"drinker" poems
When you Turn 22
Things tend to tread for years on end
No longer the blushing youngster
or the naive college drinker
the world may open slowly
as an oyster holding closer it's pearl
the same goes for the world
once coming of age
becomes the ripe wine we've been waiting for
you will not turn to stone
but turn into the truth
which is who you've been designed to be
after 21
this is when the silhouette you've been filling
finally fades on in
who are you
who did you want to be
well now,
let's find out.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 2:48 AM UTC
I am a Province, a State, a Municipality, and a Region.
I am a Soldier, a Pilot, a Minister, and a Legion;
I am a black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A French man, American, Canadian, and Roman.
I am a rap artist, a singer, a slam poet and guitarist;
I dabble in the dark arts accompanied by a Marxist.
I'm a barista, a gas man, a secretary, and Tsarina,
A King and a Queen and a janitorial cleaner.
I am a "lover," a "hater," a "here now" and "there later,"
I am Luke Skywalker, yet at the same time, Lord Vader.
I am a driver, a walker, a rider, a stalker,
A conservative liberal and a well-learned straight-talker.
I am a salesman and clerk,
A criminal and a serf,
The proud owner of a weapon that, while it kills, saves the Earth.
I am a drinker and smoker,
A consumer and broker,
A bomb-maker, con-artist, Priest, and interloper.
I am a Citizen.
Religious and secular,
Macrocosmic, molecular,
Suit wearing, uncaring, emphatic, irregular,
A "packie," a **** a Scrabble fan playing Yahtzee;
A Jihadist, sadistic, addicted to Herodotus,
History is repeated by the philosopher that thought of us.
The eroticist literature towards which we've all lusted;
It looks like the bullets machine-gun is busted.
Indifferent, ecstatic, illicett, erratic,
An infant, a senior, a young man with bad-lip,
A black man, a white man, a brown man, a woman,
A Jew and a Christian, a Muslim musician,
A monarch, elitist, pro-abortion defeatist,
An anarchist, Black Panther, and a rich plutocratic;
I am a citizen,
And as one,
I'm elastic.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 1:35 PM UTC
So here, twisted in steel, and spoiled with red
your sunlight hide, smelling of death and fear,
they crushed out your throat the terrible song
you sang in the dark ranges. With what crying
you mourned him! - the drinker of blood, the swift death-bringer
who ran with you so many a night; and the night was long.
I heard you, desperate poet, Did you hear
my silent voice take up the cry? - replying:
Achilles is overcome, and Hector dead,
and clay stops many a warrior's mouth, wild singer.
Voice from the hills and the river drunken with rain,
for your lament the long night was too brief.
Hurling your woes at the moon, that old cleaned bone,
till the white shorn mobs of stars on the hill of the sky
huddled and trembled, you tolled him, the rebel one.
Insane Andromache, pacing your towers alone,
death ends the verse you chanted; here you lie.
The lover, the maker of elegies is slain,
and veiled with blood her body's stealthy sun.
5.7k
when made a designated drinker
for a designated driver.
when stomaching stale pabst
and rationed sweet cider.
when frat boys fulfill
stereotypical homophobia.
when twenty grade A reds
can't last me longer than a dream.
when old man nightclub and triple kills
usurp the crown of moderation.
when you fall asleep
with so much in your blood to spill
like beans,
or milk not worthy of tears,
and i keep a loom in my heart
where i weave a string of everyone
[with myself]
and every fray in warp or weft
is mimicked by the splinters
shuttled to my hand.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
If I knew who I’d be
by the last written line of this poem.
If I knew who’d sway, besotted, beside me
to lean in and catch the last word
of our maundering sobhet;
If this, I’d never have left
my Beloved's company to begin with.
I crawled wild-eyed from the depths
of the inexplicable,
cold embers of abandoned age,
To go there.
To go to the tip
where the flame flickers
and breath burns.
The Beloved is the earth,
my awareness, roots.
If this,
then love is the water
flowing through the rock,
drawn up the vine
to fatten the grape.
