"drunkenly" poems
Her eyes so bright;
Do you ever wonder where the sun goes at night?
The rain, dancing on the pavement
in no specific arrangement.
Luminous flames eat away at sharp skewers,
Her eyes silver-grey, clashing with the tables of steel.
Barbecue roasting, impaled through the middle
The pain paled in comparison to watching you smile.
A toast to me, myself and I, a glass of sweet solitude.
I watch tall wine glasses clang drunkenly together, alone.
A pin drops in the distance; no silence to accompany it.
Unnoticed it goes, by the arrogant lords and goddesses.
Pick a flower, compliment her hair; devil may care.
She's walking away, I tell her 'Ma'am, have a nice day'
Left alone to stumble back home,
sipping champagne royally; Mockery.
Spilling champagne and it swirls down the drain
I tilt my head back, laughing carelessly all the way.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 6:44 PM UTC
If we were the kind of friends who unironically
raised our glasses in toasts,
I would give one to the generation too comforted by the ease
of a honeybee in the plaintively nonexistent mind
of a tulip
To the generation, or at least its subset
that wrongly feels representative, who stumble drunkenly
or maybe just tiredly out of tents
to **** in the view of their friends, who are still at the fire
because the tent was too cold
To those who did raise their glasses in a toast
on New Year’s Eve at what felt, with the ball drop
not screening in luddite protest, enough like midnight.
Beginning with “dear friends” and a couple laughs;
concluding with “now let’s get ****** up” and
a couple more
To those who proceeded
as directed, clinking their shot-glasses
and swigging them back. If only because
they were not tulips.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
A man I once loved told me he wished I “cared more about my body”
But I do care
I care for every lump and curve as much as I hate them
As much as he hated them
I remember yearning for puberty
A thing to make me tall
And thin
A biological fix for my
PROBLEMATIC BODY
Does he know the history?
The gain and loss
The bullies
The pushed-into-puddles
The nightmares
I despise the power of his lips
A lover disfigured
That’s the vibe
His words birthing a mantra of shame
And I’ll never outrun this skin
Thirty years later
And he’s pushing me into a lake
No principal to save me this time
No dry clothes
He left me years ago
Found a much thinner replacement for my side of the bed
It’s for the best
I tell myself as I drunkenly throw rocks at his window
“Don’t think
Just eat”
Is this just a game I play?
Three glasses of whiskey and a Postmate
Won’t chase the horror away
Momentary pleasure
(add guacamole)
Is that enough?
Will I ever be enough?
No
I am too much
Too much skin
Too much softness
Too many folds
Too much of me is filling up space
That’s what they tell me
I see the reflection and I hate all of this excess ME
“I wish you cared more about your body”
What is the remedy?
A perfect diet
A perfect exercise regimen
Pills
Sweat
Porcelain
Think before you speak on a body, sir
Because your words alone
Have the power to ignite a hell
Of
The
Utmost
Destruction
His venom is still pulsing through me
And I’m burning up
I want to escape
Crawl out from the water
Become pure wind
But how do I love me?
How do I allow myself to occupy space?
To stop hiding from every mirror, every glance at the ocean of my belly?
I don’t know
I’m not there yet
I am on an opposite shore consumed by self-hatred
Longing to set sail for somewhere
Somewhere I can cherish the secrets that these sacred ripples of flesh hide
Where my waistline is a treasure map of my wisdom
A place where his words have no power
Where I collapse into the sunset and set myself...
F
R
E
E
Feb 15, 2021
Feb 15, 2021 at 11:46 AM UTC
it just gets really hard
you know?
