"glug" poems
Glug.
Who on earth pulled out the plug?
The sky is drained, yet again.
Think I'll grab a towel.
Dance around the garden.
Dressed in nothing, except that rain.
Saving on the water bill.
Bathing in the icy rain.
Maybe for a chilly thrill.
Bits all frozen out of use.
****** bath in rains' abuse!
Fear needing an aqua-lung to swim off to the shop.
Wonder if this rain will stop.
Kissing's out of the question.
With lips too sore to mention.
They got licked by kissing wind.
This weather is cheesing me off.
Hope the rain and wind will stop!
(C) Livvi 2014
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 5:32 PM UTC
Glub **** **** glub
glub thumb,
Breathing is quick
**** Glub
Smile
**** Glug
Look away
Then look back
A subtle smirk
**** glub
glug thumb
Goes my beating heart
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 12:20 AM UTC
Cock-a-doodle-do! Cock-a-doodle-do!
Cockcrow! Wake up, you poor humans!
The crazy, heartless sapient-irrationals!
You glug your cocktails in our names,
And slay, roast, and offer us to God,
And atone slyly your un-atonable sins.
Our lovely sickle tails, you used, once,
To concoct the cocktails you gulped;
And coveted our red comb and wattle,
The bright yellow of our cape and hackle,
The glittering blue of our wing bows,
And the violet-red of the back and saddle.
Oh no! Don’t strip us of our fair plumage
Our sickle, main tail and the lesser sickle,
Our fluff, hock joint, shank and the spur,
To the toes and claws, for you to toil
Hard, to fry--stir-fry—us, **** in your oil,
For your vain cocktail-less cocktail summits.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 8:47 AM UTC
Cock-a-doodle-do! Cock-a-doodle-do!
Cockcrow! Wake up, you poor humans!
The crazy, heartless sapient-irrationals!
You glug your cocktails in our names,
And slay, roast, and offer us to God,
And atone slyly your un-atonable sins.
Our lovely sickle tails, you used, once,
To concoct the cocktails you gulped;
And coveted our red comb and wattle,
The bright yellow of our cape and hackle,
The glittering blue of our wing bows,
And the violet-red of the back and saddle.
Oh no! Don’t strip us of our fair plumage
Our sickle, main tail and the lesser sickle,
Our fluff, hock joint, shank and the spur,
To the toes and claws, for you to toil
Hard, to fry--stir-fry—us, **** in your oil,
For your vain cocktail-less cocktail summits.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
On
The counters of poetry
I dock and lock myself
Then
I scope on the bottles of liquors seductively
And spellblind by their syllables
I took the shakers and hybrid
The Similes
The Onomatopeia's
The Nemesis'
The Near-Rhymes
And The Triadic-Lines
Then I gulp fourteen shots of Sonnets
From my paper-glass
And glug a paradox
Or a foil-sigh
Trice,
The knots
Bundling my eloquence
Will exonerated itself
And torpidity will cuff my consciousness
And the droplets remains in my paper- glass
Will impel me
To quest for myriad of them
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stock on a comedy chair
Then
When the
Limbs of time tread
Will I rush to the counter
Like the athletes at Olympia
And hybrid
The Blank-verses
The Alliterations
The Limericks
The Litotes
The Aporia's
And The Dysphemism's
And
Gulp countless
Yet measured shoots
Of Ballad,with my paper-glass
And unravel the oratories
Of sacred secrets,eclectic enchantment and regrettable reflexes
Aside,or injects the world
With my rugged pins of eruditions
Bestowed in me by the liquors of poetry
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stocked on a comedy-chair
Again
I will rush
To the counter,and hybrid
The Exaggerations
The Personifications
The Imageries
And The Caesura's
And
Gulp uncounted shoots
Of Epic's from my paper-glass
And
Eulogise my steam and wit
Yet,I'm drunk
And deeply drunk wholly
By a might that mortify me so much
That I've become a slave
In the awe of my servitude
Now and then
Will I weep and wail terribly
Each morning,each noon,and each night
For the great demise of myself
And for an emancipation
From the perpetual counter-cells poetry
I'm drunk,and deeply drunk by poetry.
Deeply Drunk
©Historian E.Lexano
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
It was a weird hour when the sun towered
To be slick with moonshine
Cozied shirtless in a rope hammock
Belly-down like my six drunk buddies
Living loose and talking sweet
To bottles now empty of *****
So what is there to do?
Nothing, and that’s a cold fact for high noon
In summer, season of mumbly toasting
But when the humble glug-glug-glugging
Is done with, I’ll tell you, you
Have not licked liquor, not done your part
It’s us who got the moonshine start
Today, you turned your back on white whiskey, yes
We did the work and if it should hurt
I apologize we didn’t want to offend
If it’s the alcohol or if it’s the heat I can’t tell
But who knows why blood boils?