This drunken dance
is a fruit harvest
We fools are the wine makers.
Who gets who intoxicated?
Bestami Bayazid said,
*"I am the wine drinker and the wine and the cupbearer
I came for from Bayazid-ness as a snake from its skin.
Then I looked and saw that lover and beloved are one
I was the smith of my own self.
I am the throne and the footstool.
Your obedience to me greater than my obedience to you
I am the well-preserved tablet.
I saw the Kaaba walking around me."*
I say, I arrived in this place two sunsets back
but I did not have to travel to get here.
The earth makes its way around the sun on my behalf.
My journey is both a somber desert
and a purling rain forest
It is my pause that makes one or the other so.
A hungry sparrow hops cautiously through bread crumbs
strewn around a fat loaf of bread.
The feast is on the table, our hands in our pockets,
our mouths sealed shut,
bellies full of hesitation, we circle the spread.
Empty are the stores of those who
Cannot sate their hunger for truth.
The empty belly of a sparrow
sees the universe in a morsel of bread
So of what use is the whole loaf.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 8:57 AM UTC
1628
A Drunkard cannot meet a Cork
Without a Revery—
And so encountering a Fly
This January Day
Jamaicas of Remembrance stir
That send me reeling in—
The moderate drinker of Delight
Does not deserve the spring—
Of juleps, part are the Jug
And more are in the joy—
Your connoisseur in Liquours
Consults the Bumble Bee—
4.3k
Quincy Valero
Everybody’s best friend
Jet black hair
Shiny brown eyes
A boyish smirk
Standing six foot something
Coming out of catholic school agnostic
Attending state college
Every word that came out of his mouth was a riot
A funny story of a bad situation he was in that he can laugh at now
An awkward moment with a girl he tried to get in bed
God awful train rides with a clueless conductor
Quincy Valero
A wanna-be Casanova
The irish-italian self-proclaimed “Don Juan of Dumont”
Roaring down the suburb streets in his bright yellow mustang
From Bergen county to Trenton
Edgewater to Ewing
Bumping R&B; from the 90's
A main girl
A side chick
And a few back pocket broads
Leading them on
To where?
I’m not even sure he knows
Quincy Valero
My best friend since I’ve been here in Purgatory
My lifelong cellmate
My hetero life mate
My brother of second thought
Our token white boy
He’s had his ups
Wild ragers until day break
A four way with me and two girls in my four door sedan
He’s had is downs
Falsely charged with domestic abuse
Community service, endless court room hearings, suspensions and a whole bunch of nonsense
Quincy Valero
The quintessential example of the modern day male
Stays up all night
Sleeps all day
Opportunistic
Egotistical
Miserly
*****
And hungry
Always aching to put in his two cents
And leaving everyone in a howl of laughter
An Adderall popping
Seasoned drinker
A professional *** smoker, coached by yours truly
Fast talking baritone voice
With a half serious tone
Yes, Quincy Valero
The tight plain white t-shirt wearing
Chino sporting
Nostalgic, slightly racist, sexist, anti-semitic
Bust usually honest, friendly and apologetic
Good hearted dude we all love to hate
And hate to love
Bed-headed
Pajama bottom ***
Talking about his Svedka regrets
And we laugh and laugh and the stupidest things
Then remember events that seem so long ago
And then make plans for tomorrow
Yeah, one of my best friends
My oldest friend
That’s Mr. Quincy Valero
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
Shadow of the past,
echo of the future;
dedicated Musician,
a Phonomancer;
and inspired Philosopher,
a Philosomancer.
A Mystic and a Metalhead,
a lifetime Scholar and a self-Teacher;
a determined and self-guided mythic Artist,
a psychologist and an Observer;
I am a Lover, a Father, and a Son,
a homeowner and a Dishwasher,
a Friend and a bit of a stoner,
a social drinker and a fan of quality Spirits;
I am a self-contained Universe
contained within another Universe;
so fractal-esque.
