"grog" poems
Melting down, crossing barriers, breaking out, stepping round.
Pieces fragmenting, character isolating. Green-acid, hair follicles, white is the blank slate, painting blues with reds.
Freaks from a sideshow, muscles in the sea, six-packs in a grog-shop, dancing improperly.
Beguiled by your bounce, sleep-walking this town. Fine is the white wine, poisoning the liver, spining on a sixpence, ********** follows dinner.
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 12:53 PM UTC
We'd bound around
For golf downtown
Frisbees always in hand
"The students are coming!!”
Was a seasonal refrain
As we’d goofily gallivant
Mother’s Day shows
We‘re free, mother-suckers
For your kids, a show we grant
A CLOWN SHOW!
A DOWNTOWN SHOW!
THERE IS NOTHING WE CAN’T!
Rock their world with juggling
See the Doctor for what ails
Rudi and O in laundromat land
Jeanie, Splash, Allison, Donna,
Silly girls astonishing with
Leaps, jokes and handstands
Chewey, Steamboat and Grog
"Yeah-yeah! Yeah-yeah!”
Silly boys grandstanding
All hail Papa Gale! We
Funned with Cpt. Plunge
Leader of the band!
Sweet Georgia!
**** croquet!*
It was grand!
**** croquet was the official lawn game of the Sweet Georgia Brown Clowns during the summer 198x Trinity Country tour [wherein we masqueraded as a Norwegian Salmon Kissing team at a Moose Lodge Talent Show in Lewiston, CA* {true!}]: “Don’t forget your hat!”)
*(we won)
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 9:11 PM UTC
Quack! Quack! Quack!
Ok, where’s everybody?
I’ve been gliding round in this pond the last half
hour singing my Duck-thoven tunes:
Quack! Quack! Quack
Quack!Quack! Quack!
And so why’s everyone avoiding me
like I don’t know how to make conversation?
Quack? Quack?
The other day the duckling glided near
and asked if I’d share bits of the bread
thrown to me by
these pesky humans who can’t
read the Don’t-feed-the-ducks signs
and I swallowed the bread bits whole and said:
Quack! Quack! Quack!
And the silly duckling ran away crying! –
Hey how can I answer with food in my mouth?
Quack! Quack! Quack!
Your mum taught you to speak with food in your mouth?
Quack! Quack! Quack!
Have you got any brains in that quacking head of yours, duckling?
Really, no reason to avoid me…
I mean the other day they asked me what
I think about the environment and I said:
Quack! Quack! Quack!
and they all looked astonished
at the wisdom of my words.
So why avoid me now?
This cute **** duck glided quite close to me
and asked me what I thought about pre-marital ***
and I said: Quack! Quack! Quack!
and I flapped my wings and walked on water
and held my head high with the sweetest:
Quack! Quack! Quack!
and that silly female duck jumped to the overhanging branches
and refused to come down for all my quacking:
Quack! Quack! Quack!
Seriously, what’s this all about? –
You excite a ****** duck and then hide in the branches?
What’s this pond coming to!
The other day a silly fish swam close to me and asked
for directions round the pond and I said:
Quack! Quack! Quack!
And the fish said: Hey! I don’t understand Duck language.
Don’t you speak Finglish?
What the Duck! I said. Why don’t you learn Quacklish!
Quack!Quack!Quack!
So where’s everybody?
And really I don’t understand why
everyone’s avoiding me.
I mean really I can qua-ttle off the Entire History of the Pond
and the Holy Texts Revealed by Duck God to the Duck Prophets
and I can quack about anything and I can quack
about all the wines and grog
and I can teach the creatures how to change pond water into wine;
and I can quack about all the delicacies in the pond
and I can sing too, listen:
Quack! Quack! Quack!
And such a delightful voice and such original tunes too!
A graduate of Duck-kovsky Underwater Academy.
And so – hey! – where’s everybody?
Why do they avoid me like I’ve got the Swine Flu or something?
Hey, I’m just a pond duck who likes to Quack! Quack! Quack!
You got a problem with that, you quacks!
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 10:40 AM UTC
Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,
And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,
And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink,
And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,
But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.
Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,
And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,
Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,
And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes.
Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,
Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,
Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival,
They all sat laughing in the little red wagon
At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.
Belinda giggled till she shook the house,
And Blink said Week! , which is giggling for a mouse,
Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,
When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.
Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,
And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.
Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda,
For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.
Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right,
And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,
His beard was black, one leg was wood;
It was clear that the pirate meant no good.
Belinda paled, and she cried, Help! Help!
But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,
Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,
And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.
But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine,
Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,
With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm
He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.
The pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon,
And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,
He fired two bullets but they didn't hit,
And Custard gobbled him, every bit.
Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,
No one mourned for his pirate victim
Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate
Around the dragon that ate the pyrate.
But presently up spoke little dog Mustard,
I'd been twice as brave if I hadn't been flustered.
And up spoke Ink and up spoke Blink,
We'd have been three times as brave, we think,
And Custard said, I quite agree
That everybody is braver than me.
Belinda still lives in her little white house,
With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse,
And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,
And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon.
Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,
Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 5:15 AM UTC
Arrrh, here we be again
at "Talk like a Pirate day"
we'll spew our gaffs and have some laughs
slappin wenches bums, while we're at play
We'll have some grog
mockin the captain's log
reading lines of sea bound times
and cabin boys, he's flogged
When the eve be ov'r
and drunken we'll awake
it's out to sea, we'll all be
nursing our headache
Our love for wenches stowed
miseries bandon'd in the hold
mainsail's set, we'll not ferget
we be pirates, young and old
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 8:55 AM UTC
I'm a reformed man
my habit has been cast out
a good woman
showed me how to bring it about
with her understanding ways
she helped me give up the grog
and life is so much better
now that I'm no longer in a grog fog
on the path back to sobriety
her hand guided me
with its never ending
patience and solidity
she is a redemptive angel
in my eyes
she gave me reason
to see a clean sunrise
the grog couldn't stay
in my addled life
cause it had imparted
much too much strife
for the rest of my days
I'll be a reborn man
for a wonderful woman
took hold of my hand
her love and care
showed me how to kick the grog
and she has lead me
out of it's fog
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 10:13 PM UTC
Hints of maple kiss each of
your highlander grog fingertips.
The smell of her shampoo
pierces & permeates throughout
your living room, lingering still
to this day, on your pillow.
You told her you'd make a perfume
that smells like the car heater on
long drives home for Christmas.
Aromas of her laundry detergent
still live in your spine
like LSD.
When you turn your neck a
certain way you fall back
into trances of her & 1997.
Vick's Vaper Rub, NyQuil
Cough Syrup breath, with
a 104 degree fever. She
sobbed when her last
sea monkey died
You called her cartographer.
Intricate trails of herself connecting
each board of your apartment floor.
Charted long ago when her
candle still burned scents of warmth.
The art of burning,
a front the fire place of
maple logs where you told her
to "Let go."
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 2:56 AM UTC
docking on the fringe of a dry spot
the rain died in...
i set sail in solemn siroccos, fraught
with endive and lemons...
no chop. flat listing in the leaning theme
impervious to words lost
my ship dips in clean drink
and dark thought.
away, my anchor prods starboard
planks of salt wood...
clangs in a grog of lurching halt
raw ***** mauve tossed - and shriek blind.
a pennant of mock cause.
a scant curl of smoke, seized
in unseasonable Hypnos.
a whimsical Charybdis -
a thing i choke on.
i scoff
cough a terrible pen
my inkwell, topped off
with black pond,
quill qualms
of love's
dross.
the serenity of my tempest
and the skipping stone it cracked,
now, white sharks, prowling the yonder
of the nearby,
in debt to a far gone, yawning
rings,-
concentric to the naked eye, you clothe not.
lest the raiment be
the Emperor's
new lot.
A Stitch of Odyssey In Epic Fail...
to get more gone, but less lost
a journey of a single step
begins because... and
just because
you stop
stopping.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 1:54 PM UTC
I am the crease in the sheet that you straighten before sleep.
The sore behind your bottom lip
The broken chip left in the dip.
The spider too high on the wall
The morning-after desperate call.
I’m the caffeine habit you can’t kick
The little itch that makes you tick,
I’m the light left on
The milk left out
The constant drip from the sink’s spout.
I am the failure by one point
The click you hear when you straighten your joints,
The hair that grows in all the wrong places
The nasty knot in your shoelaces.
I’m your nighttime drowsy and your wakeup grog,
I am your morning breath and your mental smog.
