive expectation
in her alluring grey eyes,
Bewitchingly she crawls
onto my lap, my chest.
Our mutual desire for closeness
quickening the mood
She puts her arms around my neck,
Our eyes locked in an intimate dance.
I take her beautiful face in my hands
stroking it's soft contours, as she
closes her eyes pleasurably succumbing
to the gentleness of my touch.
She begins to softly purr.
We both understand these brief
loving moments can never last,
owing to my damnable allergy to cats,
Thus, soon back outside she must ****
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 3:04 PM UTC
Among pelagian travelers,
Lost on their lewd conceited way
To Massachusetts, Michigan,
Miami or L.A.,
An airborne instrument I sit,
Predestined nightly to fulfill
Columbia-Giesen-Management's
Unfathomable will,
By whose election justified,
I bring my gospel of the Muse
To fundamentalists, to nuns,
to Gentiles and to Jews,
And daily, seven days a week,
Before a local sense has jelled,
From talking-site to talking-site
Am jet-or-prop-propelled.
Though warm my welcome everywhere,
I shift so frequently, so fast,
I cannot now say where I was
The evening before last,
Unless some singular event
Should intervene to save the place,
A truly asinine remark,
A soul-bewitching face,
Or blessed encounter, full of joy,
Unscheduled on the Giesen Plan,
With, here, an addict of Tolkien,
There, a Charles Williams fan.
Since Merit but a dunghill is,
I mount the rostrum unafraid:
Indeed, 'twere damnable to ask
If I am overpaid.
Spirit is willing to repeat
Without a qualm the same old talk,
But Flesh is homesick for our snug
Apartment in New York.
A sulky fifty-six, he finds
A change of mealtime utter hell,
Grown far too crotchety to like
A luxury hotel.
The Bible is a goodly book
I always can peruse with zest,
But really cannot say the same
For Hilton's Be My Guest.
Nor bear with equanimity
The radio in students' cars,
Muzak at breakfast, or--dear God!--
Girl-organists in bars.
Then, worst of all, the anxious thought,
Each time my plane begins to sink
And the No Smoking sign comes on:
What will there be to drink?
Is this ma milieu where I must
How grahamgreeneish! How infra dig!
****** from the bottle in my bag An analeptic swig?
Another morning comes: I see,
Dwindling below me on the plane,
The roofs of one more audience
I shall not see again.
God bless the lot of them, although
I don't remember which was which:
God bless the U.S.A., so large,
So friendly, and so rich.
4k
these 21st century writers / poets,
think they'll make cheap
thrills, and a load of bucks
playing computer games
at the same time:
i'll be found as a suffocating
salmon in their writing:
boy play the game,
expect prodigious output
when your father becomes
an art dealer rather than
a market-stall merchant;
irish idoot:
listen, your father approached
my father when my parents
were taking canadian friends
to the opera: you were a pristine
stoner... and i a damnable drunk...
like i said... you ******* leprechaun...
king's insult when trying to turn
a european into an african
ready for cotton picking of an export;
i took pity on james joyce...
you didn't... you didn't even read him.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 6:13 PM UTC
My country right or wrong
we shall still sing her song and bombs away
on you
Bombs away on FDR we think he got away too far
in giving peasants below, our merit, the audacity to inherit,
our country 'tis only for me'
We'll work you until your flesh falls off, nine till five is not enough, to sell our gizmos here and far, to gluttons all alike
Ooops! (melody old man river)
... Oh tote dat barge and lift dat bale,
ya gets ah little drunk and ya lands in Jaaail
Pull yourself by your own bootstraps, who cares if opportunity naps, while the "America Dream" fades away
cause thirty years of us
America ' tis only for me but not those signers of Democarcy
in Philly where they took that oath, on that **** parchment
I abhor,
on that damnable parchment I ABHOR!!