i'm a ***** college student
and a hopeless romantic
they tend to bob and weave too much
i want you to pull my hair
BUT i want you to kiss me softly
i want to drunkenly make out with you
text me back first though i'm too scared
it all doesn't help
when my intoxicated alter ego is a temptress
and i turn into bashful the dwarf in real life
it makes things really quite hard
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 5:00 AM UTC
I last saw her in Santiago
******* drunkenly in a Sub urban taverna
parading conceited pride in a twisted union
with that ******** heinous maniacal harlequin
each in vainglorious throes of their imagined septic mindfuck
Debauch celebration of collaboration of succubus and incubus
Some days she is saying Haloa in Hawaii
adorned as Sainti Maria the ***** now as Madonna
spewing words like a dove acting like a Nun in a Convent
the fiendess with two faces hiding her ****** like the ace in lace
the malignant serpent crawling in the duality of her neurosis
I last saw her in Santiago
In a sanctity of the poisoned insecures with exiguous minds
consumed with flaming fears she begs acceptance for inclusion
******* for percieved reflected glory from her fathers' jailers
The subjugated souls of chai wallah lives on in grandchildren
So when Santi Maria flirts from honey to beehive
Ready to ***** and part thighs and brain for minor pointing gun
Feel sorry for a damaged child devoid of a prime core never made
only obeisance to past rulers whose discarded cast-offs she wears
Her poems enchants but its virulent tools she takes in her body
I last saw her in Santiago
A slaved two-faced pretender who sings like a nightingale
In sub urban dives she postrates to friendly pats and gropes
Melting creeps and hot tigers begging subs for a heady drink
Brilliant yet blindsided to **** on knees as her children will too
Copyright@LaurenceA20thSept2018Allrightsreserved.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 9:03 PM UTC
We came,
like young infants
stumbling head-long into hedonistic existence
Feeling air beneath our feet in the weed-smelling rooms,
hiding behind cushions and blankets and exchanging knowing looks
on starry nights.
We ran,
down green hills on hot, sunny days
and burned our hands on shed roofs
and the ends of rolled cigarettes.
We drank,
berry cider in the dark,
dancing drunkenly outside bars,
sharing secrets behind closed doors
and open whiskey bottles.
We needed,
no one but each other
and each other's mothers -
Some opening their arms to us
to swaddle us like newborns,
Others dismissing us with a wave of a hand
We spent,
the last year of our school lives
immersed in each other,
some more than others.
We cried,
like shell-shocked soldiers
behind locked bedroom doors
and into smashed-up mobile phones.
We returned,
to those dark evenings,
to drink ***** on hilltops and smoke endlessly,
laughing at everything ******
We were glowing stars.
We loved,
and those immature jokes hit our shields
and not our bones.
And now our lives have changed
and all those heady evenings spent
hiding beer from Bulgarians
are behind us all.
We are alone,
in this world.
Some moreso than others,
But we are alive.
We are still us.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
He belches verses of prayer
from the acidity of his gut,
staggering upright
on two toddler feet,
he trails drunkenly
to the fridge,
scarce with only a few dented beers,
a bucketful of ice to feed him,
till the next scroungers pay-check is due.
Cracking open a frozen one,
it hisses a warrior's cry,
loud in the stillness
then dies swiftly,
as he raises the carcass to his split lip
swilling alcoholic entrails
round him gums.
Wincing slightly,
the beer half-empty in his hand,
he twitches a pink eye
in pain
as something rolls
around his jaw,
the made-of-man pinball stage
has begun a game
without him.
Gathering his saliva
into a hard bullet,
he spits the foreign object
onto splintered floorboards,
where his last tooth lands,
a final casualty
of his handsome youth.
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 4:18 PM UTC
Waking up with sweat
stained sheets wrapped
around me and you are
nowhere to be seen as
you believe being mean
is keeping the lads keen.
Your leather jacket is
still here hanging on the
hook by the front door
and he wonders why
she didn’t want more.
He loved her laugh last
night as they drunkenly
tried to walk right home
after finishing a few gin
and tonics between them
that made his head spin
and her think that she
would forever win at sin.
Her long blonde hair
had flown out behind her
and it reminded him of
fresh sunflowers because
that was the colour of her
beauty and he prayed the
rest of the night would not
be another careless blur.
The radiance within her
shone so bright that he
didn’t even turn on the
kitchen light as he let
them both inside as the
liquor made their shyness
want to shrivel up and hide.
But in the next morning,
there was no hungover girl
mumbling sleepily and
yawning because instead
there was only her leather
jacket and the faint smell
of sweet perfume left on
his pillow as he tried to
visualize that beautifully
bright sunny yellow that
made his throat dry and
gave him a sickening urge
to cry because he didn’t
want this feeling to die.
He wondered if she would
call because it really hadn’t
taken him long to fall for her
long limbs and the way she
had dark humour that stung
him like a cheap rumour and
so he slept on the sofa that
day with the aching bones
of a man who lives alone
but with a leather jacket
wrapped around his arm
because he wanted to see
her again and see if she
maybe felt the same but
he knew deep down it
was a Friday night love
and the weekend would
soon fade away because
she was never destined to
stay yet he hung her jacket
in the closet for years to
come and tried again to
find the perfect one but
he’d let her slip between
his fingers yet the smell
of her sweet perfume still
lingered for Friday nights
to come and he missed the
colour of the sun that shone
in her hair and the bright
eyes that that craved fear.
