"decanter" poems
You're risking naught, an annihilation of worth
Wasting and encouraging moments to rot. Decay.
Values friendship
Twisted morals dipped in deceit.
Not satisfied with boundaries
Chasing infected affection
swirling in the smooth crevasses of backwash around emptied wine bottles
Impressionable, emitting the most tenacious
of the F word
Fake
Fake and Selfish
It isn't narcissism when you drown yourself
in the pits
No permission, no inhibition
As lazy as the Greeks
who never made a move to climb the mountaintop
and defy their Gods face to face
Dependent and ******* support from Clans
because you're terrified of this world
At least I"m honest with my decanter of
harming thoughts.
obsessed and overbearing, flesh crawling
use my being as subject matter and
mold it into paperdoll play toys
like gold eye-liner
its a party trick
seek solice when grimacing down a bottle of brew
bumpers in the bowling alley
a Life Alert sort of living
You claim to haven no fear
but I see your throat clench
start living
admit the defeat
a proud coward
lilly livered, yellow belly
shift
shift between a fable and nerve
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 1:38 AM UTC
A clay *** holds your happiness.
It's halfway tall,
reaching up to your thigh,
Narrow, blown up in the middle, narrow.
Simple lid with a spherical dot for fingers to grasp,
and a black drawn line
that curls from base to lip,
and over.
Insides encumbered by sweet darkness,
shaded glory,
because outside,
gleaming.
Spiraled gold that must have dribbled off the sun's ice cream cone
leaked through the bottom where the end had broken
and flavor escaped
to land on your mirthful urn.
Blue so clear,
the sky surely lost a piece of itself
as a crack appeared
and a fragment cascaded downward
to shatter along your pleasant chalice.
And in between,
are lines of green
that could have only originated
on pinewood trees
in a forest so dark
that monsters beware.
Bordering a little town
where children played
and only truth was called,
never dare.
Because there is red on your delighted decanter.
Spattered droplets
of coagulated sparks.
Jaded needles saturated,
with pine fresh essence
emanating from your zesty flagon.
And a single spot,
Barren.
Bereft of treasure.
Parted from cerulean.
Robbed of Viridian.
And severed in the roots of a blushing Amaryllis.
Occupying there,
a white blemish,
a shape of infinite corners
immaculately defined
and so small,
you will never find it on the canister
that harbors your smile.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
I like dancing and drinking, sometimes fighting and ******* and not necessarily in that order.
Life isn't an equation. It's not a folded napkin, windexed decanter or applebees' reservation.
Sing, smoke, scream. When you laugh, let it boom. Howl at imaginary moons.
Roar to life
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 3:06 PM UTC
A vast valley of empty noise.
Muffled screams ambient like static.
Dodging cunning plans and ploys.
As each friend intends to wreak havoc.
I set aflame in rage and shame.
Smoke signals soar high from my side.
As I try to decide what is wise.
Incontinence of the lips disguised as clever banter.
Hollow thoughts reveal themselves and foggy eyes gleam far and wide.
I'll have a drink of endless size.
"I'd rather be anywhere, or anything" I say whilst reaching for a decanter.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 12:00 AM UTC
This poem indicates my scatergorized pattern of thought
We are a generation of gas masks and 3D glasses
Now we are a nation of bullet proof vests and USB drives
Grotesque regurgitated shallow sympathy
Universal imagery
I’m no type of Sadducee
In medicated revelry
Mood disorders and bipolarity
Inspiration
Found at the bottom of a decanter from Macedonia
Truculent truths and the opposition of common place thought
Andy why am I so indignant prey tell?
Because
I
Am
Drunk
Ha ha ha
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 11:46 AM UTC
inside weeks now, first frost warmed off, a *** watered
but still sere; her leafless twigs stand here ... pointing accusingly
(she'd promised us limes someday)
hope's a careless gardener with deep roots
resurrection imagined, coaxed to new shoots, green flecks ... some sign
(and lime fruits some day)
or any season grander than aged bourbon and ginger ... sipped
the crystal decanter bides quietly with gilt china
(for our harvest of limes)
a dusty cabinet counts reasons in neat rows
plant and man await parting, those pursed lips of time
(and dream, both, of limes)
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
All this...
