"flasks" poems
I put so much effort into random places,
so much effort into random faces
face it
im faceless
placeless
drifting
shifting
thoughts towards destiny
feeling empty,
wondering whats left in me...?
messages esoteric terrorize my rhetoric
pedestrians staring glaring gazin gotta get a second look
shook
layers shed, fall from those ancient snakes
left for dead
suffocated, stranded
damaged
god ******
this sunless planet is madness
immobilized
try to find sense in a broke world
what are hands without manipulation?
and in life? death is a stipulation
a fools gold is never within grasp
so
clasp delusions Grandiose
with a toast
to sham pain and champagne
emptied grails course through mans veins
oh to see what mirrors saw
would reflections appear at all?
peer into the endless ego
see nothing but self libido
we are all weary travelers,
existences' eternal passengers
remove masks, flasks, end the charade
let serpents slither, and sun bath
away from the shade
embrace the end of nights
push away the start of days
just keep in mind
which way
the pendulum sways
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
339
I tend my flowers for thee—
Bright Absentee!
My Fuchsia’s Coral Seams
Rip—while the Sower—dreams—
Geraniums—tint—and spot—
Low Daisies—dot—
My Cactus—splits her Beard
To show her throat—
Carnations—tip their spice—
And Bees—pick up—
A Hyacinth—I hid—
Puts out a Ruffled Head—
And odors fall
From flasks—so small—
You marvel how they held—
Globe Roses—break their satin glake—
Upon my Garden floor—
Yet—thou—not there—
I had as lief they bore
No Crimson—more—
Thy flower—be gay—
Her Lord—away!
It ill becometh me—
I’ll dwell in Calyx—Gray—
How modestly—alway—
Thy Daisy—
Draped for thee!
8.2k
Moss covered women
beggin' fog man
to grip a cig
from their tangled wigs
(a snarl of emerald branches
& voodoo masks
with plastic flasks,
they grave loot from caskets
& trash.)
Raunchy regulars
calling loogies to duty.
I've been livin' in a tumble ****
with a doctorate for wildebeest.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
The Warden announces; as the Diseased children cower in fear,
The mother stands beside the Warden.
"Evy'body remain calm, The Plague doc'or is 'ere!"
May God forbid; That you ever see that Mask,
Those cloaks, those masks,
those herbs and flasks...
It creeps towards the children; Looming in the silence.
equipped with little mind for medicine, a cane for violence.
Those soulless eyes,
the Putridly herbal aroma close, they despise,
but this masked creature ignores their cries.
The warden feeding mother Lies.
Dimly lit the cold room,
the pungent fume,
''I'll leave 'im to it"
The warden leaves.
but the Doctor stays and silently breathes.
Question on the matter if this Doctor's even Sane,
As it stares upon the child then whips him with the cane.
No Law defies,
the Mother Cries.
Pulling out it's Vials of vial Herbs, this Freak,
Staring coldly around the silent room, pointing everywhere, it's beak.
It passes the two Children pouches of leaves; Mother grieving,
everybody remain Calm, The Plague Doctor is leaving!
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 7:06 AM UTC
Bromley pale marmalade
on rye bread
in tupperware containers,
flasks of milky tea too.
Pens and paper at the ready to review places:
Anglesley Abbey and Borde Hill
visited on alternating months.
Gardens so awe inspiring
their visual consolation
so uplifting,
manna for the mind
and deadlines for the
horticultural society review.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 5:02 AM UTC
In high-school chemistry classrooms across the
country, you are forced to memorize all of the different
lab equipment.
They never tell you to memorize the constellation
of freckles spattered across the bridge of your
lab partner's nose, but you do it
anyways.
You learn about Marie Curie and radioactive decay, but you
find you are more interested in the way his smile starts small
and grows to light a fire in your cheeks.
You blame it on the Bunsen burner.
You study polyatomic ions and how they act as a single unit, and it
reminds you of how he winks at you right before quizzes
and you find you can't focus on anything at all.
You blame it on the lack of breakfast.
You test over periodic trends and ionization energy, but all
you can think of at night is the way he taps his fingers
and maybe it's why you can't sleep at night.