She’d been his Friday night
coffee and cream that would
never return no matter how
much he stroked the seams
of her faded leather jacket.
Sunflower girl was now
gone with the wind and
soon he could no longer
recall her voice and the
paleness of her soft skin.
It was like she had never
met him in the first place
but oh god how he loved
her beautiful hair and knew
she had once been there in
his arms even if it had only
been for one Friday night.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 4:37 PM UTC
Again the time has come for all to gather round the fire,
"That time again", we say, while we assess the money drained,
The looks of disappointment from the ***** with stupid attire,
And truth will leak from drink fuelled mouths, with need to be restrained.
Your mum is singing drunkenly, while flirting with the vicar,
And dad is out the back sneaking a joint with cousin victor,
The dog is ******* aunt Jemima's artificial leg,
And someone just had a turkey fart,the kind that makes you sicker.
The christmas lights have fused again, so grandad's on the roof,
Sheer will power keeps him up there,and of course, martini vermouth,
Grandma's lost her teeth,and someone screams near the eggnog,
They're sent flying across the room and land in the fire on a log,
You feel your patience slipping as the pandamoniem mounts,
With thankless moans of "Oh well, its the ****** thought that counts",
And not forgetting Glenn, invited by your mum, but why?
So you and he can marry, and honeymoon in Hawaii.
With no idea that Glenn is gay, i guess the joke's on her,
I mean, what straight guy wears his y fronts entirely made from fur??
The night draws to a close,as bitter, crying family leave,
And relief is all too short, as there's still new years eve!!!
Dec 20, 2009
Dec 20, 2009 at 7:54 AM UTC
I want to kiss you.
I want to feel your downy lips
Pressed gently against my own.
I crave to feel them part like the
Earth's mantle
Revealing your core
That is wet, hot, and squirming.
I desire to taste your sweet
Honeyed saliva,
To satiate
The sweet tooth
Of my lust.
I want to grip you
As if I were holding onto my own soul
As it tried escaping from my body.
Like it was the end of the world
And we only had each other
To look to for affection
In our final moments of existence.
I thirst to look into your dewy eyes,
That reflect my own feelings
A mixture of desire and fear.
I want to drink in your wanton stare
And get intoxicated by it.
And we'll fall, drunkenly.
Inebriated from life for the first time.
We'd roll around together
Laughing.
The sound
Muffled and obscured,
By the pressing of our lips
And the movement
Of our tongues.
Our bodies would contort,
As we grasped at clothes
Out of instinct.
We'd feel hot
And constricted,
Taking deeper and deeper breaths
As we kissed.
Still waiting,
For the world to end.
-SLuR
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 4:34 AM UTC
Sleuthing drunkenly in a car home.
My nature subdued by the foul
nature of the world.
Gay club I leave my body hanging out to dry.
I can show every but ever moment of myself
and I love every send of it.
Belly is out.
Dec 31, 2022
Dec 31, 2022 at 11:11 PM UTC
part, the first; serve
a good conversation is like a good game of tennis,
(with no winner) the ball drunkenly goes from side to side.
coffee shop, asking to pass the sugar,
the serve is delicate and precise, making it is key.
acceptance with the splenda is passed along with ‘sure’,
the receiver must lose their name, anticipate the arrival
following up with such a statement, a vocational inquiry
title lost, the ball has been struck and thrown as response.
part, the second; dance
the game has truly begun;
the beginning is not the serve,
but the response to.
back and forth in endless banter,
meaningless question,
to meaningless answer.
secretly, both don’t want the volley to end;
not often does the
passing sugar trick work.
part, the third; point
a fatal slip- achilles heel:
remembrance. no appointment is worth
losing a point, even
one for a prostate check (despite common opinion)
good thing then; the score
does not go to a single point, it requires
four or so completions,
though by four they will not count score
(and will drop the rackets).
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 9:59 PM UTC
Birds chirp, the winds blow,
And as the sun sets, we give the day a bow.
Clean Colorado accommodates commoners from Lincoln's Land.
We've ditched the silt and the sand;
Stranded in a glimpse of a possible past, here I stand.
Elated by elevation, tranced by trepidation,
the group's gaze encounters a misty haze,
Followed by copious amounts of precipitation.