O, this shall be his.
He who in well-leaned doorways
And oft-learned corners
Hath resigned any byways
To dream: “A tall order
To rove in the mud
And muck up one's soles”
Says he who would trod
Upon painless goals.
Him safe in his womb,
His wont wooden beams.
Neglect to his comb and
Plume and dusty seeds.
“Who would fret in the rain?”
He asks. “And why suffer venture?”
“I've a cubby! Where's the shame
In my hearth and decanter?”
“I tell you all!” he says
One night, in a fit. “Them's fools!
They that count on the coldness and chance
Of a bleak, backwards world
In despotic hands. Come time,
Come the end- You'll see what I have!”
O, the mites and the mice
And the crumbs and the cracks
And the creaks in the night
And the stock-still plants
And the angles all learned
And the steps all a measure
And every walking turn
And every processed pleasure
And the patterns and ease
With his paper and naps
What is good on the knees
And light on the back
And the age and the greys
And the frustrating lust
And the well-worn ways
And the old codger's fuss
And the twilight come
And the shadows of scythes
And a final look back
Through wondering eyes
And the what-if's and why's
Of the best girl in Eire
And the laughter of kids
In a moistening eye...
And the plain wooden box
And the standard rites
And the empty expanse
Of the graveyard night.
And no crowd and no cries
Just a man and *****
And pile of dirt
Where ol' whats-his-name lays
All this-
O, This shall be his.
-c. c. Condry
Mar 12, 2011
Mar 12, 2011 at 8:32 PM UTC
Two years old, he totters towards his mutti's skirts
She turns away, for the decanter, and locks him in his room
Oh! He wails, pounding his little fists against the floor,
But she finds him asleep on the rug, clutching an old poppet to his breast
She lifts him to his crib and kisses his sodden cheek, checking her abuse at the door
Her smile is smug, folded away into her adulteration of love.
Five years old and he asks after his sire,
Tracing the beading of her mourning dress, as she kneels with him
As if he were a snake and she was stricken,
she drops him squat on the cold floorboards. Pulls herself within,
Then reaches to him,
Whispering condemnation and condolence
He backs away, burning his hand on the fire grate, the love in his eyes as dim.
When he is seven, the boy takes up a twisted love for architecture, swears he'll become a sailor, far from home
Her eyes are a cooling, somber grey-blue, they alight then smolder with a hiss
The boy's eyes are green, flush with life and innocence
They're his .
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 3:36 AM UTC
Fill the decanter with the holy wine,
and watch the universe intertwine.
Across the table sits your deceiver,
you listen to her talk and you believe her-
yet you know she's your worst liar,
but you indulge in her amorphous fire.
Under the fresco and dimming chandelier
you see your wife and children appear,
you and the deceiver run to the fire exit,
escaping up the staircase, leaving the banquet.
She stops you for a second and whispers "I love you,"
and even though inside you feel a little blue,
you ascend with her because she is married, too.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
Tyrant vandal Belly buttons born from tongue toy hammer whack shameless pantomime gold-digger jezebel ***** archetype bad product off food witchy fingers green fluorescent pink yellow ray of backwards twist mother truckers flat wheel tyre engine fire engine whoop weep tear tears down ripped up feeling face straight up to ceiling baby crib our tired little limbs break against the tide I want to swim away from here place island Caribbean holiday at Christmas I don’t want to be here when I get back lead trail hike walk up the stairs followed my shadow tie me up to lamppost dead flowers bouquet take give taker giver relationship spit out the blues by Benny and The Jets riddle saxophonists up walls and silly laughter clown faces you are a good morning stream streamer party thrower down sink lob me up pipes plumber broken loo place to sit and ponder on my **** think too many faces cherub fat little smile me a river bend down here we build a fort like kids and you’re home for ***** sake safety traffic cone orange still scares me to death bobby pins left on windowsills I chuck the memory out back it makes me sick pummel the cheekbones down flat face two face baby feet get into bins bin trash bag split when I picked it up I’m covered in rotten courgetti hipster you’re a stinking mess I hate your stupid shoes walk in a straight line you drunken ******* skip home with me hop scotch decanter glass slips off side crash pop Rice Krispy cereal noise white noise rain playlist through the walls
I push through in pure stubbornness
I
leave us be
lots of love,
distance.