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 11:35 AM UTC
*i hate to break it to you kid,
i'm not mindful of narcissus'
economics that's all oh so very modern...*
but women are their own orbit,
more chance to find a single mother
than a single father...
it's against nature to make the man
without god,
as it's against nature to make the woman
with god...
thus we have the tectonic plates
making man with god, accepting
or doubting, church or laboratory...
and woman... an eroticism of jaw eaten
faces... but a kiss to be a fingerprint
likened to erasing the dangling of the bitten
jaw... erased only once by the aphrodisiac of sirens'
wail of aquatic opera so damnable that only
one man heard it, while others scolded
being in audience with beeswax...
and by second chance, erased, indeed,
but only by the suffragettes as the new nuns...
as the new nuns dare comply to change,
like every male become female and
vice versa,
and the popes disclose their continual
loss of matrimony in their misogynistic
involvement in ****** if i'm not the pope
and do no encounter such practices,
i'm not a pope at all!
*only a ninth spoke as the necromancer,
and of the nine spoke clearest,
as it spoke, it dawned on me
that sauron was invisible for the sword
to strike, a gravity enveloping,
a gravity envelope, rather than a skin
of infinite diadem sharpenings,
for nine rigs unto men,
seven unto dwarfs, three unto elves,
but none unto the orcs... strange....
ORC ARKHAN MORDOR ARRAC!*
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 10:36 PM UTC
Black eyes,
Deep and endless.
Shines a light,
Bright and timeless.
A kind smile,
On a gnarled face.
Handsome in his
own way.
Honesty.
A lost virtue,
In this wasteland
We call home.
Smoke drifts
from a parted mouth.
Escapes into the
nothingness of the
green-tinged sky.
*"Moments like these,
I know all that karma
stuff is all bull."*
Those are your words.
Not mine.
*"Because no one like me,
should be this lucky."*
There is no one like you.
A man out of time,
in stolen red duds.
tricorn hat tipped
to the side.
That smirk,
that damnable,
smirk, plastered,
forever to your smug mug.
Your ruddy hand
reaches back.
Open palmed
full of scars.
To grasp my mine.
Much smoother skin.
"Come on love,"
you say,
with your voice
full of gravel.
*"Lets get this freak show
on the road."*
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 8:41 PM UTC
Poured upon the coldest plate
Sensations I have felt of late,
Oozing out in rhyme so thin
To slit betwixt the blood and skin,
Feelings I can best describe
As mothers’ milk in ostrich hide.
Feeling I can best project
As crystal **** wrote circumspect.
Turgid as the wrath in waves
I feel my very soul depraves
The values held within my breast,
The turbulence portrayed at best
As damnable as purple ink
With oiliness of olive stink.
This malady is best described
As mothers’ milk in ostrich hide.
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
24 June 2010
Jun 23, 2010
Jun 23, 2010 at 9:02 PM UTC
We are the ones,
cast from the warmth and into the cold
where lungs break down
and hearts are left for the wolves.
We bloom in the chill now.
Like a hellebore bursts
from the banks of snow.
We have arrived
where the exiled
were bound to go -
we've packed The Tinguit Inn
and there's no vacancy.
And yes, oh yes,
we remember you,
tugging at our bound wrists.
We can see your eyes- -
your damnable dark eyes,
twist the chains around our necks.
Gendarme, what say you?
Where are your comrades now?
Where are the revolvers
you issued them as you said
"Just in case of an uprising..."
You know, son,
we have a history of
slitting the throats of our cousins
over a handful of stolen grain.
Imagine what we do to a thief
who robbed us from the sails
of our Mediterranean Sea.
Look at the sky!
The plateau and,
beyond,
our land that stretches to
the shorelines!
We are the exiled
from the Tinguit Hotel,
and yes - you will pay.
Tu paieras.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
Planting excitement upon us,
My daughter asks how to thin the beets.
"When the plants are three inches tall,
Pick the weaker ones and pull them up,"
I say. "You'll take out two thirds of the young plants
So the rest can grow."
I see a troubled look upon her face,
And realize what I find in myself....
The teacher's quandary:
Picking whom to keep,
Whom to cull...
We put our love into them all.
Watching for first and tender shoots,
Celebrating as the fledgling leaves appear,
Not thinking of a time ahead,
Dreaded time to thin....
Teachers are reluctant to cull,
Building emotional connection,
Providing loving direction,
Promising success to all....
Then come the standardized tests,
The team selections,
The popularity contests,
The invitations to slumber parties,
The division of elites,
The rising of divas,
The rostering of first teams...