I can see that good-natured drinking
Is the drunk man’s toil
But we’re workers at heart, aren’t we?
And not many are better than us
Except for maybe the rice
Slumped over its stalks, fat on moonshine
Cure-all for the sick mind
Friend to all comers on a humid day
The clear sticky juice that burns all the way down
Dec 26, 2010
Dec 26, 2010 at 9:31 PM UTC
Glug, glug
Oh no; what's that noise?
Glug, glug
The drain now has a voice?
Glug, glug
Well this is quite a ******
Glug, glug
(My husband, the plumber)
Apr 28, 2010
Apr 28, 2010 at 9:18 AM UTC
I am a writer who hates whiskey.
I feel that I should love it like a writer's only friend,
Like I should sip it from a glass while I scribe with broken pens,
Like I should clink the ice against the sides and swirl it, deep in thought,
And take it neat and raw, in admiration of its steely course.
It should lubricate the mind and guide the flow of words to page,
And since a nervous age I've yearned to say I love the way it burns and maims,
And maybe on a certain day, I'll glug it without choking, breathless,
But for now it hurts my brain to even think about its... smokey wetness.
I've idolized an archetype, a writer with a harmful life,
Sit alone in bars at night, lament the fact that art is strife,
But recently I'm thinking more, and honestly, this can't be right,
I love the pen and paper, and I love the fact it's hard to write.
It's the way that I've romanticized it, fantasized and glamorized it,
Like I could just forget about a novel, let Jack Daniel's write it,
While I sat and focused on my magnum opus, penning parts of it in prose,
I viewed my present like it's hindsight, through glasses tinted rose.
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 5:38 PM UTC
Pop
goes the cork
Glug
goes the bottle
Swish
goes the wine
Clink
goes the glasses
Laughter
goes the girls
Pop goes the cork
Glug goes the bottle
Swish goes the wine
Clink goes the glasses
Cheers! goes the memories
Pop goes the cork
Glug goes the bottle
Swish goes the wine
Clink goes the glasses
Love goes the friends
May 4, 2010
May 4, 2010 at 9:42 PM UTC
Today I met four horsemen, riding on a trail
One looked hungry, one looked ill, and one looked deathly pale
The last one looked so angry, he had war within his eyes
They reigned their steeds, came to a stop, and took me by surprise
"The end is nigh mere mortal" the pale one rasped at me
"Your Lord has come, the Earth is done, there's nowhere you can flee!"
I pondered for a moment, and then a thought occurred
"It’s student rag week, right?" I said, "You all look quite absurd!"
I went on with my journey, and met another stranger
Dressed in a robe, with sandalled feet, he seemed to pose no danger
He raised his hands with palms outstretched, and I observed old scars
Above his head, the oddest thing, a halo bright as stars
"Prepare yourself for Judgment" proclaimed he in a lofty voice
He opened a book, took a quick look, then said *"Oh right, you're nice!
First one today"* he muttered, "Most go the other way"
"Of course they do!" I forced a smile, and slowly backed away
I bade farewell politely, and he hurriedly wandered on
"It takes all sorts", I mused, feeling glad that he had gone
I resumed my journey eagerly, looking forward to it's end
And all was good, right up until, I went around a bend
The path was blocked with walking dead, flesh hanging from their bones
The younger ones, despite their state, were using mobile phones!
One told me that his name was Elvis, and he used to be a singer
But he stared at me, so hungrily, that I didn't dare to linger
When finally I made it home, I grabbed a bottle of *****
I sat right down, switched on TV, and flicked onto the news
"Breaking Story! The end is here, The Apocalypse has begun!"
The reporter seemed excited, and was waving round a gun
Shots rang out and sirens wailed, not all of them on TV
I heard commotion, in the street, a bit too close for me
I took a glug of whisky, and it tasted mighty fine
"If the world was going to end", I said, "I'm sure there'd be a sign ..."
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
where's my baptismal
water,
i mean--
like a child using my
words...
where the **** is it!?!
a glug is in order.
if nowhere is to be found,
then my Mother herself
calls out a name with no
response.
a promissory note, chewed
to death.
by prominent teeth,
persistently white.