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 1:15 PM UTC
He trapped my spirit in a lead decanter.
Whether to indulge ,alone or
while entertaining company that is never my own,
every time he calls I come pouring out
in a sea of salt water and toxic feelings
We'll probably both die from this.
But what tastes better and
what is more sweet than
spirits on the rocks?
I will not be bitter this time.
As I only better with age,I will
'be sweeter than your 'sweet talk';
The most delicious tasting poison
known to man
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
you tasted like shattered glass
and I was never one to walk away
from loving cold hearts and mosaic minds,
while mosaics are considered broken art
still sometimes I wonder if the same could be spoken of broken hearts--
mine never looked quite as good
as the concrete and sea-glass odds and ends
configuration that sat brightly on my mantelpiece though.
I also never quite figured out why my name always sounded
just as disjointed off your lips--
why my name never felt normal when it reverberated off the walls as
it was released from your gray toned voice
and why the syllables seemed to sound
less like a moniker, and more like a broken apology--
my name never rhymed with "sorry" but for some reason, it did
when you said it.
your name still sounds like a sin I have yet to forgive
and I've contemplated going to church just to hear
it be exposed to confession--
but I realize now that I confessed all the sins I've ought to say
and this feeling is merely the leftover aftertaste of
shattered glass and blood bitten gums
gnawing at the corner of my mouth.
you once told me,
"the past is the only thing that matters
because it never changes."
I don't remember what I told you,
but I don't smash empty wine glasses anymore
just to feel
like we never parted.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
He dreams the rain
on the windows. There
are girls in the walls,
bones of a small animal
beneath the bed. In
these dreams he's always
dead or half dead, propped
against the door like an old
saw. He believes he may
be waiting for something or
someone , a ghost or a bone
man, or a woman with a cat's
smile carrying a crystal
decanter or crystal meths.
His hands are very soft,
the bones may have gone.
His feet though are hard
& tough, like rock or metal
or the back of the door he
leans against. Sometimes it
seems to him he may no longer
be quite human, no longer quite
of this world, or the world
next door for that matter.
Sometimes he's not even sure
he's here at all
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 2:01 AM UTC
Enduring Heart, bid his Cornerstone's Love
Whose Sole Decanter seeps too much Aplomb:
That Doctors and Reasons free that Ripe Dove;
That Prayers and Poems ache Answers a-new;
That Best Decrees part ways for Millions served;
That Kindred Strings knot Corsettes for his adjust;
That (Folly-Wheels) back-tate for Stones conserved;
That Mum's Potions drink to refresh his Bust;
That Selfish Managers wound his Tunes break;
That Prime Economy funds his Flesh request;
That Primmed Choices spell Finesse in his Make;
That Pampered Soldiers spear those Bugs to rest.
Reasoning Mind, bid his Thunderstone's Tame
Whose Blunt Recorder struck Ashes again.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 10:34 AM UTC
Tonight we’ll share the heavens;
Souls knitted into one,
Fly together we, the ochre moontrails,
on gossamer wings.
The decanter overflows with nectar;
its sweetness permeates the ethereal void,
like ephemerous orbs when touched
by the hands of a child.
The secret Garden’s lit by Eos’ mirth;
polychromatic hues emanate from glassine showers;
Gait filling the place, radiating in splendor,
Warming every psyche in its solace.
Silence may, yet rule the void;
Plenary peace acquiesced e’en for a nanosecond.
Then from some aperture, a tiny tingle crescendos,
as the angelic host thunder their majestic heralds.