I am the teeny cut that stings so bad,
The very best you'll never have.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 1:26 PM UTC
Sunshine and grog
Dancing through thick fog
Midst over mountains
Shimmering gold in fountains
The feeling of serenity
Calmness and warmth
Soul inspiring
Never expiring
Enthrall me within
Give me that special grin
Always without sin
Purity so complete
Never to defeat
Warriors heart inside
I'll never abide
With man's side
I am wild and free
I am a cold winters breeze
A storm of brim and stone
Ashes flung and flown
I am a witch burning
Never returning
To their master
I will run faster
You cannot stop me
Stinging like a bee
Souring with graceful ease
I am a fairie never to please
I will use my sword
I will say my words
With passion and curse
Do your absolute worst
I am me
And she is free
Maybe only inside
In my own mind
But she you will never find
She is but mine
A special kind
A loving mother
In which moss takes cover
Leave it lone
She is alone
But pain is gone
For peace is beauty
And green is all she can see
That is me
I am green with grass
Yellow with daisies
And free with fairies
Loved by many
And giving so much
I am glee
And complete
With me
On my own
Aug 19, 2022
Aug 19, 2022 at 3:15 AM UTC
Hobbling out of bed
Half dead
I'm led
To the bathroom
The shower a vacuum
Of my powerlessness
But first i ****
Then get in
**** out the contaminants
Of my ***** habits
And i scrub
I scrub off
The plastic love
The mean mug
And tug on my ****
Plant a vision til it pops
And drop
To the shower floor
Tilt my head back
And gurgle to the gods
For more
Scrub the grill
Lay a towel on the floor
Suit up for a war
Two sprays of cologne
And im out the door
Headphones on
Angels atoning
To the morning
As im floating
Through the fog
Descending in my grog
Along the path
Like a lab rat
For a slab of cheese
Through the swamps
And trees
Trampling
Dead things
And leafs
And im seen
By nobody
As i ascend a hill
To the corporate power
Where ill cower
For nine hours
Before reporting home
Going to bed
And waking up
To do it all again
Its blue collar zen
And im bored
So fraking bored
With my chores
Id rather scribble sounds
Into forms
Verbal storms
Visual cores
Implored
To explore
The tortured
Terms in torrents
Of turbulent
Talks with dead gods
And im born
Into the horns
Ive sworn
To protect
In widows peaks
And deepened
Speeches
I'm infected
With my perfection
Torn
In the muffled traces
Of noiselessness
Among the space-less
Distances
To my sentences
Taking out the crackles
And recording
Over the blemishes
Relishing
The fragile moments
Of eloquence
In **** jokes
And threatening
Gestures
Jesting
The restructuring
Of molesting
Verbiage beat
Over the mic
Delusions enticed
In my writes
Of fights
In long sleepless nights
Of rhyming
With bad timing
And mumbling
Of slimy things
Bubbling in the cuts
Dubsteped to **** fits
Sunkissed in lacking curtains
Disturbing the certainty
Of sleep
And cheapening
My dreams
Rolling over
Planting my feet
Upon wood floors
Hobbling toward
Tomorrow
Sorrowfully
Repeating
The same thing
Washing away the sleep
And fleeing
My creativity
For the rest of the week
(in progress)
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 3:38 AM UTC
I found your black tie
Between the warped slats
Of the dresser drawers
And a curled
Photo
Of you in Blackheath
Smiling
A hopeful day
Head filled with the universe
Limitless
But that was you
A dreamer they said
And all around you
Harder types
Their spades clanging
With symphonious legerity
For the few bob
They drank on Friday.
You left that place
And moved home
To the frozen sod
Of your birth
And still you smiled
Your fists knurled
Around a shovel
Splitting turf for the fire.
And all around you
Harder types
With reins and whips
They only sought to protect you
From the pain of wanting
What you could never have.
But still I loved your stories
You made me believe
That the cawl and grog
Was pheasant and port
And everyday an adventure
A bud on its axil
You made me
Into you
A dreamer
A sybarite
And all around me
Harder types
Eyes stuck to their shoes
So they can watch their step
And charge me to
Watch mine
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 1:42 PM UTC
*The red light’s red but I’m turning right,
The coast is clear – no cars in sight.
I make the turn and I make it slow
On the corner sat a huge cop on his hog.
Sirens blazing like he was late for his grog,
Behind me he flew with lights all a glow.
Pulling over to honor this beast's demand
I already had my license in hand.
He brought his big carcass up to my window
Grabbed my license and ask me what I’m into.
Nothing I said, I’m just headed home,
Then he dripped some sweat onto my chrome.