There is much to this being I call "me"
and so little of it is visible
from the surface of my awareness;
so much of it falls within-
within the limitless void;
to be revealed only in Time,
and, to be unraveled by Time.
Discerning, yet reckless,
a wise man and a fool;
I find myself within,
and within myself,
a beautifully chaotic dance
of chaotically diverse energies.
Within:
the Spirit of a Renaissance Man;
Music, Geometry, Cosmology,
Mathematics, Statistics, Physics,
Mythology, Musicology, Psychology,
Masculine, Feminine, Canine, Feline,
Light, Dark, Day, Night, Sun, Moon,
Anthropology, Cooking, Dreams,
*** Love, Lust, and Suffering,
Spirituality, Science, Language,
Contrast, Respect, Individualist,
Intuition, Feeling, Understanding,
Action, Non-Action, Elation,
a bit of a Goth and a Hippie,
a Rocker and a Composer,
Haphazard Attention to Detail,
Conscious, Shadow, Subconscious,
Id, Ego, Super-Ego,
Animal, Human Being.
Alive.
Mortal.
Mortal,
and grateful for it.
An aspiring,
amateur Shaman
who "shows promise";
dabbling in Feng Shui,
the Occult,
T'ai Chi,
the Tao, Zen,
Music,
Art,
and Life;
a dilettante Poet;
I am an ephemeral expression,
a temporary microcosm,
of both the Human Spirit
and the very Universe
in which we occur,
if for but a brief,
beautiful,
fleeting,
moment.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 12:13 AM UTC
A man is always looking
To get some free advice
So go and find the fellow
Drinking whiskey over ice
Your friends will tell you one thing
While you're both knocking back a beer
But really, I mean really
Is this the stuff you need to hear
Find a whiskey drinker
He'll tell you how to buy a car
He'll share his whiskey wisdom
About what's a good cigar
A man who drinks good whiskey
Whether neat or over ice
Is the best one you can turn to
When you're looking for advice
He's made it and he knows it
He's not drinking at the pub
He's sitting in a wing back
Drinking whiskey at the club
So, if you're looking for assistance
And you need some good advice
Go get some whiskey wisdom
Sharing whiskey over ice
Sep 29, 2021
Sep 29, 2021 at 11:59 PM UTC
The preacher scrubbed your sins away absolved you under rafters
under fire
under auspices
Of books with dust in bindings
layed down many lifetimes thick.
But a preacher needs a pulpit
like a fish requires scales
Without the choir, no pool to swim.
Senators tell you sweetened lies
that half us want to hear
two per state
means only saying
"Sorry," 'bout half the time
to half the people, sometimes.
But a liar needs your two ears
and a moment of your time
No need for snake oil when you're well.
McGowan is a drinker, true
draining oceans of pints dry
under fire
under praises, too
From quarters high and lowly
his legend laid down thickly
But a preacher needs a pulpit
and McGowan needs a page
Needs pen in hand and needs a stage
Otherwise, he's just a "Shane."
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 7:01 PM UTC
I'll be your raindrop
if you'll be my window pane
or
I'll be your wet blouse
if you're caught in the rain
Be my asylum and
I'll be your criminally insane
and
I'll be your stock options
if you'll be my net gain
If you were my trap
I'd cordially be your reeking dead mouse
or
I could be your wrap-a-round porch
if you'd be my creeking old house
I'll be your idiot
if you'll be my quick thinker
and
You can be my Bud Lite,
I'll be your binge drinker
I'll be your loser
you can be my laughing hyena
or
You can be my cougar
and I'll gladly be your half-dead zebra
Be my ****** predator
I will be your self-defense class
or
I'll be your censorship and
you can just be your own **** ***
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 11:08 AM UTC
I had to go and see my Doctor
For I was feeling rather dõwn
He took one look and said to me
You need to go out on The town.
He asked are you a heavy drinker
And do you drink alot of wine
I said whisky is my tipple
My preference every time.
