"dipsomania" poems
We were two introverts
surrounded by an infestation
of the dipsomania and delight.
Ingested by white noise,
flashing lights
and sin,
we stood sheltered behind conservatism
and our cocktails.
This technophonic cave
was crammed with lascivious men
modeling their lavish kicks and threads
in pursuit of non-commitment.
With our backs pressed firmly
against our salutary wall,
we felt inviolable.
But then, you turned to me.
Your chandelier earrings exploded
the luminescence and trepidation
into a million particles,
and through the deafening roar
of pandemonium and decadence,
you offered a wink and said,
“Let’s dance.”
Dec 3, 2011
Dec 3, 2011 at 4:11 AM UTC
He only imbibes because of his dipsomania.
She only practices onanism because she's afraid he'll impregnate her.
He despises her monomania.
She's too affable, almost to the point of being obsequious.
He's too acrimonious and muzzy.
She knows she's a bit of a coquette.
He thinks he's a cuckold.
She used to be flighty until she fell into this convoluted dystopia.
He used to find it scintillating to get sozzled.
She just wants a lark once in a while.
His iniquity makes him want her to be lascivious.
Her every fatuity leads to a cabal.
He's too opaque and insipid.
She has to iterate and reiterate everything she says.
He feels his infatuation is unrequited.
She finds this unproblematic.
He doesn't imbue her with anything anymore.
She thinks he's unpitying of that.
He'll malinger tomorrow.
She'll wonder if it's all adventitious or kismet.
She can't handle his odium.
He can't stand her ten dollar words.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
No pill No pill No pill
No drink No drink No drink
No harm No harm No harm
No escape No escape No escape
Running Running Running
From From From
Myself Myself Myself
Haunted Haunted Haunted
(oh this taunting by thee, by thee, by thee)
A bottle A bottle A bottle
Singing Singing Singing
Lullaby Lullaby Lullaby
Addict Addict Addict
(scratching air you love to berate, berate, berate me)
Skin Skin Skin
Climbing Climbing Climbing
Walls Walls Walls
Caged Caged Caged
(pray to a God to thee above, above, above)
Remember Remember Remember
See a window
Not a mere wall
(See See See)
Thee has caught up
With me, me, me.
© Sia Jane
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
The words I cannot grasp,
whole dreamscapes painted within me.
Oh, the grand copyist he just might be able,
so much better able,
scrawling pictures of your calls fervently.
Recording hue and thought,
and those oceanic depths,
doing what I can only wish for, pray for.
Yet, I do hear.
I do hear it, hear you
Your words, those words,
and of that I am so certain.
So sure of those words, deep and hazy
and so warm, oh so warm.
The sound, the tremulous tone, makes one drunk
so ruined to hear it even only in dream,
even only in furtive whispers.
Ebrietas you are, Daughter of the Cosmos,
bringer of enlightenment through dumbness.
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 11:42 AM UTC
for John Berryman
How many poets,
by alcohol and despair,
choose to depart
this living air?
The Muse can be
an evil *****
she'll **** your brain,
she'll make you twitch.
With her it's not
a casual roll,
she wants your *****
she'll eat you whole.
You strive to strike
the head of the nail;
one blow comes home,
but a dozen others fail.
Soon you despair
to ever succeed:
you open your veins,
commence to bleed.
You give to her,
and give and give,
until it's just
too hard to live.
Then in the bottle
you sadly seek
another day,
another week.
It isn't pretty,
it isn't fair,
and so you depart
down the dying air.
- mce
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
An orange light peaks through the window
Hatefully greets another day.
He pulls the red sleeping bag over his head
Wishing this nausea would subside.
Fresh scrapes across his knuckles
And violent, violet bruises on his knees—
Just another average morning
For this angry young man.
Stumble from the futon
Amongst the battle ground of empty cans,
Searching for lost left over liquid—
The only remedy he’s ever known
What some people call a disease,
He calls it the cure,
But there’s nothing there—
No more money, no other options—this is it.
Sipping on a cup of reality—
The bitter taste of defeat.
Tired of being tired
And sick of being sick.
Earthquake in his stomach,
A tectonic disturbance.
Heartburn made from magma,
A pyroclastic flow.
Dry heaves and convulsions
Above a porcelain *******
He knows he needs to stop,
But no one likes a quitter.
Aug 29, 2020
Aug 29, 2020 at 2:44 PM UTC
“I wish to alleviate all your painful lesions,
Enrapture is not the obstacle it’s the amplitude,
In all aspects of love and the way your ardor desires,
I recall your heart pulsating as I kissed your *****
A large ambit I have found love and seas between us,
My broken heart I will try to heal as I cherish your being,
We are so far aloof now I pray always until that day,
Until this dream becomes reality I will see your guise,
And hear your voice,
My heart thrusts a balefire light in an impending shadow,
That someday we may meet to be together and complete,
Upon I kissing your lips it was as a quaff of sweet wine,
Softness that was never earlier felt by another,
I was kissing you and in its silence holding you tightly,
Kissing from your lips to your torso,
Smelling like a summer rose I heard your heart speak,
I am ever so drawn to you as life’s kismet,
I endlessly listen to the oceans calamitous cries,
In my awareness I must hear the coral reef upsurge,
There was thirst and hunger and you were my fruit,
I gather it up in an ethereal chalice of tempestuous dipsomania”
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 7:55 PM UTC