All at once he started swatting at what he thought was a bee
I said it’s just a horse fly so let it be.
He bent over and looked at me through the window
While asking me, what the hell is a hoss fly?
Not a hoss fly – a horse fly – I said through the window
You know – it’s a fly that flies around and around a horse's ****
He got a little closer and pushed down his shades
And asked me if I was calling him a hoss’s **** in spades.
I said – no sir – not at all – I would never ever
Do anything like that at all – that for me would be too terse.
He said something that I couldn’t understand
When then the fly lit on his Foster Grants.
Cross-eyed he handed me back my license
And began swatting at the thing creating the offense.
But the horse fly was faster than he and had more sense
As he slapped his shades off across into a fence.
The fly flew around and around his head
While he backed out into the street like something ******
I reached through the window and pulled him out of the street
For a car was coming and they were sure to meet.
Realizing now what he had almost done
He shook my hand and said I could go that we were done.
But one more time he stuck his sweaty face in mine
And asked me once again if I was calling him a hoss’s ****
Again I said - no sir, absolutely not but that I couldn't lie -
Sir, you know - you just can’t fool a smart horse fly.*
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 10:01 PM UTC
it’s spring world growing into something different iceland volcano ash interrupting european flights dream of new worlds better life happiness new architecture language love everyone wants something different god’s eyes see through gazillion eyes each center of universe why do i cry so easy flinch at sight of blood violence what is love happiness sunday morning volcanic ash persists we are all inter-connected sweet little freezing cold iceland dominates world life is crazy too crazy where is bjork this morning drinking grog coffee laughing i’m so different from you unaccountable chemistry go away it’s hot i’m sweating stink i wish for your smell so bad jasmine basil lavender female scent ticket home to nowhere we are all such liars over-reactionary sensationalists well on my way yes i choose horse with wings house-boat floating up river mountain top glass conservatory filled with plants clouds girlfriend i wish for way back wiser choices more content result
Apr 18, 2010
Apr 18, 2010 at 7:05 AM UTC
The Haunting of the Ol' Fisherton Bay Morticianary, Pt. 1
The nights were longer, as though at bay...
It's time for the artist to make his way.
"It's a mighty profitable business,
isn't it Hugh?"
Said the mortician to his dog.
"These ones are old...
Almost as old as you"
As he worked up his corpse,
for its last and lonesome grog.
"Off to burial, this would see,
off with the other one,
whom ever was he...
Off with you too sir; old wasted chap...
Make for the wedding soon,
of woods and crap;
I shall expect a clean and smoothly slit,
to slip here this trap.. and finish it quick!
his final dance; adieu.. farewell..
Soon riddance will follow,
of you as well."
Yelled the mortician to the delving man,
To take over from here while still he can...
A.r. Bazian
Jan 26th, 2016
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
I'm a reformed man
my destructive habit has been cast out
a good-hearted woman
showed me how to bring it about
with her understanding ways
she helped me give up the grog
and life is so much better
now that I'm no longer veiled in the grog's fog
on the path back to sobriety
her supportive hand guided me
with its never ending
belief and solidity
she is a redemptive angel
in my eyes
she gave me reason
to see a clean sun rise
the grog couldn't stay
in my confused life
as it had imparted
much too much strife
this day I am a reborn man
a good woman took hold of my hand
her love and care
showed me how to kick the grog
and she has lead me
out of its murky fog
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 11:23 PM UTC
born of blood
from a thorn
of a beautiful flower
from the love
of the horned
adorned
in power
cowering
in the vicious
maliciousness
of the constituents
in the deliverance
to my ridiculousness
saw
twisted shapes
and contorting faces
heard
blurred words
displaced
in hateful slurs
of aggression
and i cannot count the cases
in my tasteless confessions
in my reluctant concessions
in my brutal perfection
of my obsessions
imposed against my will
you're supposed to feel
what they do
right?
opposed to killing
for the thrill
but it sometimes
just feels right
shanky gone unscrupulous
shivering
his shimmied
blood on the walls
stuttering stanleys
still silly stringing
calling for candy
but missed last call
and fell to the floor
as Bruno butchered the boar
in a deplorable fashion
a crime of passion
we were hungry
rubbing our tummies
for the honey
of bee hives
jive turkeys
turning to bunnys
for good times
but we were alive
while others were not
fraught with darkling majesty
sparkling at the seraded points
disjointed
in Freudian
ointments
self anointed
as god
standing over
some butchered
brod from abroad
wiping the fog
of dislodged
eye sockets
from my grog
how you get
from there to here
isn't really a fair mirror
on my intention
i meant to
suspend her
just enough
to face f--k
and with luck
strangle her
but she prayed to be ripped down
in her own way
my f--king way
stripped her
of dignity
wimpering
in little cute sounds
who am i?