He asked if I drink it often
I replied every single night
He laughed and said don't worry
That's perfectly alright.
He asked me what's my favourite blend
I said the Scottish highland malt
That's what they recommended
So the drinkings not my fault.
He asked do you eat much greasy food
Now that's something I can't deny
He suggested cooking frozen chips
They take less time to fry.
I asked Doctor what's your verdict
Is there anything you can do
He replied go out and have some fun
We are humans and our years are few.
So i am glad that I saw my Doctor
Now I am happy and I'm pleased
So go and see your Doctor
He will put your mind at ease.
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 7:09 AM UTC
I used to be a big coffee drinker
Had to have my four or five cups
Of real fresh brewed coffee
Not for me the weak instant coffee
Of decafe coffee or herbal fake coffee
But over time coffee caught up to me
And now I can not handle the real deal
And I am forced to drink decafe coffee
Which is a kind of fake coffee to me
Or herbal coffee
Which is entirely fake
Designed to taste like the real thing
But without that caffeine kick
That true coffee drinkers crave
Since we are all caffeine addicts at heart
Just need that rush to get going
And keep going
And the fake coffee
Just does not do the trick
And so, I am doomed
To drink decafe coffee
And fake coffee
Missing my real cup of coffee
Until the I enjoy the last drop
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 2:04 AM UTC
If I was a coffee drinker
I’d balance your body like a rosetta
I’d kiss your cheek with my
Colombian coffee breath
the flavor of our love like
your crema on my tongue-
notes of rich chocolate evenings
and salty, very salty
your bitterness like the very first time
notes of my coffee cherry-
no, your coffee cherry
the aftertaste like high acidity
your complexity gets lost on
my caffeine intolerance
but I still feel your finish
each time I swallow
I still find notes of you,
cupping me
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 3:39 AM UTC
Drawing things I cannot see,
Listening,
Keenly,
Too the strange things,
Coming from,
the albino dressed pavement smoothed,
Bedroom walls,
Braille textures,
slipping like termites,
or a strange smell,
dancing from the dusty old lady haired vent,
on the ceiling,
Braille raindrops,
escaping from your,
soul window sill,
fog,
gets in the room,
and we light cigarettes,
purple scented totem poled candles,
with out near future,
melting,
and dripping on the wooden counter-top,
which we dip our fingers into,
sticky like petroleum,
sticky like the sap from a forest broken snapped,
tree limb,
which we tasted,
which we ran danced hollered and orgasmed,
like the melting candle,
like the sapped,
broken kansas public tree limb,
and i,
took off your,
orange dress that you stole,
though only a few dollars,
i called bonnie,
you called me paradise,
though we danced gleefully,
in the slums snout snarling broken home windows,
pot-holes,untied shoes,untied fathers,lovers planning paradise,
inside the blue 80's oldsmobile,
with the stereo turned low,
low like the quiet hummingbird song,
of making love,
in the cold night,
under trees,
that was old,
and had probably seen many lovers,
come and go,
as its Fall leaves grew wings,
as its,
winters balding scalp,
scattered away,
like a field of dandelions,
or the birds,
that flew from nests,
only to fly south,
or like wise boxcar boxcar dharma bums,
sat on telephone wires,
at the intersection,
where two lovers planned paradise,
in the back-seat,
of a blue Oldsmobile,
and the night,
holy night,
and i,
**** mind wonderer without wings,
or sad singer leather boots harmonica whiskey drinker,
and Her,
white as stars,
dancing in a blind choreographed orchestra,
in the sky,
far,
far,
far,
even the highway,
has no exits,
to see this performance,
So i sit on a rock,
smoking a cigarette,
with a Fools smile,
as I,
watch beauty,
from the Key-hole,
that is,
Solitude.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
Last Christmas grandmother told anyone who would listen that she quit the wine. She said it once as my father cracked open a bottle of *** She said it again serving the ham; mentioned it in passing while gramps polished off a bottle of Malbec;
she said that last summer in the hot-tub at Laurie’s she had a bit too much Sangria and got out and fell on the pavement, cutting up her knees real bad ---
she said that she couldn’t even believe it was happening, she couldn’t believe that she drank so much. I could believe it.