The separation of pariahs begins,
The promise we made to early learners ends,
Superiors, exultant, drown out the tears
Of those left standing by the fence,
Excluded from the chances to advance.
Standing in the seedling beds,
Spring breezes rustling tender leaves,
I turn to Kate....
"It's never easy....
But if we don't thin the beets,
The beets will not develop
Beneath the leaves."
These damnable analogies arise
Infrequently these days,
And I am standing in the dirt,
Black soil upon on my hands,
Wondering about survival of the weak,
The treatment of humans and young plants,
Pondering humane ways to honor every student
In which I am investing...
Wishing I could see the end of high stakes testing....
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
Gay men are fit to love.
Straight men are fit to curse.
Save the trees.
Save the whales.
Save the seals.
Save the vile criminal.
**** the innocent fetus.
Bush is hated for starting a war.
Obama is loved for perpetuating it.
Hating a black man
Is racism,
Despite his own actions towards you.
Hating a white man?
Expected.
Smiled upon.
Black Power?
Okay.
White Power?
Damnable.
A *******
Fit to marry.
A Gentleman?
Fit to trample.
A man courting a woman?
Accepted.
A woman courting a man?
Strange, unheard of.
Not trying to be political.
Not trying to be partial.
Just trying to be social.
Apr 8, 2010
Apr 8, 2010 at 9:05 AM UTC
science has entrenched itself in stating that original humanism is an idiocy, science believes that only scientific humanism can suffice, and original humanism i.e. humanism not schooled in science is a waste of time, man's development watching paint dry, i.e.: i feel dumber writing a poem and not an equation to align to einstein's relativity.
the english don't recognise long-term humour,
a bit like the polish not able
to recognise old school migrants of
their mutual organic constituents
speaking their tongue, they play it dumb,
with statements like huh? what? om?
the english are smart, let's not disagree,
but their intelligence is short-lived,
like their appreciation of humour,
quick wit buckle stiletto (meaning an easy
girl), they're intelligent in terms of
how quickly you colt-drawn a six-shooter into
conversation for a pick-me-up,
the english have short-term intelligence
exercised for humoristic attention,
their long-term humour is used in defending
democracy... the english have no long-term
humour parameters, i'm guessing because
of the celts... it's all short-term, i.e.:
how quickly can i retort to a joke and choke
on a whimsical mushroom that's an umbrella?
hence the many innovations...
steam engine... the umbilical cord attached
to arabia... joke is quick... joking is quicker...
tense social parameters of having a drink...
laugh it up... drink alone.
*they make slapstick damnable and satire exceptional,
but their satire requires canned laughter,
it's called satire but i call it lazy humour...
look what slapstick gave us... charlie chaplin
gave birth to adolf ******* ******
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 3:07 AM UTC
The heavy smoke of war lay across the world it was laced with carnage and had the sounds of screaming
Shells and the screams of the dying men but as it continued its drift at the far edges a cloud and mist
Began to diminish the former and distil a brighter future there was the timid glory sounding the
Harking tribute of childlike memories the power of innocence to diffuse the base and inhumane
To spill across these scathing pages an ethereal presence that was empowering of good that
Could and did straddle time and space with magnificence drawing from exploration and history
That beheld the worst but mined the hidden gold to enrich the world it knew secrets that
Exposed the damnable lies that bankrupted former empires we were created to be conquers
Our mettle is an amalgamation of weak flesh but inherit in the confused and reciprocating
Action ultimately a flash of inspiration leaps from the spirit the dead end near sighted flesh was
At the wall of limitation now we stand at the zenith of the universe at its ever increasing of it
Self this inestimable spring of well being floods the low plains we ford these rich waters
Immediately our impoverished cares taste and smell the high and great call of hope we
Instinctively open our heart and mind as a great sail we find our self in the envious position as a
Seafarer our very sinew is awakened to promise and opportunity we have left far behind the
Naysayers we see gifts of beauty spread everywhere where all before was drear now victory is
Courting us to rise to even higher heights boldness infuses our demeanor we now throw off
Yesterdays doubting with eyes that are no longer dim we see with clearest vision and with
Steeled determination former days of being wistful vagabonds is forever forfeited we have the
Right and the might that Lincoln addressed his generation we align ourselves with the high
Ideals of past warriors and martyrs know this our enemies whatever your culture or ideals you
Have come among a stalwart people and the foundations of our forefathers will defeat you the
Same as others who came with inferior and demonized religions know this truth will and has
Made us free look well to yourselves continue and your destruction is guaranteed check the
Harbinger winds and save your selves from the only outcome that will befall you which is
Destruction
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
Who knew life would last so long.
so tedious and constant in aging.