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 2:08 AM UTC
Beer Boys at The Cross Keys
money crams the table – chalk names filled to closing
so we moved next door
to The Jolly Trooper
where a crowd of old boys drank whisky and talked clod
over pickled eggs and ham
we thought the chatter would stop
but a worked hand ****** a glass deep into my palm
‘ere, aveadropuvthisun
amber smelling liquid
raised my lips in sour expectation
gone
fire from the hearth
autumn plums and American oak-soaked grape
sculpture a smile
it’s good **** good
a clap on the back and a glug in my glass
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:15 AM UTC
Beer Boys at The Cross Keys
money crams the table – chalk names filled to closing
so we moved next door
to The Jolly Trooper
where a crowd of old boys drank whisky and talked clod
over pickled eggs and ham
we thought the chatter would stop
but a worked hand ****** a glass deep into my palm
‘ere, aveadropuvthisun
amber smelling liquid
raised my lips in sour expectation
gone
fire from the hearth
autumn plums and American oak-soaked grape
sculpture a smile
it’s good **** good
a clap on the back and a glug in my glass
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:15 AM UTC
I didn't like her as soon as I met her.
She'd known you an hour, and said your name wrong.
But she was pretty and little, and blonde.
You smiled, and charmed, and I rolled my eyes.
For Christ sake.
While you were out for an hour or two,
I knocked on M's door with a bottle of Sprite
from the vending machine downstairs.
Let's toast.
I unscrewed the lid and she uncorked the bottle.
She didn't ask why, just nodded and agreed.
**** yes.*
Fizz, fizz. Glug, glug.
There's a mug in my hand, and I'm drinking it up.
Tastes like sweet soda, not at all like wine.
We're sitting in silence, when I start telling M
I don't mind, really I don't.
At least you're over him.
She pours, and I swallow,
the bubbles pop in my mouth.
I hear you come home, little blondie in tow.
Have a nice night?
I ask loudly, standing too close.
You're toeing your shoes off, and I realize we're alone
in your room.
Go for it!
The wine whispers, urging me on.
Can I help you? I'm trying to change.
I want to do something, but what?
I'm scared you'll smell the sugary alcohol on my breath,
and dismiss whatever I do as a buzzed regret.
But I wouldn't regret it, what I see in my head.
I would go to you. I'd kiss you and kiss you,
till the wine wears off, and my lips are red
and a little bit raw.
Jesus.
That's what I would do.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 9:06 PM UTC
squirrels and opossums and birds of paradise
because im screaming
profanity into the trees
they can hear me scratching my sores
flaking scabs onto the crumbly floor
to integrate myself with the remains
of generations past
they can all hear me
crack the first beer of the morning
and pour it out for my love
no longer here
they can hear me all
repeat myself and pace
atop the pecan shells crunching
but the cap of the bottle spins
whirling around its rings
for a glug
and they all scutter, scamper, and waggle off
only proving my point
a terrible mood to be around
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 7:18 PM UTC
Beer Boys at The Cross Keys
money crams the table – chalk names filled to closing
so we moved next door
to The Jolly Trooper
where a crowd of old boys drank whisky and talked clod
over pickled eggs and ham
we thought the chatter would stop
but a worked hand ****** a glass deep into my palm
‘ere, aveadropuvthisun
amber smelling liquid
raised my lips in sour expectation
gone
fire from the hearth
autumn plums and American oak-soaked grape
sculpture a smile
it’s good **** good
a clap on the back and a glug in my glass
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:15 AM UTC
They thirst for my madness
In their own little way
These demons within me
Are here for the stay
The craving is blinding
As taste tests my soul
Sweet sips of this nectar
My own private goal
They want me to follow
Like sheep to the pen
The demons want hold on
That drinking commence
I cannot deny them that sweetness
Tastes good
Can feel for the falling
My world gone the thirst
So madness take on me
And do you this worst
The nectar has hold on
I'm ready to burst
The demons have won now
So down on my luck
I'm reaching the limit
This bottle I glug
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 2:36 AM UTC
sitting in my bath i heard a great big glug
followed by a bubble followed by the plug
i must have pulled it out but i didnt know
the water in my bath it began to go
it was getting lower way below my knees
i was getting colder and i began to freeze
i put a towel round me to try and get some heat
there i saw the plug lying at my feet
then i picked it up of the bathroom floor
put it back into the bath a filled it up once more.
Mar 10, 2010
Mar 10, 2010 at 1:30 PM UTC
"Doctor Doctor, help me please!"
squealed Vince little hurtfully.
"What is it?", asked the doctor,
"Why have you come to me?"
"Dr. Lee, I think I swallowed
a little thing I remember not."
in a sheepish tone did he reply,
the only excuse he had got.
"Now now," consoled the doctor
while softly rubbing his back,
"it would help you ease out a bit,
first get rid of your anorak."
"Open your mouth, need to check
it may be removed ****** he said.
To ease the pain he thought something
"Lay your head down on the bed".
Using a flashlight he peeked into
the throat of little Vince Susie.