Come with me now my beloved;
Dry I your tears with lotus petals,
Come with me now, reach out your hand
and together we’ll share a millennium in a succinct moment
in this paradise called DREAMS.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
CLIMBING TREES IN HIGH HEELS
the swish of her
dress as
thigh crosses thigh
the static electricity of her
nylons laddered
from climbing trees in high heels
the rescued cat now
safely asleep by the fire
snoring not purring
the whiskey a jewel
in the cut-glass decanter
the glint in her eye
again the sigh
as thigh crosses thigh
she singing softly to her
self as if
she was the only one
left in existence
the clock leaving
a longer and longer
silence between each tick
and tock
and tock
the clock now stopped
looking elegant
in a thin white vase
the yellow chrysanthemums
just stare and stared
as if they were frightened
of the silence
a shepherd carrying a lamb
in chipped china
looking out of place
without his companion piece
a ***** shepherdess
broken only last week
it was ten past 7
though the clock did not know
that
Time had abandoned
the room
outside the first snowflake falling
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC
sick to my stomach, I wonder the point
not fame or success, neither wealth nor repute
mine—that which I seek
is why
a build to ******
then simply abrupt end
destined to wither and fade—
to die
all this
just for that
man once boy, felt fear
keeping youth at bay
"You're too young to worry, my dear."
mother would say
though from pit, I knew my day drew near
growing in stature, the dark still so bold
if I am so young, why
do I feel so,
so old?
so focused my despair
I emulate that which I dread—
the dead
to sit and ponder
moments slipping
life's force dripping
mood always sombre
by fear my life I waste
fretting ever, twilight oppression
relinquishing life's foretaste
a mustard seed grown to mountain
nocturne's anguish fountain
so dark
a threat to own soul
if love be an answer
its inevitable loss
an even worse decanter
I seek to sooth the sting of death
have I found You?
are You listening?
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 10:06 PM UTC
I knew a kind old preacher once
The least of likely places met
He never fiery sermon preached
But with me still
A seed he left
I find myself some years down the path
Lost, naught with house nor home
But not for loss of company
My bitter and sweet compatriots
Beside me, a trio, we three roam
El Sombra is a handsome gent
My closest friend, strays but never far
Darker than me in every way
A wicked humor, exquisite memory
One purest soul as black as tar
He rarely speaks but when he does
Only whispers in my ear
Things t’would make the old crone blush
The noble gallant, shudder fear
But to balance out my ***** and specter
I hold the lady on my left
Singing the ever youthful, maiden’s song
Tales of love, of joy, of sorrows past
That sweetest kiss of promise hides,
Behind Decanter’s ornate breast
How did you do it preacher,
Conquer such demons, leave them past?
Was it your wife,
Her love that kept you true,
Some friend or God that held you fast?
I’ve tasted lips of lovers sweet
All fade, but not my siren’s song
Friends endeavored to walk beside
Till shadows reach, I look about
Alas, and all by days end, gone
He casts his humors, horrors, incessant shade
She warms my laugh, soothes pain and fear
Together they ride,
My demons perched on either shoulder
Pulling a sinister grin from ear to ear
Life, stopped inside a dusty bottle
My left hand holds it like a prayer
The hapless maw of shadow waiting
Each dawn to dusk, till nightfall’s edge
Edacious poised to engulf me there
Alone I take the damning course
Scripture’s own pale horse I ride
Cruel the dry winds biting force
Till even they, my dearest friends
Shall at long last must cast me aside
Here thought fades alongside memory
Blinding malice shards desert sand
I swiftly ride into jaws of my own making
Through batwing doors, wrought iron gate
Where waits your empty shiner’s stand.
Sep 18, 2022
Sep 18, 2022 at 4:12 PM UTC
to nibble
is to taste his intoxicating sweetness
it is to quench her thirst from the cup of his pores
uncork his decanter
waft in his aroma
drift
into the seas of his Hennessy
get
high off his myrrh—
—he’s so medicinal
Apr 17, 2024
Apr 17, 2024 at 2:41 PM UTC
Suppose it was known at the first moment,
When you called on me to be your transition,
When you, through me, enabled yourself to punish men both past and present,
Vulnerable in me alone, left to liberate your power,
That grace would sever our connection.