( birth - one - two - … - dead )
And if someone knew how long it would last,
Why would they sign that contract,
on the dotted line on an oak desk with
all too important looking business men greedily grinning.
(the devils favorite disguise)
Who knew of the beating of the heart-
so exciting and focused on one lovely face.
(or set of lips)
Like a party with a spinning bottle,
Soon to be the pulse of the first date.
And first night cashed in bed,
rolled over from exhaustion- excitement.
(a steady rhythm takes on different meanings here)
Who knew that words would be so tough.
so damnable and lackluster
(until they line up just right.)
And poems a love-hate-multi-night-stand.
where we always bicker and fight,
but always come back for one more line.
or in my case,
nothing at all.
Nov 20, 2020
Nov 20, 2020 at 4:29 AM UTC
Hesitantly he succumbed
Though he knew it unwise
In-laws and low-lifes combined
'A degenerate time better than
No time at all' convinced his mind
For he had nothing else to do
A reason none could find
Except abundant inopportunity
I say, there was nothing else to do
Over and over.
Again and again.
Until one damnable day
Death knocked at the door
'Hello sir, please come in
I have nothing else to do'
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
Jaws cracking
eyes watering
inhaling so deep
heavy eyelids
and a drooping head
don't fall asleep
sleep is fickle,
get it where you can
and if you don't have insomnia
BE GLAD.
There are few things worse
than lying awake,
clock blinking, glowing in your eyes.
Your watch beeps,
a bell chimes
3:00 in the morning
again.
You're so awake
you wanna go out
but you can't.
It's too late.
early?
dark.
The cracks in your ceiling
are so fascinating.
The cat at your side is
warm.
purring.
orange.
It should be soothing
should put you to sleep.
But it won't.
Never does.
How long can you go without sleep
before you go mad as a hatter?
Down, down, down the rabbit hole of dreams...
snapped away from the brink.
Damnable sirens!
Damnable insomnia...
Sun's rising. What now?
Get up. Get dressed.
You've a life to live.
Foundation covers the circles under your eyes.
Tea or coffee keeps you running.
Insomnia keeps you awake.
Always has.
Always will.
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 6:37 PM UTC
Landscape the fatal solution,
abandoning the pre-world
he takes pleasure
in mutely, and often
spacing out, tipsy, drunk, confident
till the juice runs out.
What made him hold onto such damnable
lilies succumbed
with the raw roots of melancholy?
Never purging the dancers
twirling
through a decade old sound system, they say
"I don't think you know what you did."
***** circling in his eyes, they dance,
"But I'm going to help you."
The dancers rebel
across the floor, down the stairs
---to the dark, his eyes
washed by the caked acid running
down executed cheeks
so helpless, the rhines of a ranting romance
roped idiotically to the gospel grave.
All the ways he sighs,
at all the wrongs snowing down
on his neck. "Nothing about us ever shivered."
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
Whisk, lily limbs, into graciousness, stately -
and hate me for being so fallible, fallible,
fallible - like such a damnable human.
Dare not lay your hands upon me.
So well disjointed, appointed a label,
told fables and psalms like a whimsical, whimsical,
whimsical lie, exorbitant narratives
fraught with the stench of decay.
And so, disappointed, anointed with thorns,
as their horns, and their false tongues so difficult, difficult,
difficult, that we can't help but wonder
just why we live this way,
as your lily limbs spin into spacious transgression.
Confessions of laudable symmetry, symmetry,
symmetry, broken: you choked on your words
as they caught on your breath, and you had nothing left to say.