but the guy
who spaced
hit her
too many times in the face
and replaced her
facelessness
with ***** toiletries
disappointingly
underwhelmed
still in search of a fairy
to take the helm
and ferry me
from this film
disparagingly
just spare me
the tragedy and grief
blaring from the TV
as i mock
their expressions
in my lessons
of humanity
before the flock
to shelter
my anxiety or not
gonna be
a real boy one day
and conform
to the
wayward ways
the way
of sheep
sleeping
soundly
in decay
blue fairy
gonna
marry me
one
day
be
real
one
day
one
day
1
d
a
y
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 4:52 PM UTC
another day, another lotion,
sighed, “much rather be making potions.”
*tedium, boredom, boil and bubble,
add a spice, then add it double,
stir it well and let it settle,
in a kettle,
made of metal.*
what's your fancy, what's your trouble?
basin clogged with dwarven stubble?
make one balm,
you've made them all!
concoct a cream, a cream?—a cream!
one more grog burn,
swear I'll scream!
*tedium, boredom, boil and bubble,
add a spice, then add it double,
stir it well and let it settle,
in a kettle,
made of metal.*
give me dragons, give me daggers,
give me jewels with emerald feathers!
give me—“what?
what's this, right now?
of course I know exactly how!”
roots to find, true essence to distill,
adventure?
no, but pays the bills.
Aug 13, 2020
Aug 13, 2020 at 5:47 PM UTC
GOD THE DEVIL AND BOB at easter
today it’s good friday and bob delahunty was going to church to have a
hot cross bun feast, and a hungry poor buddhist was going into the church
and asked bob, why do the christians like to eat over easter, what is it all about
and bob said, it’s a time where families, forget about their differences and share
a big celebration, with hot cross buns today after their service and then on easter
they will host family get togethers, where the kids are forced to hunt for eggs
that the parents hid in the garden, it is a very good day, and the buddhist man said
why can’t christians be nice to each other every day, like us buddhists ands bob said,
well, i guess your right, but life hands us problems to fix, like divorce and family quarrels
and battles that can’t be resolved, you see we are always away from loved ones and easter
is a way to keep updated on where our loved ones are, and then the buddhist asked bob
why can’t they scype every night and then bob said, buddy, no person really wants to do that,
actually, it is great to give families fun at easter, like sending kids on easter hunts, how radical dude
and have great hot cross bun morning teas, where we all can feast, yeah, if we did these things every day
we would get so fat, and kids will be so greedy, and we need every city in the land to pop
open the champagne corks, saying HAPPY EASTER DUDES, AND TO ALL A HAPPY FEASTING
you see easter if you add an f, could mean, the annual feaster, but we took the f away to make you feel great
and then the buddhist said, ok but what if you were fasting in a remote country and you had to knock
back the hot cross buns and easter eggs and bob said ok, yeah, if your fasting you must say no, i am on a diet
and the buddhist said, what if you went to a nightclub and got heavily ****** from vodkas and rums etc etc
and get too drunk on easter saturday, are you still expected to roll up to family get togethers on easter sunday
and bob said yes, then the buddhist said, how do you cope, HOW THE **** DO YOU COPE
this is how, you sing
god is the devil and the devil is grog
god is the devil and the devil is grog
god is the devil and the devil is grog
especially round easter time where drinking may send you back and forwards to the sink spewing
and the buddhist asked bob one thing, before he went to tiabet, he asked, is there really such thing as a devil
because every night i drink a whole bottle of wine by myself and bob said, well if the devil was grog i think
i am the devil, cause, grog is my cup of tea
and the buddhist went home and bob left saying this one word, misbehave, everyone who drinks grog misbehaves
and there is nothing wrong with that, bob said happy easter and went back to the devil’s hideout and the buddhist blessed him
saying, the devil, there is no such thing
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 6:11 AM UTC
Shiver me timbers
What's going on
I was dressed as a pirate
When I woke up this morn
I looked in the mirror
And let out an Arrrr....