I consented,
I am no victim.
Through you I've seen paradise through strength,
In you, I carried my hidden reserve.
I let you hold all that I know, and can be,
So that I could remain choiceless, and meek, in the average eyes of the world.
I gave to you. Love poured from me like a decanter small,
and made of magic,
And you simply drank!
You drank and drank to my spirit's inspiration.
It was unconscious greed, a taker's spirit forged from a foreign place,
One where mercy and love, where civility, honor, and thoughtfulness,
Never dared to infringe on the impulse to survive,
But it did inspire me.
Such basic and consistent placement of self first in the face of all that works to will one toward the world's masquerade of sacrifice,
Was as astonishing to me as the freak, the genius, the new constellation,
And I still struggle to understand what your experience of the world is like,
Without the indefatigable tug of duty pulling at your pulsing heart.
I reached my limit.
And this discovery of imposition has warranted me my own selfish wills,
I will not soon mistake them for the fancies of another.
But I will say that there is grace in you,
As you travel, composed of want alone,
Healing those you hurt just enough to clear and clean the path you fashion,
And I'll idealize you because you never humanized yourself to me.
Or wanted my humanity.
Our service to each other like points that hold along the sky.
I affix my eyes on your cold and constant light.
And discover a direction.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
sure,
the melody
can change.
and,
the beat
gets altered.
but in the end
i think i've heard
every Song.
they go like this:
you're lured in.
because you think,
just for a moment,
it's going to be
Different.
excitedly,
you listen intently.
and,
you are in love,
again.
(quite without noticing)
the poems,
once stagnant and,
Tepid
flow again like
they haven't in
years.
your fire,
thought extinguished,
will find itself
fanned into
conflagration.
and like a
decanter of
that most precious
of ambrosia;
you'll pour
yourself Out.
giving everything
to the song,
until you're
empty.
again.
empty from;
loneliness,
unrequited Love,
and just
not being
refilled.
but you'll keep listening.
the songs never
change themselves.
not really.
not to suite your needs,
anyway.
sure.
someone may
come along and,
add a
Variation
to a
tired tune.
and you might think
that it's a different song.
for a while.
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 3:58 AM UTC
God,
Have mercy upon the extortionist's,
The distortionists are all ********
Some dead,
None life-like!!!!
Fighters draw blood through their ****** syringe,
Through hateful revenge,
Their devils in tattooed disguise!!
Some wearies of pain,
Others forth along for thine ride!!!!
Im not meant for such desire of madness,
All attire vamped out mapped by state,
Some come early and some come late!!
To the gates of hell and back that is.....
I'm sick of hiding behind the cache ,
Behind the decanter of who we really are!!!!!!!
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 9:46 AM UTC
Clank the glasses and crack the goblets, let the yule tide ring. Fill the decanter with ale and let the holidays begin. Cheer from the bottle, cheer by the glass. The cheer for the new year, but the tab comes due to fast. With the ringing of Christmas bells, oh how my head will ache. On new years day with football cheers, my celebration was a big mistake. Perhaps instead of bottled spirits to bring me good cheer. I will settle for some Ginger ale and a couple of aspirin this year.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 11:44 PM UTC
Not in sight
not by day
Nor by night
Sinking ships
Sunlight figures
Turn grey and figureless
Lost in space
Lost in time
No rythym
Nor rhyme
Words lose meaning
Truth stinging
Emotions bleeding
Pooling into misunderstanding
Trying to piece it together straining
Looking down upon sanity
Blasphemous in my vanity
Double standards
Life's dander
Dont mean to banter
In a mental decanter
I recount my misdeeds
Still planting bad seeds
Untruths turn to lies
In a world of black flies
Jan 30, 2020
Jan 30, 2020 at 10:19 PM UTC