"It looks like some blue coloured piece.
Now you remember what it could be?"
"Actually," started Vince, "I know what
I had swallowed. It is a Lego brick."
"What?" gasped the Doctor in horror,
"Are you choking?" asked with a crick.
"No, I am serious." Vince replied
stupidly. The doctor couldn't control
his smile. "You need to **** now,
need to get that out as a whole."
"Doctor? Why you cursing me?" queried
Vince, as he thought the Doctor swore.
Doctor clarified he did not,
"Kid, other work to do, I have a lot more."
Gave him a brine solution
and a bucket to puke into
Vince drank the brine with a glug
And now he needed a tissue.
Swallowed the piece, painfully so,
but out came rushing his *****
pouring into the bucket
Lego brick shot like a comet.
"Thank you doctor, you were most
kind." said Vince thankfully so,
"But now I must be excused, as
it definitely is my time to go."
"Wait up!" stopped Dr. Lee, "Who's
gonna pay your fees, dear lad?"
"I don't think I need to pay, as
My mom says you are my dad."
-awkward silence-
Feb 21, 2019
Feb 21, 2019 at 3:47 AM UTC
Its Friday and school is ended
Home we run, both trying to win the race to the garden gate
Hot and red faced, my brother beats me by an inch
I tell myself "I let him touch the post before me"
Into weekend scruffs we climb, piles of school clothes left behind
For mum to gather, washing to be done
My brother and I have something more important to do
We need to make sure they are ready
And they are, all washed and clean and ready for 7-0'clock
When the pop van comes.
4 empty bottles, waiting to be handed back and reborn
4 empty bottles, worth 5p each off the next ones!
4 empty bottles to exchange for 4 full
But what will we choose
When the pop van comes ?
7-0'clock
4 bottles, 2 each
We march to where the van full of wonderful fizziness will stop
My brother and I stand in line, there are children all around with their bottles too
All waiting for their turn to swap
1 empty for one full
with 5p off!
When the pop van comes
My brother chooses first as he beat me to the gate (I let him win)
Raspberryade!
Now me, Shandy please, (I like to pretend its beer)
Finally mum joins us and chooses orangeade and a bottle of dandelion and burdock for dad
We take back our bottles, excited, thirsty,
Into the glass I pour my 'beer'
Glug glug, glug, glug, fizzzzzzzzzzzzz,
gulp, gulp, gulp, gulp, gulp.
Too much!
Bubbles tickle my tongue, I lose my breath, too fizzy
Buuuuuuurp!
I love it when the pop van comes
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 8:21 AM UTC
i understand why van gogh drank yellow paint
because sometimes i have a hard time
pulling myself away from the art
i am miserable
basically pitiful
and i'm lost in a love that can never be returned
see i was never taught love
so i never graduated to self love
never saw a reason
and now that i'm older
i wish someone would have told me
my only salvation is a story
of a man
filling himself with ounces of happiness
a glug at a time
he consumed paint
that could **** him
just because it could give him
a sliver of joy
i drink his quirk up
like my own bottle of paint
because hidden within
the confines of his story
is a man who wanted nothing more
than love
and care
that could never be granted
love and care
that i so crave
as i pour yellow acrylic
down my throat
and smile
knowing that joy may soon
fill me
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 9:08 AM UTC
Fills you with majesty it does, this ****** place –
a few stars above.
When light left this one, Napoleon walked the earth.
This other, Julius Caesar.
Wonderful - The whole dreadful lot of it.
A train approaches – headlights and what have you,
colouring the sky pink, like everything else around here –
this strip of crust, this bay, these obscure designs of a people,
moralisers and chastisers and spell checkers breathing temperate breaths. in and out all day for 160 ka, or there about.
haughty on pretence – out there on July 26th 1807, the Rochdale sank with a pop, a bang and a glug,
The Prince of Wales wouldn’t be left behind. GLUG GLUG GLUG.
and the night came over all funny just then,
fizzled into something else for a short while and returned to its current state.
NOBODY NOTICED
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
you know that sound makes when you open a can of soda?
that's the sound my heart makes whenever you walk into the room
that freeing, opening feeling
and all my bubbles froth up just to see your beautiful face
once you open a can of soda it can't be closed
just like my love for you is forever released
never to be captured
all you can do is drink me up
and revel in my sweetness before the can is finished
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 10:26 PM UTC
Sweet, here I am
On ur website
writting spam
I'm making coffee
don't be scoffy
Timer's beeping
I must be fleeting
Away I go
To fill my mug
Ouch, it's hot!
Glug glug glug
Aug 12, 2010
Aug 12, 2010 at 7:26 AM UTC