Glugging poems on Hello Poetry

Zach Gomes Dec 2010

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

Dark n Beautiful May 2017

Delay And Appeal

May the roof above us never fall in?
and may we friends gathered below never fall out.
May the good saints protect us
And bless us today
And may troubles ignore you
Each step of the way:  quote from an Irish blessing**

~~~~~~~~~~
When the living pretend to don’t care
About Obamacare, or this new healthcare
in this year of two thousand and seventeen

His legacy is Washington new vanishing act
They daunting faces, as they smirked in triumph
The poor man burden, once again is left out in the dark
Washington DC is becoming the number one soap opera
An uncaring state of mind for the men in black

Who hold the magic key, who hired the pied piper?
Will pay the price:  the cry that will get us the most
is the cry of the children, in the final hours?

The wine bottle glugging sound effect as they praise
Cork popping, family bawling, and once again
We march for justice, when the living pretend to don’t care

Delay and Repeal:

I have not the power to stop them in the tracks,
All I can do is to write lousy poetry
reconsidered this bill: You have won
Now think of last man in the race:

#delay #repeal #obamacare #washington #dc #politics #insurance

Sobriquet Nov 2017

2,581 kilometres from home

Come home,
my mother's voice suggests along 2,581 kilometres of phone cabling.

Come home to the hazy heat
that beats off melting pavement and wilting plants,
to the smell of exhaust
squeezing between buildings
and suburbs and rush hour and neon lights,

Come home to the aggravated traffic
wending its way through concrete landscapes
eight lane snakes placating
the clack and hum of underground trains
packed with people and briefcases and beers and graffiti
spilling out onto the streets like cough syrup glugging out of the bottle.

You sound like you need to come home.

Nah, I'm good Ma,
because I don't know how to tell you
the city makes me feel trapped

a little creature with an anxious heart
boxed in by the tarseal and the fumes and the noise.

I like knowing the borders of a town
that doesn't stretch to the horizon
driving quietly on sleeping streets in the night time
and tracing the coastline with my feet in the water

I need the sky to touch the ground, not the ragged edges of a skyline
to walk until there's nothing
but me and the bush and the birds,
and the smell of mud and dirt and rain.

I like it here, I suggest along 2,581 kilometres of phone cabling,
but I do miss you.

city vs town and a bit of a ramble.

#home #city #town #distance #family #love

Jessica Fowler Mar 2012

Wine

Splash and slosh to be sipped.
Red as blood and just as thick,
it swills in the glass.
Glugging at the bottle neck,
smelling sour sweet of summer fruit gone stagnant.

Let lose between your lips
Roll its redness round your tongue.
Rough as tobacco, or black coffee
smouldering in your throat,
like coal or soot.

And fill yourself up! Pour
into yourself this other blood;
more and more.
Until your eyes are heavy
and deathly sadness flows.

PJ Poesy Apr 2016

Too Much Tobasco

Hot pepper nightmares come clean, sobering cleanse to it. Drunk
you delete from tiresome attachments, and your Friend's List.
Wino's duplicitous failing, while crowing away her merits for giving
up crack, glugging down another. Harm reduction is not to be
confused with sobriety. Don't get me wrong, I am not a tea-totalitarian, but I can see when a ***** is shoveling away.

This one I will miss. Most endearing has been this lioness' steamy exhales. Roasted internet exchanges, and toasting of overall thermionic lifestyles. She was a good one, reliable and dedicated to truth-telling in that sneaking-in tall-tales fashion. Yet, I can't sweat it out any longer. Her heat scorns clouds of sizzling pollution. When one is roasting the hottest of hot peppers, it can become hard to breathe. She needed to be taken off the grill, for sake of my own sanity.

Perhaps, I'll re-visit her, after she's been bottled up and cured.

Tiger Striped May 2021

In the Aquarium

I.
Pink light
cascades in ribbons from the tank
to land surreptitiously