Pick up the pace; though we won't win the race
To the dry car and a full case.
Hell is the home of a heathen's heart;
Heaven holds promise a bright new start.
Existence on earth extends only for so long;
For now we're here, soon to be gone.
Early mornings shed light on a promising day;
Late nights cast spells we drunkenly obey
Perched in a chair by a growing fire,
the consuming flames ascend higher and higher.
Ignited embers blown astray,
Trails of smoke follow its prey.
Back on the highway.
Homeward bound, the only sounds
Are the stories and gestures that say
Not what we lost, but what we found.
Jul 2, 2011
Jul 2, 2011 at 10:27 PM UTC
A falling feather on the breeze,
lilting like the Seraphim
songs of Mephistopheles,
lured her drunkenly to him.
Lilting like the Seraphim,
she drank his iridescence. He
lured her drunkenly to him,
enraptured in naivety.
She drank his iridescence. He
befouled her virtue, was the air.
Enraptured in naivety
no more, would Eden hear her prayer?
Befouled; her virtue was the air
he stole away, a hunched-up thief.
No more would Eden hear her prayer -
the echoes howling his motif.
He stole away, a hunched-up thief,
a fallen feather on the breeze;
the echoes howling his motif -
songs of Mephistopheles.
Footnote: Passages from folk lore:
Hindu - the peacock is said to have angels' feathers, a devil's voice
and the walk of a thief
Chinese - a girl who looks at a peacock could become pregnant
Islamic: the peafowl carried Satan into the Garden of Eden after consuming him
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 5:08 PM UTC
fast forward three years
you're living on the coast binding books and your hips together
and i'm still in the small town that turned me into a sinkhole
you got out though, huh? you got out just fine, you have always been stronger than me
you have always been able to get well and get up without anyone bringing you bouquets of hands
you sit down to explain to her that love has made you reckless, that too many people
have been easygoing with your heart; let it cross the streets alone.
drunkenly leaving it in cabs in other countries
so for a while there you weren't sure who to give it to
my dear, I know now that you were never a hotel I could check in and check out of
you were in the best way possible, the mental hospital,
the time I woke up with nobody but the voices in my head (they were all yours)
(I couldn't leave until I got better)
you tell her you fell in love with a girl who never burned your letters,
who showed love in all the wrong ways, never picked up the phone, "honey", you'd say,
"she was nothing like you" ... "kept her hair light to contradict the dark inside of her,
didn't trust anyone to blindfold her and walk her down the street"
you try to tell her my name, but you can't
you can't remember what they call me, call me, call me,
I never picked up the phone
fast forward three years
you're living on the coast making love and mixed drinks a little too strong
and i'm buried near the sinkhole in town, next to the dog my dad kicked a little too hard
out the door of the house he lived in with my mother
i've got your name tattooed on my neck
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 6:58 PM UTC
Strumming the untuned strings, he stares drunkenly into the setting sun of yesteryears songs, sung of lost dreams and the birthed ambitions of the dark, dark days to be.
Happily, he tears up in the fortunate tragedies, of the reclamation in his dreams, as he seethes out the damnation of his steeds, galloping gallantly through his being.
All seeing, in the finite fleeting when he sings, of strummed dreams to the rhythms of heart beats lost, embossed on the epitaphs of kings.
Sad songs of dreams once had.
Be glad for that, which does not **** you, only to bestow upon you, the gratitude of the weirding ways, in passionate display for us all to play nice.
Shake these dice and jump aboard this bus of wandering poetry, from the porches of poets singing to the sun.
From the morning Moet, to the afternoon beer run.
we sing of dreams
of better things
we blaspheme
and spin the scenes
of our murdered dreams
and just clean the guilt away
I am so awesome as to be devoid of fault.
I am a god that cracks the asphalt.
I am the angel signing the clause, of deserved harm.
I am the indentured servant sounding the alarm, with the charm of a Trojan horse, forced to adhere to the most righteous path.
The first
The last
Laugh of inevitability
Honing in on the ability to capture the longevity of dream warriors, in the lock of predators, in the employ of a senator, from the center of the heart, to impart on you the fear from thieves caught in the plight of those fraught with the graces of an exterminator, exterminating the pro-creators of your world. Soldiers unraveled in the lavished gavels of real criminals drowning in their own subliminal theories of the self imposed heresies of intention.
Free will
A fragile blessing
I cracked, all so long ago, as i gently bestow my belligerence upon your innocence and **** it all away.