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 11:40 PM UTC
Standing on my head to rid myself of this soul-phlebitis
An old hobo train jumper trick apparently
All that blood rushing to my previously empty head
Filling, pooling graciously flow
(Don't we all know, there's nowhere to go but up)
Abruptly fall head first lurching, crunch
To the cold brittle hardwood boards of nuns in our parent's youth
Creaking (they whip us good)
Is this ink sunken in skin to be yer biggest regret?
What can pain do for you?
Connecting the mind and body
Cingulate gyrus integrating
reptilian brain vagus nerve body influence with higher
Social functioning
ugh when really it's all a big joke
and the sad clown laughing at the universe
is me and i am god and god,
god he weeps
Breeding consciousness, somatosensory convergence
You make my prefrontal cortex sick
Subsequent serotonin stomach butterflies
The prescience of a dozen acid trip candy flips
Tomorrow's 500 micrograms of blissful gut
Awareness in bloom
Home, where's home for the moment?
Not sure, asking, looking
And questing to find o yes and where to go and where to stay
And with whom and Why
Questions called to no one and nothing (but the sea)
That can't hear me
As if Nietzsche's 'void' is staring back
EAT ME THEN DAMNABLE VOID
I cry
For
What pain is there in true madness,
sick little toy words
sick little boy slurs
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
A broken shell, a living hell, and all I'm left with now is my regret.
Better days ahead were a pipedream after our relationship crumbled. Countless arguments. Disagreements. Every day! For my life, I can't believe we stayed together as long as we did. God knows I didn't want her to leave me. How much longer must I wrestle with these painful memories?
I just feel regret, unspoken, I just feel the pain; since she left, my life has been a broken shell, a living hell — I can't believe I let her go; it was foolish pride before the fall the day she left when I lost all — I should have held her closer, I should have made her see the feelings I have for her, what she means to me; I didn't say I love her or beg her to stay, instead, I stood in silence and watched her walk away, and all I'm left with now is my regret.
Justification is an exercise in futility. Knowing what I could have and should have done leaves an inextricable switchblade in my soul. Love's lessons learned too late — love's loss too great.
Misting eyes beseech as memories replay in my head, but they're too painful, and I feel dead. No joy to be found. Oh well, my self-imposed hell. Painful memories open like an oubliette under my feet, plunging me lost and languishing in isolation's labyrinth. Questions left unanswered, decaying in the debris fields of "what if.”
Reflection can be a catharsis for the soul, but it can also rip a hole in it, and soon reality roars from guilt's bottomless pit to devour all hope. Sometimes despair is mitigated by occasional reminders of us. Thoughts lingering on happier times, blessed moments mine to treasure. Until the damnable loop of regret dominates to decimate any respite of joy. Vanishing expectations. Weeping willow's silent wail. Xerox memories fade with time.
Years have passed, and my thoughts continue to haunt me over what we could have had. Zero-sum game — all I'm left with now is my regret.
Mark Toney ©️ 2023
* * *
April 22, 2023
I hope you found the above fictional prose poem interesting. I wrote it in response to a writing challenge I heard about. Write a 26-sentence short story (or prose poem). Each sentence must begin with the alphabet's sequential letters starting with A through Z. One sentence must be 100 words long, and another sentence only one word. Would you like to try it?
Apr 22, 2023
Apr 22, 2023 at 2:07 AM UTC
Another glass shatters against the cold stone wall.
Everything you asked for layed in my palm,
I was yours for the taking.
Yet still I could never be enough to soothe your pains.
I kissed your scars,
I replaced your broken heart with my bleeding art,
And still you look at me with those eyes.
Those damnable eyes.
I can't count or name all the poisons that you contain
Inside that body of yours abused by your shame
Go ahead and continue to corrode the person that you once were
So much for that steady dream
Look at you changing reality into a myriad of illusive lies,
Drowning in all the liquid confidence leaking from the confines of your distracted mind.
Where did all your senses go?
To hell with what you think of me.
Goodbye for all its worth,
I'm just fine on my own.
I'll leave you here to drown alone,
I refuse to let you bite the hand that feeds.
These bandages on my ego conceal so little,
I can't walk out the door without the embarrassment of fearing what the public thinks of me.
And it's all because of you.
So to hell with this leash you've put me on,
You had me wrapped around your finger,
With your words, your love, and your brain
Now they've rotted and I watch as they go down the drain.