I came equipped an eye patch
And a swash buckling Scar
I felt the strong urge
For grog, meat, and cheese
Went into the kitchen
Told the winch who lives with me
It's my new pirate attitude
That I have to thank
For the look that I got
And why I'm now walking the plank
When I arrived at the office
It wasn't the ship I'd hoped for
And security at the front desk
Barred me from bringing my saber to work
With all these modern day regulations
How's a pirate to get a break
When the only body of water nearby
Is a drainage ditch and man made lake
And the only pirate *****
That I'd hoped to see
Is right now swabbing the kitchen deck
While talking mutiny
Still the days barnacle adventures
Had a lot going on
As my head hits the pillow
I wonder what I'll wake up as tomorrow morn
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 9:42 AM UTC
I've pondered why we bring it out whenever the sun shines,
We crack it open, share it out, whiskey, ***** beer, wine,
We look for an excuse, a reason why we drink it,
A christening, a birthday, hell any old chance to sink it,
"Oh look, our Biddy just recieved her shiny little car",
So we get the grog in, the fridge contents won't go that far,
"Poor seany lost his job today, let's cheer him up with whiskey",
The crowd it grows, before ya know, we're all a little frisky,
"And Clodagh decorated her room, ah look, she must be knackered,
Let's have a girly night, and open wine, with cheesy crackers",
So raise a glass, a mug, a goblet, even a champagne flute,
Or even that funny german thingy that measures a beer foot,
Let's toast whatever happens, be it good, or be it bad,
The alcohol will serve us all, ah good times there will be had...
SLAINTE
Feb 19, 2010
Feb 19, 2010 at 5:28 AM UTC
Feeling pretty unfulfilled
here’s a cheers to spending that
twenty-second year
over worked and under paid.
Unhappiness disguised as routine
mingling about with bursts of extremes
that I mistake for real living.
The grog, the sweat, the drowning struggle
to conform to that American bill paying drone.
I think in black and white
but I always create in color.
There’s a pounding at the door of reality,
unrelenting, it has claws poisoned with truth.
-- my idealism again,
begging, pleading, swearing up-and-down
that I have to get out--
that there is never a “right time”--
that to change--I have to
and its not a decision this grind can consume.
I sprint through the hallways of my self
hello, again World.
It was all that I needed.
I breathe.
(I hope this happens a thousand times again)
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC
It’s a Monday morning and I’ve awoken with this grog
what is this horrific feeling starring at me through the fog
Oh **** I sigh with a cough and a weeze
It’s the flu I’ve heard so much about
Why’s it always me!
I’ll pop the Sudafed I left in the drawer from this time a year ago
that’ll teach this viral ******* whats for
I remember everyone drifted very far, Declared me the patient
Proclaimed I had man flu and was being over dramatic
OH THE PAIN i cried, FOR THOU DOES NOT KNOW!
Why wont you get out of my head
I honestly feel id be better off dead
this mucus and sinus inflamation will allow no silence
to the pounding that exists in the echoing arena of my head
Right ok, Its 8:15 time to lift the dog and bone
And shockingly I sound the picture of health to the boss on the phone
Sick again they sigh as my sinus’ explode
im sorry boss I’ve got to go, My head is pounding and my nose needs blown
Time to go back to bed
Sleep is what I need
Become a marshmallow in the blanket
and try to remember how to breath
I’ll lie on one side as my nostril feels like it fills
i hate being ******* sick. Where’d I put my pills?
I stare at the ceiling while the realisation kicks in
I left them in the kitchen, my moody temper is thrilled
I sound 80 years my senior as I curse the steps below
Hanging on the hand rail, like a Sherpa who’s promised to get me home
I should have gotten a stair lift, My arms are dragging like lead
Why is that phone ringing, If it’s work tell'em im dead
Call it man flu
Call it a cold
It doesn’t stop me feeling old
Its dramatic I know
and my tone is dire
Guess I’ll just feel sorry for myself and go drink lemsip by the fire
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 8:58 PM UTC
you were walking through the dunes
of slow doom and a dark spasm. you sat with your back to the far lit -
so as to never strain an eyelid at the tapestry
you could not fathom.
striking out again, your head's down where the clouds smelt golden eggs
that never cool.
they burn like you burn
when you burn.
and that's
when you notice the words,
pouring from an incandescent
into the vitriolic grog
of a dark Anubis; pruning the brute fruit
from a stray vine.
canning the flesh in mason jars
as if possessed
back to Life.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 4:16 AM UTC