I'm the ******* son
Strumming for the only one.
Once.
Before the lore of the storm.
Born of the swoon of a gun.
More than one.
Once.
As the day faded into night, his strumming turned plucking, as he slightly eased from reprise to silence, in the whisper of nights words, easing him into the blur, of sleep.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 3:46 PM UTC
Light drunkenly reels into shadow;
Blurs, slurs uneasily;
Slides off the eyeballs:
The segments shatter.
Tree-branches cut arc-light in ragged
Fluttering wet strips.
The cup of the sky-sign is filled too full;
It slushes wine over.
The street-lamps dance a tarentella
And zigzag down the street:
They lift and fly away
In a wind of lights.
2.7k
the brevity of a singular breath,
one that is full of peace,
such a rare glimpse but
if you look at his face, at the right time,
you might just see him smile.
then, much like an old spruce cello,
descending in suspense,
that smile -evaporates-, and the
quick "bliss" is no more.
oh how old and wise is this cello i play,
if only it was genuinely surprised by the
intensity of such
-hair raising horror-
it faces in its composure, daily.
"but it simply ain't",
as Bukowski would drunkenly say,
and his quivering cigarette would rightfully echo
through the halls of this unholy Cathedral.
"put me the **** down already, Charles", it echoes.
"no,
i refuse
to let go of my
identity...
...why would i let go of all
-i feel-
is left?"
he (i) is either a man,
or on the road to understanding
what this even means really...
...maybe he's halfway there...
regardless, he now understands,
he must accept
"reasons" to smile won't come often,
and one is subject to the tug of war of life,
of society,
of women,
of his children,
of his forgetful mother,
of his vices,
his hair raising horrors,
the torment,
of his absent father.
to continue is to face those suspenseful
-crescendos-
of life, with
"a ********* smile on your face",
as Bukowski would say,
no matter
-what-
he's been through, or
-how-
-deeply-
he
-feels-
...
-melancholicreator
Feb 21, 2024
Feb 21, 2024 at 6:24 PM UTC
I've never known how to properly end a conversation with you, whether it be a phone call or a kiss good bye. Fingers fumble and awkward "I love you"'s and "good bye"'s drunkenly find their way out of my sober mouth. I never know how to say "fare well".
My theory is that I never want to say good bye in the first place. I'd rather be with you. Though you might be busy talking to someone else or in another room, I want to always be close to you. Saying "good bye" doesn't feel good at all. It feels like I'm going far away and I'm leaving a piece of me behind. I know I might sound clingy and suffocating, but I have adapted a terrible habit of needing someone around to keep me sane. I use to love to be alone, but now I go crazy with thoughts stampeding through my head. I hate to say good bye.
But I love to say "hello". Our "hello"'s are the best. We meet with kisses and hugs and sometimes chocolates. We meet with wide grins and bright eyes that catch the light just right at six in the evening. Our "hello"'s are heart warming and relieving.
The "hello"'s almost make the "good bye"'s worth it.
Almost.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 4:30 AM UTC
I can’t wait until you realize
that nobody is ever going to love you
like I did and you have to cry over me
like I have over you for the past 8 years of my life.
I can’t wait to bring my significant other around you
while you pretend to ignore us as we kiss
and fool around under blankets.
I can’t wait to bring them to your house
and **** while you’re in the same room trying to sleep,
pretending to sleep, wishing you were dead.
I can’t wait until you lose your mind
and everyone looks at you like you’re crazy
as you explain how you love me and
you can’t do anything about it
even though I've told you that it’s never going to happen
because you aren't good enough.
I can’t wait to always look past you
as you do everything in your power to try and make me happy,
hook me up with your friends
and give me everything, but receive nothing.
I can’t wait until you beg me and I can be selfish
and make sure you’re giving me what I want,
neglecting your own needs, before I push you away
using “I’m tired” as an excuse.
I can’t wait until you are hurting yourself over me
and I have to tell you to stop, as if I give a ****
while I continuously put you through pain.
I can’t wait until you drunkenly admit all of your feelings
and apologize for the mistakes of the past.
Even then, I’ll probably still love you, but I won’t give in.
You will never have me;
because the last time I lent you my heart, you ran with it.
I don’t think I’ll ever get it back.
And with no heart, I cannot forgive,
I can never be whole again.