Gram had always been a bit of a drinker; her sober stinging words caught you good enough even when she was on her best behavior. Imagine when she was unhinged! Talking while her teeth were all red was like getting sucker punched by a kangaroo; Gramps got all loose and loud, Gram got all hot and bothered and mean.
Don’t get me wrong. If I could, I’d drown in a pool of whiskey, choke on the amber stream from the tap.
But I don’t lie about it! I don’t talk about it; I don’t lie about it.
I’ve been sneaking sips since I was 14,
and I’ve been drinking pools of the stuff since I was 17 and if you asked anyone they might not believe you.
I wonder if punching people in the face and choke holding them into doing what you want them to do is a past-time. Most people drink to get nice.
People like her drink to get mean.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
"Who profits more?
The cup that fulfills its purpose?
Or the drinker?"
The students didn't answer.
The bell had rung.
They wouldn't get any participation credit.
It wouldn't affect their grade.
The professor didn't care either.
He was just filling the time.
If they thought about it or not,
He would still get payed.
He fulfilled his purpose.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 6:07 PM UTC
The cop asked me for my license to which
I replied what the hell is that.
Officer Tillman I belive i met your wife in a restroom
down at the laundrymat.
She didnt do ya justice.
Cause you arent all that ugly
but you are kinda fat.
No my last name isnt Knoxville but I
sure had some fun in Tennessee.
Met darlin that left a burnin feelin behind just for me.
My life is like a tweenty four hour cartoon.
A wreckless wonder.
If ya wanna ride along theres always room.
Gotta babydoll I often reffer to as Tinker.
She's my favorite semi insane funsize drinker.
Got a amigo or two.
Some fake ID's cause some people just happen to be looking
for me.
I thought you already knew.
Some people like to hate.
Clive. Forrest. Ian.
Dont be jelouse your still living togather in the same basement
no hope ever having none inflatable
date.
Iv'e taken some pretty hard licks.
Put my mind in a blender .
Now all im left with is becon bits.
Im the Jackass of poetry alone I hold the crown.
Some might call me a village idoit.
But I would say im most fun fella in town.
And if ya read this work and still cant see.
You can go to hell.
And thats one thing apon me my imaginary friends
and my little badass tinker agree.
Oct 18, 2009
Oct 18, 2009 at 11:55 AM UTC
His father was a drinker,
his father was a drinker.
And for him,
love was a folding chair.
Life was difficult.
and time was purchased in packages.
Bruises would wax and wane,
though his skin stayed clear,
His wrists were like orchids,
you could peer through it,
thin, fragile, and resilient,
but see the carbon, not the blood.
His father worked at Lobel’s;
his father worked at East National.
In those days, gin was cheap,
but tonic was steep.
(Circa 1894)
(Circa 1918)
Jul 13, 2010
Jul 13, 2010 at 12:33 PM UTC
Can I ascend a poem allegorical?
Are Tetley's teabags paradoxical?
A teabag is full of strength,
Teabag enters moisture at string's full length,
Radiating vigour and a pick-me-up,
While the tea drinker begins to sup,
There is the lonesome teabag,
Sodden, drained by old hag,
Limp and fatigued,
I ponder, intrigued,
Are teabags signs sent from above?
Are teabags truly true love?
Is this a poem allegorical?
Used teabags--quite paradoxical!!
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
Here's to the...
Calorie counter
Long sleeve wearer
Excessive water drinker
Mirror believer
Professional over-thinker
Clever liar
Hair puller
Tongue biter
Thigh hater
Toilet bowl hugger
Magazine lover
Belly fat ****
At home cryer
Bedroom hider
Internet follower
Social stink bug
One sided therapist
Friend loser
Terrifying truth
Reality dodger
Space-brained
Nicknamed
Love rejector
Anxiety collector
Roller coaster rider
Personal antagonist
Perfection chaser
Hopeless dreamer
Nothing achiever
Unnoticed angel
Silent rainbow
Blood seeker
Soul-searching rebel
Wilting rose
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 9:44 PM UTC
I was a woman on the war path
Chanting, beating my chest, painting my face
I was new at life and bleeding that youthful aura
But now I’ve gone dry, thirsty for what I let go.