You blame it on a restless mind.
In high-school chemistry classrooms across the
country, you are forced to be careful when handling
Erlenmeyer flasks.
They never tell other students to be careful when handling
your heart.
They never tell you how much easier it is to clean up the mess
from a shattered beaker than it is to clean up the mess
from your shattered heart.
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 4:06 PM UTC
Walking the strip
As though I were a pinball
In a giant arcade game.
Showgirls posing,
Gamblers jostling
With over-sized flasks
Hanging around their necks.
The streets are festooned
With picture cards,
As numerous as confetti,
Advertising all the pleasures
And prices of escorts.
Vegas, Baby?
Keep it there,
Not here.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 4:04 PM UTC
Neon Stella Artois lights and sly hellos
It commenced as we were flew spinning
Ticket stubs and ink -stains
Oh, as our love flirted we both were seeking
Brooklyn Subway stops and ***** clothes
We perched by the equator but only when beginning
Backwards flasks and *******
Then winter solstice was challenged by spring’s springing
Strands of soft pearls and wishing wells
We shivered the anxious touch of a faux July summer’s evening
Empty bar stools and firelight
It was still bitterly February but with the mockery of songbirds floating
Two Thirty Seven A.M. and sea shells
How can the world deceive us in this fashion: fools, we accept ever-knowing
Buttered bread and hindsight
Dawn will crash with frostbite and these daisies will pay the price of their beauty’s sinning
Wine before noon and payphone bills
Wind will eviscerate this moment for once you have touched the sun the ice is more than suffocating
Dry heaving and ribbons
We were only waiting then at the heart of a train station for the stretches of shadows to lengthen
First drags of cigarettes and blue diet pills
The glitter within the dew drops stolen from our tired eyes when our first summer was stolen
Cheap motels and kitchens
We could barely exchange syllables, our melodies quarreling, our blood had thinned
Calendar pages and black lace *******
The euthanasia of the spring would have hung us too if we had breathed it in
The Last calls and lollipops
One can repose more gently in the absence of color than in the theft of sin
Bitten manicured hands and autumn leaves
We used to sleep in a room with wonders, windows, and blankets within
Midnight whispers and rooftops
It was the only place that could soften the swords in all this ruin
****** wrappers and painting supplies
Today is cruel, it cannot be summer if the world doesn’t spin
Happy hour cocktails and goodbyes
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
The sun rises over this no mans land
This desert is still so unforgiving
There's a blister on the back of my hand,
This desert, remains so unforgiving
There's no water to be discovered here
Only parched throats and shattered whiskey flasks
Cowboys so yearning for an ice cold beer,
None to be found so I don't even ask
There's a saloon on the red horizon,
Where you take your boots off and drain the sand
This place so dry not even Poseidon,
Could bring some wetness to this horrid land
I am so hungry, but I still get by,
But for now I'll rest these, my tired eyes
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 1:56 PM UTC
'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's,
Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;
The sun is spent, and now his flasks
Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;
The world's whole sap is sunk;
The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk,
Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh,
Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph.
Study me then, you who shall lovers be
At the next world, that is, at the next spring;
For I am every dead thing,
In whom Love wrought new alchemy.
For his art did express
A quintessence even from nothingness,
From dull privations, and lean emptiness;
He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot
Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not.
All others, from all things, draw all that's good,
Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have;
I, by Love's limbec, am the grave
Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood
Have we two wept, and so
Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow
To be two chaoses, when we did show
Care to aught else; and often absences
Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses.
But I am by her death (which word wrongs her)
Of the first nothing the elixir grown;
Were I a man, that I were one
I needs must know; I should prefer,
If I were any beast,
Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest,
And love; all, all some properties invest;
If I an ordinary nothing were,
As shadow, a light and body must be here.
But I am none; nor will my sun renew.
You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun
At this time to the Goat is run
To fetch new lust, and give it you,
Enjoy your summer all;
Since she enjoys her long night's festival,
Let me prepare towards her, and let me call
This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this
Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.