I can’t wait for another chance in another life to break you, like you've broken me.
k.d.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
In every moon there is a man
And in every man there is a heart inside of which lives a woman
Who doesn't clean
Who doesn't cook
Who doesn't serve him
Only lives within the walls of his heart
And within every woman living in a man's heart
There is a desire to be free
It is not odd to imagine her leaving
Merely odd to see her go
Riding on the back of an elephant
In high heels
With a bottle of Chateau de Michelle
And weilding the sword of a swallowing minstrel
Drunkenly yelling songs of a time in which she never lived
And that will never leave a man
Whether the next woman comes in riding a golden chariot pulled by blazing reindeer
Or mounted on a shark wearing a cocktail dress
And while he laments her going
She regrets her ever having left
So she turns around
Looks into the vast nothing behind her
Trampled under the weight of the elephant
Cut down by her drunken fit of rage
Burned and eaten by the coming and going of others
And she sees
That beyond the husk of the home she once knew
Lay merely arteries and valves
And no soft place to lay her head
So she dismounts her companion
Lays down her sword
Crashes the bottle upon the rocks
Tears the heels from her shoes
And limps into the desert
Looking for that which she had already found
While he lie
Filling the emptiness of his ravaged heart
With the tender touch of fleeting acrobats
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 4:56 AM UTC
i miss your lips
the way they'd smoothly dance
like a genie in a lamp
as you'd sing
and speak
how sweet your memory tastes
though the reality has long since faded
i cling to my effervescent exaggerations of our tangled past
replaying time to time
on the dream-screen of my mind
as i snack lightly on the salty remarks of my youth
and i laugh
it hurts
but it feels so healthy
you fade through the moon-mist
and dismiss your own existence
once again proclaiming that you are nothing
but an extension of it all
a fingerprint of the wilky-way
just a strand of DNA
swimming through the wake of infinite expansion
i miss it
the beer-breath incantions you'd softly slur after dark
the kisses you'd plant along my edges
like the vines that trace the hedges
in the front lawn of that dusty place we'd fake our love
nostalgia always begins so inviting
untill you're finally feeling sea-sick
from the over-ingestion of false sweets
and pure imagination
now we're so far gone
living in a different reality entirely
i don't think i'd even know your face if i saw it
i know you only by the way your shape fits in the frame
another handsome man
trapped forever in the reels of film of my mind
but i'll remember you
you're woven into the wood works
drunkenly dancing through a serendipitous sea of names
stands the lamen's term for your current shape
your birth-given name
credited with a handfull of scars
left behind by a man who forced me to grow
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
I Can barely put up with this ****** frustration
that can't be cured any longer, with furious ************
it's like every one but me across this great nation
has known the flesh of another, it's like mental castration
to not know the taste of a woman's flesh
To caress her body while fondling her ample *******
To drunkenly sup from her womanly cup
Am I going to die alone? is that my plan from above?
Now I know that my body is supposed to be sacred
But I can just barely, just barely take it
That primal instinct, that feeling deep in my bones
to finally live out the ****** desires of my own
The stigma that's with a guy who's the age of 18
"Ohh you're still a ****** get out there and drink lean!"
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 8:22 PM UTC
There should be wings of a hundred birds
to churn this scorch with breeze
to dry sweat
shade glare
to soothe the ache
of a post-noon day
There should be varied
and a thousand greens
with all betweens
of innumerable trees
till the blue of sky
blends their deference
And the river heaves its way along
ever on
eternal mission of earth
and...
...Heaven-- sure misses so much some days
Cool remote
Transcended as it be
Replete with rains
and relief of clouds
The Angelus in the distance....
with its affluent affinity for air
Revelers leave their party debris
for those making sure
not a sign is left....
We sort and fold, collapse and pack
Somehow between chairs, tables
cans and bottles, assorted trash
They come--
crouch on the levee
wander and stare
aimless amid tall dry weeds
Inhabit a bench, a moment--
Wild
filtering through our fabrication
Wind to dissipate our purpose
Trees invading abandoned fields
“The poor you have with you always”
“I'm not drunk,”
she drunkenly proclaims
to no one
except maybe….
Leaning over her opened beer
seated on bench adorably painted
with joyful hands
Who fondly held or hoped for her?
Before....
days of dirt troweled a shadow
in the sweat between her *******
Filthy tank that barely covers
derelict denial
How they find themselves established
as we make to leave
WE, of our homes and cars and jobs
and plans of escape
They--
of always
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 11:28 PM UTC