across our faces. Its glow
hides the creeping blush
rising in my cheeks
as I notice, in the glass,
your rippling reflection
staring at me.
So I try not to smile,
holding our gazes clandestine for
a minute longer, just to let
the jellyfish think that
we’re admiring them.

II.
From one eye,
a turtle studies the warm-blooded couple,
a girl, fingers cold
and a boy, palms sweating.
Their image bends and
warps; their muffled laughter
joins the glugging rhythm
of the pseudo-ocean.
Holding its breath, it settles into
a front-row seat
for its favorite exhibit.

III.
You point out a pair
of angelfish gliding blithely,
two lovers floating freely.
We were fish once,
you tell me.
Yet here we stand,
I reply,
with our feet stuck to the ground,
only able to dream of
breathing underwater -
what kind of progress is that?
And you just smile,
silently tuck your arm
around my waist,
pull me closer
and wordlessly answer all of my
questions.

Beaver Meadow Oct 2023

Monster Gas

From out of the depths
of a sea of tea and soup
comes a gaseous gurgling
glugging of bubbles
gluggulous enough
to sink a ship of ****,
as though Leviathan lived
in my sweetheart's belly,
passing monster gas.

Reece AJ Chambers Apr 2020

Ponte Sant'Angelo, Rome

Ponte Sant’Angelo,
my thumb brushes
her crimson emblem.

Images slosh in my head of her
cycling, channelling
her inner Hepburn,

sleep and poetry on the steps,
talcum swirl of a *** and raisin gelato,
tiddlywinking a Euro into the Trevi.

This is stop four
on her grand tour,
gap year girl

glugging the lingo. I touch again
her Ciao in curly black,
her **, her airmailed red peck.

Written: 2018/19.
Explanation: A poem that was part of my MFA Creative Writing manuscript, in which I wrote poems about cities that have staged the Eurovision Song Contest, or taken the name of a song and written my own piece inspired by the title. I have received a mark for this body of work now, so am sharing the poems here.

Onoma Mar 11

White Horse & Purple Carrot

A white horse juts its jaw, as it receives

freedom's lash.

Whose distance is already satisfied.

G-force grins bear its large teeth at the

diplomacy of elements.

Below the frigid shade of bridges built

over deserts, eight kicks pace to the

torsoed toss of sand.

No more than a whole in want, spooked

by unbroken thunder shaplier than its

pounding hooves.

Its stomach distends with a flood of gas,

glugging to combustibility.

As it catches fire's metaphor, igniting

catch-me-if-you-can fingers all over it.

While night repudiates night, to where

passage is way behind, or way ahead of

brilliances inconsistently ticking above.

In sound there is time, in time there is

distance--here there is no telling.

Just a white horse eating a purple carrot

out of a poet's hand.

Michael John Nov 2024

remember,c,how we chanted

remember,c,how we chanted
that poem-i do not-because i
choose not to..

the second part went
surreal and beyond
but i still have it
and guess what
there is a crushed flower..

but the first lines ran
i do not know if the world
has lied-i have lied..

an interesting start
and then-i do not know
if the world has conspired
against love- i have conspired
against love..

the daffodils blazed away..
the tractors ground by..
then,the atmosphere of torture is
no comfort-

i have tortured-
like the world is ok
but i am not..
now,i am ok and the world
is not..lol..don´t know what

happened..but the next lines
had me glugging wine-listen,
even without the mushroom cloud
still i would have hated-
my memory fades..

i will not be held under the
cold tap of facts-i refuse the universal alibi..
i think that´s right..
i try to avoid the book..
i stole it from newmarket library
have i not paid..

ii

the second part made no sense really
to me so i kept it to myself
you would understand
no doubt in a blink of those yellow flecks
but it went something like

like a telephone kiosk past at
night and remembered
like the mirrors of a movie palace lobby
consulted only on the way out
like a nyphomaniac that binds a thousand
into a strange brother hood
some thing..i wait for each of you to confess-effed up somewhere
no doubt..

— The End —