2.1k
Responsibilty
I dance away from thee
Why can't you just let me be
Escape with some poetry
and voy age for free
A void created
my feet elated
As the A-Voy Dance
is celebrated
We all know this game
As we tango with shame
Find something to blame
Time went and now came
Tax day approaches
Conscience coaches
mind scatters like roaches
A Voy Dance encroaches
Merengue away my tasks
Sip from all of life's flasks
Eye's wide shut with masks
Sick again? your boss asks
Avoid dance, and die in a box
No Samba dancing underground
Alive I feel richer than fort Knox
Lost but now A Voy dance is found...
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 3:02 PM UTC
Friday night
Beneath the lights
The boys are set to go
The scouts are out there watching
It's time they got a show
Football in a small town
It's religion out of church
To find something open Friday night
You'd really have to search
The busses all are lined up
Down the street around the school
Alumni selling t-shirts
With old logos by the pool
There's a game that rivals football
That you can't see from the stands
It's make out time beneath the bleachers
While the fans are clapping hands
No flags for interference
Off sides, no way not here
The players don't wear protection
And in between they're drinking beer
The quarterback he steals the show
Making passes on a line
The college scouts are hovering
That must be a good sign
The smell of deep fried everything
It lingers in the air
There's flasks of Jim Beam passed about
without a single care
The band performs a drumline
Keeping beat for those below
The ones not playing football
The kids hidden from the show
Each Friday night it happens
Two rivals meet in church
And somewhere beneath the bleachers
Some poor kids left in the lurch
There's a game that rivals football
That you can't see from the stands
It's make out time beneath the bleachers
While the fans are clapping hands
No flags for interference
Off sides, no way not here
The players don't wear protection
And in between they're drinking beer
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 4:42 PM UTC
Being The Shortest Day
’Tis the yeares midnight, and it is the dayes,
Lucies, who scarce seaven houres herself unmaskes,
The Sunne is spent, and now his flasks
Send forth light squibs, no constant rayes;
The worlds whole sap is sunke:
The generall balme th’ hydroptique earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the beds-feet, life is shrunk,
Dead and interr’d; yet all these seem to laugh,
Compar’d with mee, who am their Epitaph.
Study me then, you who shall lovers bee
At the next world, that is, at the next Spring:
For I am every dead thing,
In whom love wrought new Alchimie.
For his art did expresse
A quintessence even from nothingnesse,
From dull privations, and leane emptinesse:
He ruin’d mee, and I am re-begot
Of absence, darknesse, death—things which are not.
All others, from all things, draw all that’s good,
Life, soule, forme, spirit, whence they beeing have;
I, by loves limbecke, am the grave
Of all, that’s nothing. Oft a flood
Have wee two wept, and so
Drownd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow
To be two Chaosses, when we did show
Care to ought else; and often absences
Withdrew our soules, and made us carcasses.
But I am by her death—which word wrongs her—
Of the first nothing, the Elixer grown;
Were I a man, that I were one,
I needs must know; I should preferre,
If I were any beast,
Some ends, some means; Yea plants, yea stones detest,
And love; All, all some properties invest;
If I an ordinary nothing were,
As shadow, a light, and body must be here.
But I am None; nor will my Sunne renew.
You lovers, for whose sake, the lesser Sunne
At this time to the Goat is runne
To fetch new lust, and give it you,
Enjoy your summer all;
Since shee enjoyes her long nights festivall,
Let mee prepare towards her, and let mee call
This houre her Vigill, and her Eve, since this
Bothe the yeares, and the dayes deep midnight is.
1.8k
691
Would you like summer? Taste of ours.
Spices? Buy here!
Ill! We have berries, for the parching!
Weary! Furloughs of down!
Perplexed! Estates of violet trouble ne’er looked on!
Captive! We bring reprieve of roses!
Fainting! Flasks of air!
Even for Death, a fairy medicine.
But, which is it, sir?