In your arms I felt so sane I knew there'd come a day
When the price of that sanity was revealed.
I once believed that if keeping you meant losing myself
I would be lost in your love forevermore, it no longer means that anymore.
If keeping myself means losing you,
Then I will not lose myself today.
For today I no longer live for you,
Today I live for me.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 12:49 AM UTC
anti-narcissism,
painters with self-portraits,
the damnable face used
to kindred of inanimate things
taken for granted via still-life or impressionism,
damnable visage, yet
not exactly a finite banality of narcissism and acting,
it’s just there, if it isn’t being bosomed by
kissing it might as well be painted,
shame to leave it to simply frown,
or undue the english stiff-upper lip with
the fisherman’s hook, that phenomenon
of the fisherman’s / elvis’s upper lip aha hum hum:
it’s a twitchy eye when you mind the nerves
and just say: i’m in r.e.m. stages of parkinson’s:
rapid eyelid movement: got a joke coming
with the tourists, find your face in the throng
and give it four walls, a floor and ceiling and a campfire.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 8:12 PM UTC
There’s a broken bird in the red snow at sunset
Drenched in water and freezing fast at the hands
Of two red-blooded boys who laughed
At the feeble chirps of protest emitted from between
The little pink lips of a red-cheeked girl
Her blue mittens were matted with snow and flying fast
Hurling packed ***** of frozen water at the boys
Even as the sun disappeared behind their heads
And she was trapped in their shadow
She dispelled them in haste and in a spray of snow
They were gone leaving a broken bird and a sad little girl
She took the white scarf from around her neck and shivered
The bird chirped meekly as it was wrapped and carried
Mother’s sympathetic smile was not enough
Nor were father’s promises
The bird was put in a box outside to spend the night
As a storm raged outside she could not sleep
The empty box in the morning a ray of hope
Or a damnable void
She chose hope and washed her red-speckled scarf
And in the spring among the many-winged shadows
She searched for her bird certain he still flew
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 8:21 PM UTC
deeply swaddled
in troubled sleep
covered in
blankets
soaked
with woe
vast crushing stones
of daytime vexations
wring out
the very last
drops of aching
night sweats
a constricting
conscience
strangles
the possibility
of rest
eruptive
violent
struggles
subverts
a desperate
restoration
this damnable
listless sleep
yet in the
nadir of torment
as another
bleak daybreak
creeps closer
a fluttering
voice
hovers
to whisper
courageous
dreamscapes
into my
drowsy ear
"don't be afraid,
I am with you
commanding
the help of
an army
of angels
10,000
strong!"
these are
the days
of miracles
and wonder
don't cry
no more
Paul Simon:
Boy in the Bubble
Happy Birthday
Paul Simon
Jacobs Dream
Marc Chagall
jbm
Oakland
10/13/11
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC
I am sitting in the bar writing this. I started at the Sir Francis Drake, and I will do a tour of duty in all the great bars of the city before morning. There is a storm outside, a fresh wind and a choppy see from my voyage. But the earth isn't quite big enough for me tonight. I am now at The Globe and plan to proceed to The Moon and The Stars and then make a journey to all the planets, ending in the constellation of Venus - anything so as to be closer to the pleasure zone that is yours, all yours.
It's not my fault I am here. It would start to rain as we were waiting for the bus, and those stupid feelings of mine, hauled me into this bar. It is a dark, cold, confounded hole, fit only for desperadoes and down-and-outs. The cold outside made the warmth of the wine work faster on me.
I wish you could see me now as I am definitely not myself anymore. I'm a much pleasanter, warmer, wittier person than when cold sober and I am sure that I could win your love when I am like this.
The wine hisses upon my heart. Cupid has fired a dart into my liver. I am asking the barman for ice to cool my fevered thoughts. Ice! Clear and cold and definitely melting, just like you. The idiot has brought me olives instead. This is a damnable place. A hideous world, I wish I were out of it and in heaven, by which, of course I mean in your arms. Ah, if only they were bottling your bath water - then there'd be something to slake this incredible thirst! I'd close my eyes, sip you slowly, and let you slide down my throat.
This is my constant prayer, wether I am drunk or sober.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 2:44 AM UTC