I watch him stand over your body,
And painfully remove all I had adorned you with.
I had used you as a sanctuary for all my dreams.
You had seen the best and worst of me
But now you see me worst of all, retired.
I no longer venture into the night and roll into the morning
I don’t climb the walls, or shout to the seasons
I don’t cry with all-consuming passion
I don’t love with reckless infatuation
I don’t hate myself when I’m high on angst
I even don’t love myself when I’m high on vanity
I was the epitome of extremes and starved for thrills
The runaway, the rolling stone, the troublemaker
The flirt, the fighter, the drinker and smoker.
I’m grateful you’re too fogged to notice me
Because I know you wouldn’t believe
The shrewd and quiet ghost I’ve grown up to be.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 12:32 AM UTC
For Emma Ottinger “I put out (my stories) just because”
“just because”
that’s the best excuse you got girl?
cause be-ing
just
is a **** good one
way back in March
wrote a declaration^ to all those just
beginning with an iota of courage and
a good story telling
way of seeing and the
secret sauce-way
to spin my imagination in
my eye sockets
with their well words,
for I am a drinker of
the beaujolais firsts of the new grapes
of young poets
words welling springing from between
the oohs and ahs and the damns -
I wish I had wrote that...
so here’s a hero push - so many kinds of bread to
fill our baskets, please girl may I have some more?
so here’s to you - and the Great Plains that birthed you,
and the breadbasket of four poem/stories you poured out
that were so far from plain, how could you know of seas and sea foam and cobalt and mahogany human body parts?
and the speech patterns of waves that took me decades to learn?
use those “Jacob’s ladders between your fingers,”
“whistle me like a stray dog following,”
for that’s what “the kingpin of my flighty wits”
requires, for this old scribbler is now:
“firmly rooted for a girl who's bold enough
to crack the whip over her head if
ever went to war with myself.
A confidant that won't run,
won't offer half truth when
the whole of it
is all that actually matters.”
so write with that window light on and
wheat fields that can be reenvisioned as the gray-blue sea
from which I crawled out of croaking...
to read you rightly
6/25/18
10:25PM
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 10:37 PM UTC
. tiky torches, and not football hooligan red flares?! i want gnashing teeth.... the red worm... i want the crude.... waiting feud!
you, don't, make,
dictum, in, this,
part, of, the world!
nein!
you, can, have,
your women!
but, not, the, ego,
of males!
**** you, and your
colonialist past
rewrite!
**** you...
dr. dre, ******
so no, what becomes
musicological
click-bait?!
****** ****** yo **
******* term
gets... owned?!
like *vomito *****
making reference
to the black plague?!
you do your ****** bit,
i do mine...
and we meet in the middle...
and then...
we crash and burn...
for whatever it's worth...
now catch me petting
rottweilers...
heavy headed
craniums...
ready to bullwhip
a gnash of a raiding bullish
cranium head-butt...
just, gagging,
to perform,
the jaw-swapping gnash!
sure... big, bogus,
jaw dropping crude...
of a count of teeth...
but...
i'm itching...
itching to fasten onto a feast
of a fist;
not in eastern europe, ******
you come here...
you play by our rules...
the whole
anti-rap...
the whole
hip hop scene of Warsaw...
no, not really...
i'm not exactly
part of either, "scene"...
god...
i haven't even allowed myself
to use edgy words...
girl worth a *****
but to succumb to motherhood?
i'm a heavy drinker,
i'm not exactly the moralizer;
wrap up, clean the shit-show...
and forget i even
managed to circumstance
a narrative.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 10:48 PM UTC