1.7k
Drips and drops of lab-tested fluids
pouring lipids in curves all over the place
while pops and pangs of tiny cells
bubble and fizzle in petri disks and flasks
regurgitating out strands of fine DNA
mix and synthesis of unusual entities
bubbling cauldrons of chemical ritual
give rise to spells of mystic creation
boldly configuring new organic oddities
from lab nonsense to ancient theory
mitochondrial splits and caverns
entries into the unknown of man's babble
for the fine and final production of science's silk
that which is life
and undeniable to our being
so creation can forever stand tall and strong
in the triumphant art of recreation
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 7:17 PM UTC
the empties
of the week
hold guard over my room.
they stand
like brave sentinels
and we watch the sun rise together.
bottles, cans, flasks, drams
these are my friends,
the empties
of the week.
sunlight burns
off of tinted brown glass
and i am alone,
except these are my friends,
the empties
of the week.
Pabst (7)
Coors (4)
Magic Hat (12)
Sierra Nevada (6)
Heineken (8)
Jack Daniel's (3)
Tanqueray (2)
Jameson (6)
Crown Royal (2)
Wild Turkey (5)
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 7:11 AM UTC
'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's,
Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;
The sun is spent, and now his flasks
Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;
The world's whole sap is sunk;
The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk,
Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh,
Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph.
Study me then, you who shall lovers be
At the next world, that is, at the next spring;
For I am every dead thing,
In whom Love wrought new alchemy.
For his art did express
A quintessence even from nothingness,
From dull privations, and lean emptiness;
He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot
Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not.
All others, from all things, draw all that's good,
Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have;
I, by Love's limbec, am the grave
Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood
Have we two wept, and so
Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow
To be two chaoses, when we did show
Care to aught else; and often absences
Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses.
But I am by her death (which word wrongs her)
Of the first nothing the elixir grown;
Were I a man, that I were one
I needs must know; I should prefer,
If I were any beast,
Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest,
And love; all, all some properties invest;
If I an ordinary nothing were,
As shadow, a light and body must be here.
But I am none; nor will my sun renew.
You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun
At this time to the Goat is run
To fetch new lust, and give it you,
Enjoy your summer all;
Since she enjoys her long night's festival,
Let me prepare towards her, and let me call
This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this
Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is.
1.5k
It is so very dark in the ark.
Forgive me Lord for I am afraid.
This lack of light has begun to burn
and I am suffocating, crushed
between pineapples and pigs.
Forty days and the flasks are all empty,
I drank every last drop of your blood.
Forgive me, for I was hungry and afraid.
Your Word was no longer enough.
Such stench and sway.
Such darkness, water and sick.
You promised me rainbows, white doves
and a rose bush when I die.
Bring pails and pliers, you said.
Gather corks, crayons, and screws.
Unwind the rhyme, you said.
Listen carefully: live.
But I am no sage.
I know nothing of verse,
even less of curses.
So I built it
and waited for wind.
You told me that I was your chosen.
That I was to carry the wine.
I believed you.
I should have eaten the pigs.
They're beginning to rot.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 8:46 AM UTC
Appalachian Alchemists
Weaving Gold from farmer's grist
Whiskey Stills
and Copper Pills
Magick Wyrm cools vapor mists
Shine down from a Whiskey Moon
Silver Gift and Nature's Boon
Corn Cob Wands
and Thumper Pots
Mountain Spells from Summers' June
Lightning flash in jar of White
Burning Soul, distilled delight
Mountain Streams
yield Moonshine Beams
Corn-fed Wizards, dark of night
Wisdom cast in Silver hues
Blessing born of Mountain Dews
Love's Desire
from Smoke and Fire
Ancient kin-folk's hidden brews
Inspiration Distillate
Poet's Draught, inebriate
Charcoal Casks
and Secret Flasks
Of this Spirit, Celebrate
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 5:06 PM UTC
I.
Somewhere in a mailroom in China
is my acceptance letter to
Brown University,
fluttering in the
sticky, smog-filled wind like an
unspoken birthright,
vacuum sealed in some shoddy warehouse,
slap-banged next to my father's
porcelain wares and flasks – and my grandfather's,
and his father's. "Son,"
my father tells me,
"you've got a lot of the old man in you.
"I am grateful."
I then retch
in the dingy comfort
of our hotel room bath
before proceeding to lunch.
Dad's Chinese counterparts
congratulate me on
being able to tell them what I
want to do when I grow up.
"Wo yao dang yi ge shangren – zhu fu."
“I want to become a businessman – get rich.”
II.
"Wo xuyao xiezuo."
“I must write.”
TS Eliot once asked me,
"Do I dare disturb the universe?"
I do not know yet,
but I think I have found fragments
of an answer lodged in
hotel bathrooms,
a Tianhe-bound overpass
on the way to Beijing Street,
heirloom warehouses,
And two Canton fairs.
"To get rich is glorious,"
Deng Xiaoping once said.
But I glance at
My father and mother,
And theirs,
And wonder if all their life, they have but
knocked on the doors of their fate -
chased dreams not
tobacco stewed or gold-ground
by the teeth of an Other.
As to answer your question, T.S Eliot:
Maybe, if just to find where I truly belong.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
It’s one dollar per load Wednesday and
Time move’s slow at the corner of East Clinton Street
Where under dim flickered fluorescent lamp posts
Tricks tossed in bottles than splashed back in flasks
Flung to back pockets of loiterers at the Laundromat,
Seems to be a prized accessory of the regular.
The regular, leans on washers with leather skin wrinkled wrung hung far from healed bones, like hangers hanging loose clothes. With soapy brain, bleached hair matted like a rats
She remembers rents way past due, Joey about to come through, and hunger is bad.
Fast thoughts surpass the regular
She smiles behind me through glass reflecting washers.
Mouth full of rotting cavities gleam in the mirror, the sass shuffles outside and lights a red for a change of scenery
Waiting hesitantly during weekly ritual
Which entails more steps than her walk up the avenue
Separating the darks from the whites, like Grandma used to
Detergent, unbranded is used sparingly
She folds each article of clothing carefully, basking in each minute
Diligent about cold wash versus perm press best suggests that for her today life is made easy
For the regular, laundry day is a great escape
Because fabric builds fast in those plastic baskets basked with sweat saturated dresses for a baby
And Joey’s boxers
Today the regular can transact funds to feel fresh, dryer warm complacency in jean skirts plagued with rhinestones
Costumes crafted to endure weekend sin
At the corner of East Clinton Street, those who do not feel like feeling when dire deeds did ***** cheap lose meaning; come here to worship or cleansed
Meaning, I can’t seem to haul this hamper of laundry laundered with various v-neck tees tainted by poisonous stains, regretfully sunk to the bottom of cotton follicles
It’s too heavy to toil with
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
Before we parted this way
I tried to think of something to say
My achievements take a toll
As my love continues to spiral down this hole
I had to make a promised sacrifice
Paying for this broken price
I spend hundreds of months by myself
Setting up this imaginary shelf
Your face is blue stained glass
The choir boys come to a mass
You’re so lovely in that purple dress
While I stand in the middle of this mess
I have a grand plan to stay on tasks
We hideaway these poison flasks
If I could have both to cherish
My body wouldn't erupt to perish
Your body is warm, it brings me home
I find myself alone in this empty dome
Wishing to live forever here
If only I could find out a way, my dear
I wouldn't rush into unopened gifts
All that is left is these forged drifts
When will I have a darling like you by my side?
Love has become a part that died
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 3:15 AM UTC
We haven't come too far
from those drunken nights
on the floor, eating gummy bears
infused with *****
or from stickering everything in the kitchen
so we know what names to call the appliances
Not too far
from those times spent
lounging around the bedroom
a dozen of us, head to foot
and everyone toeing
the border between
honesty and vulgarity
Some hung like a tapestry on the wall
and some sat watching ****
in the corner
while the rest passed a bottle around
and smoked with the window
constantly open
We haven't come too far
from the late night
liquor runs
or from smuggling bottles
out under our shirts
after-hours
Or from smuggling flasks
in on free pool night
when we were too broke
for ***** or fun
We haven't come too far
from spilling drinks
by the jukebox
Or going out back for a smoke
Not too far from
cleaning up the house
after a party
and throwing another one
to celebrate
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC