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Liam C Calhoun Jun 2014
I take a
Gulp,
To wash the day
Down,
So very far down
And away from the
Hollow faces
And even paler
Words
That permeate the
Malls, halls
And roads that lead to a
Silent kind of slavery.

I take a
Gulp
To sink even further unto
Revolution, evolution
And nausea
As I witness
The knife
And once more into the
Back,
Our collective back,
Unnoticed, uncaring
And almost wished for.

I take a gulp, I take a gulp, I finish it off.

I grab another, I finish it off,
And another and another and another
So that I may succumb to a
Different kind of sickness.

It’s in this “state,”
No pun intended,
That I can finally see –
America’s
An illusion
And my noose is slightly
Looser
Than yours.
Published in, "Down in the Dirt." Please remember, poetry is often a soapbox for the disenfranchised and discarded - and these days, unless your incredibly rich, you should feel at least slightly, "discarded."
Edward Coles Jul 2014
“You know the worst thing I ever saw?” He asked.

I sighed to myself, took another gulp of beer and fixed him with a look of half-interest. He was drunk. A complete ****-up and a bore when he's drunk. I don't know why I drink with him. That said, he probably thinks the same.

“What's that?”
“Bedsheets over the benches in the church yard.”
“Ye-what?”
“Bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.”
“The homeless. Right.”
“I'll get us another drink.” he says, “then I'll start where I left off.”
“Oh, good.”

He comes back with two bottles. We drink and we start talking about football. We're just about getting by before he raises his palm to his face.
“Aw, ****. I forgot, yeah. The worst thing I ever saw. I never told you.”
“You did. Bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.”
“Yeah yeah, but that doesn't really say much, does it? You're probably wondering to yourself why that would **** me off so much?”

Not really. He's the type of no-action, all-caring, bleeding heart that sits on his fattening **** every day, 'liking' rhetorical captions over pictures, and signing petitions to axe some ***** politician or other.
“I guess. Shoot.”

He shoots.
“I wanna burn down the churches. Seriously. Stupid ******* religious folk. I bet they go home and post pictures up of themselves, all busy in the soup kitchen, ladling minestrone into some poor *******'s styrofoam bowl.
“They'll never touch them. Always at arm's length. You don't wanna breathe in the pathogens of the anti-people...”
He slurred a little, went to carry on, but took another gulp of beer instead.
“What does that have to do with bedsheets over the benches in the church yard?” I took a gulp myself, this time watching him with a little more interest. Probably just because he looks like he could spew at any moment.
“You're not letting me finish...”
He finishes his beer, gets up, almost bumping into his piano-***-keyboard. He's off to the fridge again. I have a look around while he's out of the room. I can hear him ******* in the kitchen sink.

I've seen the place a million times before but it always has a whole bunch of new **** tacked up on the wall or else bundled in the corner. He's no hoarder, just gets bored and throws out all the stuff he bought the year before.
There's a framed picture of himself on the wall, cradling his Fender as if he's a master of the arts. It's signed, too.
I've seen him play. Probably will tonight. Wouldn't be surprised if he's written a protest song called: bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. The old **** can't even hit an F major with regularity.
He'd decided to put up his vinyl sleeves on the wall like a 17 year old would with an array of **** pop-punk band posters.
Blink and you might think he's the new John Peel or Phil Spector. Stare, and you'll realise he's twice as crazy, yet half as talented and half as interesting to listen to.
His room is like a CV to show to interesting, young indie women. Shame he's hitting forty now,and hasn't been to a club in about 3 months.
Last time we went he just sulked in the corner and got too drunk. He cried in the smoking area about his job before going round and asking attractive girls whether they think he's too old to be out. Most didn't even bother to give an answer. Probably best.

He comes back in with more beer.
“A-anyway...” He says, groaning a little like an old man as he settles back into the chair. “As I was saying...” he sloshes beer on the carpet, rubs it in with the heel of his shoe. He spits on the mark and then rubs again.
“What I was saying was that the church would be a whole lot more useful to the homeless if it was burned down. A condemned building is a whole lot more useful than being looked down on by holier-than-thou, middle-class, white Christians.
“They go home after an hour, bolt the church doors, and then watch TV in their brand new conservatories that they spend several thousands on. Just give the losers a place to shoot up and sleep in safety. That makes sense, right?”
“I guess so.”
I couldn't think of a change of conversation. So I just drank some more and pulled out a cigarette. It's nice to smoke inside for a change.

“It's a ****** ******* awful thing. If people were actually religious, they'd throw open their ******* doors for everyone. It's what Jesus would do, right?”
“Right.”
“He'd have all the **** in his bedsit, piled in like sardines, spreading TB like wildfire.”
“And that's a good thing?”
“Well, it can't be any worse, right? Sleep's important. I learned that the hard way.”

He didn't learn it the hard way. Not really. He's a self-motivated, self-harming insomniac. He spent his teenage years listening to bad music and staying up too late ******* over his French teacher. I should know, I mostly did the same.
He hit the **** pretty hard during college. Never really looked back until recently. ****** him up worse than you'd reckon. He couldn't sleep without the stuff. Man, if you'd have seen the poor guy whenever he couldn't get hold of some for the night. Eesh.

“...you know what I mean though? I'm sick of charity. Those fun-runs you get. A load of women in pink pretending that they care about breast cancer, before posting a million and one pictures up of them in ankle warmers and a kooky hat...”
“**** of the Earth.”
“Yup. Right up there with the women who have 'mummy' as their middle name on Facebook.”
“Yeah.”
“Honestly though, it's the laziest form of charity. Throwing a couple old, mouldy bedsheets out on some bird-**** bench made of wood and ancient farts...”
“It is pretty lazy.” I drank some more.

It was getting late. We swallowed three temazepams each, moved onto the cheap shiraz once we ran out of beer. We leant back in our chairs, barely talking and letting Tame Impala supply the conversation for us.

“You know what?” I ask, pretty much out of nowhere. His eyes have narrowed. He's not sleepy, just ****** on ***** and tranquillizers. He takes a moment.
“Huh?”
“From what you were saying earlier... you know, about the bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, why don't you?”
“Why don't I what?”
“Burn it down.”
“The church?”
“Well, you go on about being lazy and ****. Here's your chance. Help the homeless. Break the locks, pour the petrol, take out a few bottles of wine if you find any...”
“Now?”
“I guess so. Homeless folk are dying of pneumonia out there. Not a second can be wasted.”
“I dunno. I didn't mean I had to do it. I was just saying...”
“I guess they were just saying too.” I felt like I was being a ****, so I changed the subject to women I haven't laid.

I stumbled home leaning on my bicycle all the way. Daylight was just about visible off in the distance. I passed two homeless guys on the way back, gave one of them a fiver, the other one my big mac and the last of my cigarettes (well, leaving a couple for myself).
They said thanks, god bless you, etc, etc. I carried on walking.

I woke up the next afternoon with a mouthful of sand and in desperate need of a hangover ****. I hadn't shaved in about two weeks and there were dark circles under my eyes. I thought about going out to the diner for a full breakfast, but strange people were beyond me.
I ordered a pizza full of meat and grease and garlic sauce instead. I text him to see if he wanted to come over and nurse the hangover with a little ****. Watch a film. Get drunk again. He still smokes it on special occasions, and this ******* of a hangover was pretty **** special.
No reply, and I end up rolling up a joint for myself, smoking it by the window and watching the magpies peck around the grass. It's nice out.

The pizza guy comes. He's holding the pizza up like a map, calls out in a bored sort of voice: “Hello sir. I've got a large Palermo Pizza here, with a side of chicken strips and a can of Dandelion and Burdock?”
I say yes and he hands it over.

I tip him with the coins still left in my wallet from the night before, and he sheepishly says he picked up my post for me as well.
I look down at the pizza I'm holding, and there's a few envelopes that look suspiciously like bills, rival takeaway leaflets, and the local paper. I say thanks, give him the best sort of smile I could, and then close the door.
I turn on the TV. I forgot the England match was on. I turn over to something more interesting. There's nothing, so I switch back over. Before I open up the pizza, I take the paper. A small-town existence, nothing ever happens, but I could do with a new job.

The front page is on fire. A church has been burned down in the early morning. A forty-something man has been arrested and then taken to hospital for severe burns to the face. A load of children's art has been lost, along with countless Bibles, prayer cushions, and vaults of cash.
“****.”
I read through the article. The whole place was gutted. Nothing could be salvaged. Nothing could be redeemed. In the corner of the picture, through the red, green, and blue dots, I could just make out some bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.
I apologise profusely for posting up a short story instead of a poem. I wrote this in one go tonight and haven't proofread it. I had no plan, I just wrote until there was -something- there. I just wanted to try something different.

C
'Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:
train tracks always meet, not here, but only
    in the impossible mind's eye;
horizons beat a retreat as we embark
on sophist seas to overtake that mark
    where wave pretends to drench real sky.'

'Well then, if we agree, it is not odd
that one man's devil is another's god
    or that the solar spectrum is
a multitude of shaded grays; suspense
on the quicksands of ambivalence
    is our life's whole nemesis.

So we could rave on, darling, you and I,
until the stars tick out a lullaby
    about each cosmic pro and con;
nothing changes, for all the blazing of
our drastic jargon, but clock hands that move
    implacably from twelve to one.

We raise our arguments like sitting ducks
to knock them down with logic or with luck
    and contradict ourselves for fun;
the waitress holds our coats and we put on
the raw wind like a scarf; love is a faun
    who insists his playmates run.

Now you, my intellectual leprechaun,
would have me swallow the entire sun
    like an enormous oyster, down
the ocean in one gulp: you say a mark
of comet hara-kiri through the dark
    should inflame the sleeping town.

So kiss: the drunks upon the curb and dames
in dubious doorways forget their monday names,
    caper with candles in their heads;
the leaves applaud, and santa claus flies in
scattering candy from a zeppelin,
    playing his prodigal charades.

The moon leans down to took; the tilting fish
in the rare river wink and laugh; we lavish
    blessings right and left and cry
hello, and then hello again in deaf
churchyard ears until the starlit stiff
    graves all carol in reply.

Now kiss again: till our strict father leans
to call for curtain on our thousand scenes;
    brazen actors mock at him,
multiply pink harlequins and sing
in gay ventriloquy from wing to wing
    while footlights flare and houselights dim.

Tell now, we taunq where black or white begins
and separate the flutes from violins:
    the algebra of absolutes
explodes in a kaleidoscope of shapes
that jar, while each polemic jackanapes
    joins his enemies' recruits.

The paradox is that 'the play's the thing':
though prima donna pouts and critic stings,
    there burns throughout the line of words,
the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusion
which dreamers call real, and realists, illusion:
    an insight like the flight of birds:

Arrows that lacerate the sky, while knowing
the secret of their ecstasy's in going;
    some day, moving, one will drop,
and, dropping, die, to trace a wound that heals
only to reopen as flesh congeals:
    cycling phoenix never stops.

So we shall walk barefoot on walnut shells
of withered worlds, and stamp out puny hells
    and heavens till the spirits squeak
surrender: to build our bed as high as jack's
bold beanstalk; lie and love till sharp scythe hacks
    away our rationed days and weeks.

Then jet the blue tent topple, stars rain down,
and god or void appall us till we drown
    in our own tears: today we start
to pay the piper with each breath, yet love
knows not of death nor calculus above
    the simple sum of heart plus heart.
JJ Hutton Jul 2013
The first time a man ever pointed a gun at me and asked me to love him was at Granny's Kitchen in Greensboro, North Carolina.

The waitress, a soft spoken white woman with her hair pulled back in a bun, had just dropped off my plates --- a simple mix of scrambled eggs, two pieces of greasy bacon, and a short stack of pancakes. Now, no matter how cheap, I always feel like I'm cutting loose at breakfast places for the sheer abundance of plates. While I'm sure the eggs and bacon could have shared real estate, each component had its own china.

The waitress lingered at my table, her fingers fidgeting with straws in her apron. I made eye contact. Well, my eyes contacted hers; she was staring at my lips.

Sure I can't get you something to drink? she asked.

This was approximately the tenth time she'd made sure. She was uncomfortable that I had supplied my own beverage -- a Big Gulp. But even more than that, she was uncomfortable by the deep red stain taking over my lips. Contents of the Big Gulp: merlot, boxed.

(That is an unnecessary detail. I've only written it so I never do it again.)

Before Greg hopped up on a table and announced to the restaurant, If I could have your attention, my name is Greg and this will only take a second, blah, blah blah, I poured a copious amount of syrup on my pancakes. Then I moved the bacon to my pancake plate. In my experience, very little in this life is better than syrup on bacon.

I shut my eyes for that first bite, just like the commercials. The syrup dribbled a bit onto my beard, and when I opened my eyes, I discovered it had also landed on my shirt. I grabbed a napkin. Heard a chair slide backwards. I started with my beard, peering around the diner, making sure no one saw. I think I heard someone gasp. But I was busy, working that napkin then against my shirt. Jesus, I thought. My grandma, who's got a splash of the Parkinson's, could eat with more grace.

If I could have your attention, my name is Greg and this will only take a second, a very official voice boomed behind me.

I turned around to see if I recognized him as one of those cuffed jean-sporting, wild plaid-loving NPR hosts. He wasn't one of those. He was a sunburn with mop hair in a black tank top and hemmed jean shorts. He did, however, have a cleft chin. That's actually worth noting. Don't see a lot of them these days.

I know you guys are busy, he said. I know that like me, you guys are probably broke as hell. I mean no offense Granny's, I love this place, but it ain't exactly four stars. Or three. Anyway, all I want from each of you is five dollars. If you ain't got five, give me four. Ain't got four, three. And so on.

He started with the stringy Japanese couple on the west side of the restaurant. Nobody really seemed scared, not the freckled brat in canvas sneakers, not the liver-spotted gentleman with a copy of that day's paper.

My old friend Jerome used to say that white folks are the only romantic criminals. He tacked it up to that whole Bonnie and Clyde crap. Greg, it seemed, was privy to that information, too. He smiled and thanked each person as he robbed them of a few presidents. The victims, smiling back, seemed to be thinking of their names tagged at the end of some newspaper dialogue. A few even gave more than he asked.

Here, take fifteen. Times will get better.

Aren't you just a charmer.

It was all very moving.

So he gets to me, and of course, I don't have any cash. I carry a debit and an arsenal of credit cards like a normal American. I don't know how he made it to me before running into this particular problem.

No, I don't have one of those iPhone card swipers, he said. Well, you gotta give me something.

I offered a gift card to Harold's Clothes for Men, it had like two bucks on it, but he wasn't interested.

What's your name?

Henry.

How much do you weigh?

Enough to keep me prohibited from most amusement park rides.

I like you, Henry. Well, let me ask you something. Have you ever loved a man? he asked, pointing his smudgy revolver just past my ear.

I shook my head no.

Me neither. I've always been curious, though. You been curious?

There was a time when I was thirteen -- Blake Hinton was changing after basketball practice -- and I remember thinking, that is an incredible chest. These lines just sprawled from his sternum, lines leading to these almond *******, and I specifically remember wanting to eat them like, well, almonds. But that hardly counts as curious. So, I said, No.

To which Greg responded: Get curious, boy. You're coming with me.


In the spirit of honesty, I was in a bit of a haze before Greg made me climb into his beat up Cavalier. Not just from the Big Gulp brimmed with merlot, no, I hadn't slept in two days prior to the whole gun-in-face incident. Reason being, I was, as Greg would say, broke as hell, and the rent was due. I stayed up both nights conspiring (and drinking). So, really I was pretty thrilled to be kidnapped away from the whole situation.

I had visions. I guess from the lack of sleep. Maybe they weren't visions, maybe just dreams, or fever dreams, I don't know. All I know is I blinked, and we were in the Appalachians. And there was a grey longbeard in the backseat rattling on and on about how change is easy, movement is easy; it's that whole nesting thing that takes courage and strength, blah, blah, blah. I told him to be quiet. Greg told me to get some sleep. I blinked.

We were in a karaoke bar in Madison, Tennessee. There was a gin and tonic in front of me. I took a drink. There was a water with lime in front of me.

Greg asked, Where did you go?

I told him, your dreams, trying to be cute. He turned and asked the bartender for a Yeager bomb. Reaching for the server in -- granted -- an overly dramatic gesture, I said, Make it two. We made it three. We made it four. Seven. Then some vague, but perfect number, because my head rang right. The words came right. And I was a journalist, asking Greg all the right questions.

I'm not a criminal, he said.

I was just bored, man, he said.

You see, I was in a rut, he said. Last month I put up a personal on Craigslist. I know, it's pretty ******* desperate. I've read the kind **** people put on there. But mine was different. I just wanted some time with my ex-wife. Some couch ***, you know? We hadn't done it on a couch since I dropped out of college, and I hadn't even really thought about it until a couple weeks after the divorce. Then it was all I could think about.

A black woman, whose teeth glowed under the black light, began singing "Wild Horses." Then he read my mind, I think.

Yeah, she answered it. Did our thing on her sofa. It was nice and all, and like all nice things, you just want more, but she said I couldn't have no more, this was a fluke, a one-time, or no, a one-off thing, she said. Had to relocate, so that's why I did that whole thing at Granny's.

You ever get it on a couch? he asked.

No, I said. I've see a bra though --- two actually.

He took that as a joke, which was good.

Though wild horses couldn't drag me away, a gasoline horse could.


He handed me a courtesy breath mint after I finished throwing up. The Nashville skyline looks perfect, he said. Especially at night.

My stomach was gravel in a washing machine. Masculine love. At gunpoint, I had agreed to indulge it. I was going to make love to a man -- not just a man -- a criminal. Not something to write about on a postcard.

Mr. Winters, my esteemed landlord,
Apologies about the rent. Got kidnapped by a *******, and I'm presently banging and being banged by him in Music City, USA.


I blinked.

We laid on opposite ends of the queen-sized mattress.

I always liked Super 8s, Greg said. I don't see the point in spending so much on a hotel. A bed is a bed.

And I tried to be funny with something about the confidentiality of dark bedsheets, but it fell flat.

Greg cried. I love my ex-wife, he said.

Can I help?

Will you hold me? he asked.

The air conditioner kicked on in the already freezing room.

I'm sorry. You don't have to, he said.

I scooted against him. He smelled pleasant in a family-vacation-kind-of-way, like a fresh pretzel covered in salt. I put my arm under his neck. He buried his face into my shoulder. I blinked.


The front end of his Cavalier was held together with copper wire and coat hangers. It was a two-door. Both doors dented from, according to Greg, hit-and-runs. It had a Vermont plate on the back. It was red. I mention all of this to say: if we kept moving, we were bound to get pulled over.

In the parking lot of 3B's Breakfast, Burgers And Beer, Greg asked me to retrieve his revolver from the glove compartment. You kinda have to uppercut it, he said. And I did.

I don't want to do it again, but we have to. I'm not staying put, not until I hit the ocean. But don't worry, I'm not going to hurt anyone.

He showed me the revolver. No bullets. I nodded, in approval, I guess.


The second time a man ever pointed a gun at me and asked me to love him was at 3B's Breakfast, Burgers And Beer in Bellevue, Tennessee. Of course, it was the same man, Greg, but the circumstances were a little different.

I went with two orders of biscuits and gravy --- or B & G as my dear friend Chance affectionately calls it. Four bites in and I'd yet to hit biscuit. For a moment, I wanted to tell Greg, C'mon man, ***** the ocean. Tennessee does gravy the way God intended. Nobody would find us in this suburb. We could be sharecroppers. Do they still have sharecroppers?

Do you like fresh corn? I asked. It was the first crop that came to mind.

Greg didn't answer. I noticed his plate of hash browns and eggs -- sunny-side up -- were untouched. You okay?

He was, he said, trying to get in the zone, that's all.

Alright.

Our waitress looked like a poster child for ******'s Youth. She couldn't have been much more than sixteen. She had blonde -- almost white -- hair. Her eyes changed color with the intensity and direction of light, a gradient between seaweed and dark ocean blue. She appeared to be an amish girl gone defective, and I was about to inquire into that very supposition when Greg stood on the table, and said, If I could have your attention, my name is Greg and this will only take a second.

Tennessee is not North Carolina. In North Carolina, they got a healthy aversion to firearms. In Tennessee, however, once a babe can walk, the *******'s got a BB gun and an endless supply of empty soda cans for target practice. I say that, to say this: when Greg stood on the table, so did three other men. Their three guns pointed right at him.

Lower that gun, brother. You ain't gettin' any money out of us.

Hate to shoot you in front of your boyfriend.

Coffee spilled and ran off the tray our waitress held. She shook so hard, it wasn't clear how many women she was.

Greg's cleft chin centered on one gunman, than the other, than the other.

Just drop the gun, *******.

We don't want to ruin no one's breakfast.

Fellas, I said, he doesn't have any bullets in his gun. We need a little money that's all.

That ****** is just trying to protect him.

I'm calling the cops, a purple-haired old woman yelped from under her table. Silverware clanged against the floor. Then the buzz of a fly. Then the pop of fries drowning in grease. Then the bell chimed as some idiot walked inside.

Greg's arm was shaky as he pointed the gun at me. Do you love me? he asked.

I blinked.

And I was at 3B's in Bellevue, Tennessee.

I blinked.

And I was at 3B's in Bellevue, Tennessee.

I blinked.

And I was at 3B's in Bellevue, Tennessee.

I put my arms up. Slid my chair back a ways. Stepped on the chair, then unto the table.

Do you love me? Greg asked.

His breath smelled like last night's alcohol and that morning's coffee. He was a child, a sunburnt child with a cap gun. He wasn't going to hurt anyone.

I put my hand on top of the revolver and lowered it. He crumpled, as if I were scolding him. They still pointed their guns at us. But for the first time in my life, I felt secured, tethered to a space.

I lifted Greg's chin up with my index finger. Covered his eyes with the palm of my hand. And I kissed him. I kissed him, keeping my eyes closed tight.
Manda Clement Jun 2014
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
Do you remember the pop van? Its just another one of those memories that has stuck with me. x
Noor Sep 2013
Canned latte, water, fruit punch Rip-It
Gulp it, down it, chug it, sip it
In the gunner's sling, sway side to side
240B in the cradle, M4 right side

Talk of ***
Talk of food
It's all allowed
Nothing's too crude
Sometimes you talk
Sometimes you listen
Don't talk later 'bout what's said on mission
Check alleyways, balconies, traffic, rooftops
At five miles-an-hour, this convoy never stops

Red Bull, Gatorade, citrus Rip-It
Gulp it, down it, chug it, sip it
In the gunner's sling, sway side to side
240B in the cradle, shotgun left side

In the distance, flashes of white light
Watch them bloom throughout the green night
Was it dust lightning? Was it a bomb?
Don't matter to us, this mission carries on
Two hours to dawn, eight hours 'til we're done
Check balconies, traffic, alleyways, rooftops
At five miles-an-hour, this convoy never stops
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
The liquors of poetry has stain my tissues
Daniel Magner Mar 2013
Bottoned to the jaw
stone cold face to thaw
roughed and raw under
the black cloud dress shirt,
loud like thunder
as a I skirt the jungle
that is the tangle of bangles
and bands, hanging from wrists
followed by hands, twisting
to grab clear courage
with a flourish
Gulp, gulp, gulp
another plunge, more lurching
spiked up exterior like a sea urchin
lurking in the deep, dark ocean
Slowly getting dull
I'm emptier the more I am full
fire slowly flitting out,
I'm a dying coal
a half burned ember
put out by the snow of December
just pretending to be fire
I'm happy (I'm a liar)
but I never tire
of drowning
lurching, lurching
prickly again, I'm a sea urchin
© Daniel Magner 2013
(gulp)

couldn’t resist a minute more.

Relapse

I again…

After six months sober

Here.

in this pain I know all too well.

Ten years lost to this drug, my veins ache for.

First breath in the morning and last thought at night all consumed by it,

Every cell in me craves it.

That physical euphoria my body portraits.

Feels like someone has poured pure joy into every single muscle and fiber of my being.

It makes me feel so content

I am literally in love the entire world.

Every single bit of me is singing and buzzing with life and love.

It’s like the ecstasy of *******. That first, blissful, pleasurable pulsation of endorphin's and serotonin.

Is what I feel when I first take LOVE.

And then,

And then, the honeymoon stage is over.

Fights erupt,

never-ending debates,

miscommunications,

misperceptions,

no trust,

accusations,

lies,

“I’m done”



Again, it feels like a part of my soul is leaving my body.

Again, sitting here numb.

A toxic love

I’m addicted too,

And there’s no way around it.

It’s already deep intertwined with my veins.

Yet no matter the toxic tragic event that happened before, I sit here, and I want nothing more than to spend my life next to this soul.

To see his eyes unchanged as the skin around it wrinkling and old, is what my heart will always desire, to stare at those eyes for the rest of eternity.

Dead air…


















So here I’ll wait, until you decided to come into my life again and repeat this déjà vu.
I'm a **** in silverfoil
with an outlaw's Excaliber.
Bottle of Moet,
I'll glass 'em like a poet.
You don't seek my mad company,
but should you meet bad company,
don't woz your pretty head over secret ingredi-
ent in my  Punisher's Pigfeed.

Coz you gotcha self a guardian stalker,
gotcha back, aintcha noticed
how all of your opponents slowly
grace missing posters?
Guardian angel taking out his frustrations
on your every enemy: you don't know you need me.
Coz every kiss I miss I gulp to my fist,
every yelp  of my heart
calls for a friggin' riot!

Sometimes you feel me on the night,
your own personal Dark Knight.
I firebombed Brighthouse
- why didja think that tumbledryer was on the house?
I won the war of all your stalkers,
but last code red cost me a cold blood rap.
'Cherchez la femme'
my ooh-la-la Remoaner
Knox Road tat. Reminds me ...

I'm your guardian stalker,
I went bit Christopher Walken
on your daughter's bully's father
in a black balaclava.
Guardian stalker, you know
that ****** dogwalker  
found sleeping with the ducks
- I did it for you, Fido too!
Coz every kiss I miss I gulp to my fist,
every yelp of my heart
calls for a friggin' riot!

Guardian stalker, uh-huh! Guardian stalker o' her!
Guardian stalker, uh-huh! Guardian stalker o' her!
You can't **** a man who's already been killed by love.
You can't **** a man who's already been killed by love.
Emergency convening of COBRA
can't **** a man killed by love.
Even Walker, Texas Ranger
can't **** a man killed by love!
Knox Road = Norwich prison
Section 17 Row H seats 11 and 12
Almost every home game does he see
A grey haired man with a clip board sits
Two seats over and one down from me
He's a scout for the bigs, Comes most games to watch
Can't watch as a fan anymore
They know he made it, was up with the Bruins
Played defence with Old Number Four
He watches intently for five minutes or so
Just enough to watch each kid skate twice
Then he drinks down his coffee all in one gulp
and then he returns his eyes to the ice
The Scout, we will call him, for lack of a name
Has seen kids who've got game disappear
They find out he's watching, they get all uptight
And they can't play 'cause they're all tense with fear

I watched for four games, got his routine down pat
Watched him arrive and watch the kids skate
He'd go down in the corner and stand by the glass
Watching close through the plexiglass plate
He stayed away from the coaches, the players as well
And the parents, he'd avoid like the plague
If one ever stopped him, and asked "How's my boy"
He'd smile, and give an answer so vague
His career ended early with a stick to the head
Almost killed him, but, he was too mean
His left the game early, with Wayne Maki to blame
The Scout, is Edward "Ted" Green


Each season he'd sit, watching game after game
In arenas all over the land
Some kids he'd notice, he did not come to watch
They were just something that wasn't planned
He'd come into town to watch a kid who could score
And go home with two names on his list
One a defence man, and the goalie as well
But, the scorer, couldn't skate and got missed
Ted, would watch and make his reports on kids
Some were right, and the kid would go pro
He may be a star in the minors right now
But, the bigs...well, fate only knows

He'd listen to parents and coaches talk of the boys
Saying "My son's the next Bobby Orr"
Ted would chuckle a little and not say a word
He knew the kid would be heard from no more
Putting pressure like that on a young players back
Is like saying, "My boy will be God"
From then on it's never, the talented kid
I'ts the boy cursed with Orr's lightning rod
Many young players get compared to the best
But to say it out loud is a curse
You put a red dot on the young players back
He may as well leave in a hearse

Ted's seen them all, coaches, players and bums
Played when the game was real tough
They  had lighter equipment, not kevlar like now
and Ted, as we know liked it rough
His scratches and scribbles on the page tell a lot
But to the untrained they look like a mess
A pharmacy student couldn't read what he wrote
Nor a court stenographer I guess
He's a spotter of talent with stories to tell
More of them about kids who fell short
Most of them cursed with the "My kids the next..."
and the name of the best in the sport

Two Hundred and Ten games he watches each year
Most times he's gone early on
He's sees what he needs and then he packs up his stuff
And by the end of the first, Ted is gone
He's off on the road to another ice rink
To sit and watch on the hard seats, so cold
To listen as parents and coaches again
Talk of greatness, it's all gotten old
Terrible Ted has a warriors soul
And his grey hair is thinner but, curly
He has ice in his veins and a stick through his heart
Too bad his playing time ended too early.
Dedicated to "Terrible" Ted Green of The Big Bad Bruins and Edmonton Oilers of the NHL and former New England Whaler player of the WHA. One of the best hockey men around. I thought of this today after finding an old Ted Green hockey card from 1968 in my dresser drawer. I remember watching him play with Boston and Edmonton and saw him a number of times scouting at The London Gardens after his playing career was ended.
Adriana Moraes Mar 2015
Onetime I let a boy inside my ribcage

I warned him upon entry that the path to the     space     between my lungs was a oneway ticket

that I had never smoked a cigarette,
but the walls inside me were tar-filled  

and sick

that sometimes my heart failed to beat with my brain and instead fell into
perfect
uneven
synchrony with the faucet

where I threw-up cherry red the other night.

Onetime I let a boy with a knife inside my ribcage

and I had seen the knife

and I didn't care

he climbed inside me so gently
like he belonged there and was just taking his place

like a missing *****
he made me his home
reassembled my insides

vital pieces of me now resting on his body,
depending on his body

one hand on my heart

the other on my throat.

Onetime I let a boy with a knife and a bottle of bourbon live inside my ribcage

he cleaned the tar off the walls
but didn't cure the sickness

I think he liked the smell of it.

One night he carved his name everywhere

spine
clavicle
esophagus

and I pretended to sleep

cut
nick
slash

he tried to claim me
he tried to clean me

but lost souls can't be claimed
and I'll never be clean enough

my heart follows faucets
not boys

and that scared the boy

so one night he poured the bourbon down the throat he held

and I didn't stop him

and I almost drowned

gulp, gulp, gulp
slash, slash, slash

cursive illegible sorry's
over every spot he had once cut his name into

and he kissed the wounds
and I woke up heavy.

Organs are worthless without their host but

Onetime I watched a boy tear his way out of my ribcage.

Knife and empty bottle in his place,
nothing's been working right in there since.

I haven't let anyone in there since.
Rockie Nov 2014
Judge, Jury and Executioner
Grudge, Unruly and T-Rex Dinosaur
Munch, Lunch and Gulp

Yours truly,
        The Judge, Jury and Executioner eaten by the T-Rex
Just something random that sprung to mind XD
Poetic T Sep 2014
They said the wolf
Beware
But in truth it was not he
All should fear
Misunderstood
Stigmatised
Tainted
His name was mud
Listen,
Observe,
Eavesdrop,
On the words that growl forth,
Three,
Little,
Pigs,
They seemed so succulent,
"Wait rephrase that"
Those bacon bandits,
"Wait misunderstood definition"
Those  pink porkers
A triangle of terror they were
To me,
A birthday wish for their mother you see,
Fur, but fur isn't cheap
So a thought??
)POPPED(
In to there salty minds
A wolf could make not
One
Not
Two
But one for each.
"Are you still listening"
They planned, snorted
Laughed with glee, my end planned
By all three it seems
The first
Flame was his weapon
Straw
Tightly bound
Ablaze in my face
A circle
Straw,
Match
Fire
I had no escape it would seem,
But as I was pushing behind
A trap cleverly conceived
But I was not defenceless,
I
Huffed
&
Puffed,
And with an exhale,
The flame
Did extinguish
Was blown out,
Embers lit up the sky,
As a pig now in my sights
"Gulp"
"GUlp"
"GULP
And smile upon my face
As I huffed and puffed
Inhaled
All that surrounded,
Inhaled,
Exhaled,
Everything out
Piggy was now floating in air
"One final inhale"
And piggy was hanging by his pinkies
Inside of  my wolfs mouth
"This little piggy was  naughty"
"This little piggy used his  mouth"
"One final piggy down the  hatch,"
I licked my lips and that was that.
I walked along now knowing their plan
And by a whisker
It just missed
Matrix style dodges
Ensued
Wooden spears
Shrieked past,
Out of the corner of my eye
"I saw him"
"A glint in his eye"
As Ten wooden spears
Launched,
Flight,
Shards,
Of stick rained down
"Was this my end"
?
?
I
Huffed
&
Puffed,
And these sticks paper cut
My nose then
In to the wind they flew
Have you heard a piggy
Squeal,
Scream,
Oink
All in one exhale its not pretty
As spears one and another
Encircled my porky Friend
His pink now white with fear encircled
"No way out"
"Pinkie"
He smiled I inhaled
And once again a piggy held on
To my snout
Eyes watering I  said
"This little piggy was  naughty"
"This little piggy used his  mouth"
"One final piggy down the  hatch,"
I licked my lips and that was that.
"I hope your listening"
I growled
It was him or me I would be
Fur upon a back
So used my senses
Sight,
Hearing,
Snout,
But he was no where to be found,
I looked for this bad bacon
High
&
low
So I went home to ponder
"Was it over"
I sat in my chair,
Then a brick through my
Window did appear
Come out and play
I scratched my head??
"Why not just knock the door"
As I went out side
A castle of brick and stone
At the bottom of my garden
"Impressive I say"
"Did I just say that out loud"
You may have eaten
One pig,
Two pig,
But you'll not get the desert,
I
Huffed
&
Puffed,
And down the phone I shouted
To the council of the land,
"Permits"
"Height"
"Private land"
And with that the castle came down
There is more than one way
To get a piggy off my land
As they left, the piggy snuck off too,
"Where are you going piggy"
"Unfinished business me and you"
It was them they made
Me do it,
Then a growl came forth
And two voices spoke
One little piggy
"It was his plan from the start"
Then a second piggy spoke out
"He set you up, as well as us"
The piggy startled
Voices echoed out
"Really"
I spoke
Yes my plan he snorted then laughed
"What you going to do"
I
Huffed
&
Puffed,
And blew my wind out
Have you ever seen a
Piglet role down a hill
The noise was like
Oink
OUCH
Oink
OUCH
And with that  I
Inhaled,
And the bruised and battered piggy held
On to my whiskers
Eyes watering,
Nose dripping out,
"This little piggy was  naughty"
"This little piggy used his  mouth"
"One final piggy down the  hatch,"
I licked my lips and that was that
"I hope your still listening"
My belly rumbled
It was what I had eaten
Not agreeing with me
I went to the
Jailhouse
Slammer
Lockup
For this is where
They were regurgitated,
And Spat out, these
Three
Little
Pigs
Would be doing
Twenty five
To
Life,
In a prison of jackals
These little pigs are going to have
A hard time sweating salt,
Fear in there eyes instead of mine,
"Are you Listening"
What you thought I'd eaten them??
I'm a vegetarian for goodness sake
I licked my lips but *
bacon does taste nice...
AD Mullin Oct 2014
The first time I truly stepped into the mystic
For a suspended period
Those close to me watched with amused
Concern

Later on I would find out that this place was called hypo-mania
A lower energy level than mania
Recognized by the p-doc's as a creative place
But also a place of warning

Cause what comes next?
Mania
For me it was spiritual; I was playing in the aether
I was living the Tao; I instinctively called it Source

I was studying to be a scientist at the time
So this didn't make a lot of sense
The data didn't support the hypothesis
Had I just eaten one to many mushrooms as a teenager?

I already had a psychiatrist
I was being treated for ADHD
He had prescribed something called Concerta
An amphetamine; a ******-stimulant

At many points along the journey
I cursed the day I ever heard of psychiatry
I'm sure that the neuro-chemical pathways opened up by Concerta
Had something to do with my awakening

Those first days near Source made me realize I needed some guidelines
Mine were informed by my indigenous heritage
Only take what you need (i.e. sip, don't gulp from the River Tao)
Find your foundation: my rock was integrity, eventually leading to authenticity

Even with these guidelines, I couldn't maintain the healthy place they were calling hypo-mania
I had too much toxicity in the relationships around me
I couldn't fully elucidate what I was seeing and feeling
And my 7 kettles were on a full rolling boil

I was draining myself
I drove myself into madness
I was trying to sip from source and live my truth
But I wasn't honouring the nature of the Tao

It was Helter Skelter:
'So you go back to the top of the slide
And you turn and you go for a ride
And I get to the bottom and I see you again'

Over the next 3 years
I would lay down what I now think of as my
4 pillars; four hospitalizations
Well over one hundred days in the Cuckoo's Nest

The first hospitalization I went happily
I was going to teach and inspire the sickies
It's hard to get healthy in a place of illness, though
I came out still a little hypo-manic but went into a deep, dark depression
After finding out what those around me really thought

The second hospitalization, I went against my will
The doctor's were inconsistent, I found flaws in their logic
They looked at me like I was a flaw
They tried to prescribe health at me; I told them to *******

At that point I was not happy with the Canadian health care system
Health, first and foremost, was a public good
This ******* the individual's rights
I wasn't a danger to myself or others but I was a risk so there goes 70 days of my life

I was fortunate to have the support of some important people
They made sure my finances, among other things, were maintained as I tried to make it back to the ordinary
After my second hospitalization I really began to delve into the idea of holistic healthcare

It was after my second hospitalization that I made my first Hero's Journey
I was playing the role of a white blood cell for Gaia
I had my first three sweats within a month of each other
I met many shaman and I'm pretty sure I began my own residency

I put 10,000 km on my trusty steed
Chasing windmills
Sancho Panza by my side
< --- -- - Vancouver, NYC, Los Angeles, 'da bridge - -- --- >

My third hospitalization was the third act of this Hero's Journey
I was pushing it, reckless; I stopped taking my prescribed medicine
I ended up in the City of Angels of all places
Straight outta Compton!

My fourth hospitalization (and final pillar) was last summer
This time I ended up in Billings, Montana
The American model places the onus of health on the individual
I could have stepped out of that hospital at any point but I now had the wisdom to know what I did and did not need

Even though I speak of four pillars
There is always a fifth element
Her; the one
She woke me up to my soul's purpose

We met shortly before my fourth hospitalization
(You've got to use the fourth, Aaron)
She was a stranger in many ways
Still is but why does she feel so familiar?

She walked me through Dante's Inferno
She had spent time in her own non-ordinary reality
She left behind a map and published it
Through her bravery, I was able to find my way out of the inferno

And through her bravery, I was able to publish my map
http://www.bipolarorwakingup.com/
Cory Ellis Sep 2014
Big gulp of gluttony
of pride, of jealousy
I relish to see
the perimeter

the perimeter of intrigue and obscene
cleanly baited and fated by the hook of curiosity
fumbling lawlessly

Though then I see the awesome power
of the great creator at work
it's berserk!
manifesting perfection as I tumble through the murk
Born May 2017
she's a corrosive story
Hidden within a mirror
Never to be heard again

As I gulp down my favorite cheap *****
I wondered  with amazement at my ignorance
And the vicious adage that crippled me
love is blind

You were a ruthless callous soul
and still
remnants of your cold heart still linger in my thoughts
loving you was devastating
Hers May 2015
So I went to the movies one Saturday all alone and by myself. I thought I would have another boring weekend...guess not...

I bought my ticket, went on in, and entered the theater. Bought some popcorn and a drink from this hot girl at concession. "Tori" was her name.

Now, I'm a peaceful kinda guy, try to respect girls, and I'm not all that crazy about girls like some guys are...but holy ******* **** was this girl hot.

I stared at her **** when she smiled at me and I looked down at her *****...

"...Hello, sir?"
"Oh, sorry, name's Joe, I just think you're....you're..."
"I'm what?"
"You're really beautiful...and hot..."
"Oh...Thank you :* You're not so bad yourself and..."

She stared at my muscles and even down at my ****. She could see how hard I was...how big I was...

"Oh my god...", She mouthed with shaky breath

I handed her the money.

"I'll see ya later hot stuff ;)", I smirked

She turned away to hide her blushing face. Though I could see her stunning eyes no more, I looked at her ***...I won't even start talking about how perfect Tori's *** is.

I finally go to my movie...



Except no one else was there.

I thought, "Geez, I know the movie got bad reviews but seriously? Wow..."

I took a seat in the very back on the left side and started munchin' on my popcorn.


30 minutes in, Tori comes up with a red glowstick and is shocked too that no one's here.

I say to her, "I freakin' love this movie! Why anyone would hate it is beyond me."

She replied, "I know! People are stupid sometimes."

She came up to the back and sat next to me.

"Popcorn?", I asked
"Sure, thanks Joe :)"
"...got a boyfriend?"
"Nah, I'm single"
"Ooooh...ever had ***?"
"Uuuum...none of your business..........no..."



I knew I had to claim her as mine
I had to **** Tori
HAD TO
She was too hot and I couldn't let her go


I asked her, "Hey, who is that down the stairs?"
"Uuuuuuh...I don't know...let me see..."

She got up, her *** in full view...

"Joe, I don't see-"



I pushed her to the ground with me
Turned her around
Put my knee on her back
Took of my belt
And tried to put her hands behind her

"Joe, what the ****! Get off me"
"No, now put your hands behind you"
"NO! GET THE ******* ME"

I slapped her *** as hard as I could
She winced in pain

"OW! JOE, NO!"
"SHUT UP, AND PUT YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOU"

I slapped her *** hard again
And kept slapping it

"OK OK!"

She gave up and put her hands behind her. I tied her hands up nice and tight with my belt.

I pulled her up on her knees and made her look the other way for a second.

She said, "What are you gonna do now? Kidnap-"

I was naked in full view in front of her with my hard, huge **** right in her face

"OH MY GOD! PLEASE NO! NO NO NOOOOO-"

Her mouth was wide open....

I was gentle at all from the beginning...




I push my fingers through her soft hair as I thrusted my huge **** into her little, hot mouth as hard and as fast as I could

"**** **** ****"
"OH YEAH BABY! ******* ******* ****!"

She tried to bite me but I was making her gag too much, which felt ******* great, so she couldn't really



There I was
Forcing my **** down
Tori's unwilling mouth and throat
Forcing her head down
While she tried to pull her head back
In the middle of a movie
I knew now no one would come to

She was helpless
She was mine



**** **** **** ****
"OH TORI BABY! GET READY FOR MY CUMMMMMM"

She moaned in disapproval but that just made my **** feel better

With one final ******, I pushed all 6 inches of my huge, long **** into her little, warm mouth

And I came down Tori's throat


She refused to swallow my ***
So it filled her entire mouth

I wanted her to swallow all my ***
So I said, "You know, you can't spit it out because I'm all the way in your mouth. Your only choice is to swallow it all like a good, little girl. Otherwise, you won't be able to breathe."


After a whole minute of waiting, she swallowed it all in one big gulp down her throat and into her tummy. I pulled out slowly...

"You *******. I would kick your *** right now if I could." She said
"Oh, don't worry, Tori. You'll learn to love my *** soon enough..."
"You know what? **** yo-"

I forced my **** down her throat again
And thrusted as hard as I could ;)


Her ******* and moaning made me wild as she finally obeyed me. I let my hands free from her head as she just kept on ******* my ****.

"Tori....mmmmm...look at me...look up here...****"

She kept ******* and moaning but didn't look up, so I made her gag until she did.

"LOOK AT ME. Look into my eyes when you **** me off"

She obeyed and I let her continue ******* freely.

When I was about to ***, I pulled out the sanctuary of her mouth and tongue, pulled back her head, and told her to open her mouth with her tongue out.

She obeyed and I came into her mouth, on her forehead and cheeks and lips and nose, and on the top of her **** and even on her shirt.


"You ruined my ******* shirt! Joe, you-"


I pushed her on the ground on her back and ripped her pants, literally, off.

"Joe...what are you doing?"

Her pants and shoes were no more and all I could see was her beautiful, big nice *** in front of me

I forced her face into the cold, hard floor and made her *** stick up in the air for me.

"Joe...please....oh god please don't...i beg you don't....NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"


I ****** her ***** and slammed into her nice *** as I grabbed her hips.

"MMMMMMMM, TORI! YOUR ***** IS SO TIGHT AND WARM AND WET! ****!"

"**** NO! NO NO NO NO NO! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MYYYYY GOOOOOOOOOOD! I'M SO FULL"


I ****** her like an animal. In and out. In and out. My ***** smacking against her **** and her *** cushioning my hips as I pounded into her without mercy filled the hall.

I forced myself into her tightening ***** one last time and I came with everything inside me into Tori's *****.

She just replied with, "OH MY GOD! I'M *******! **** I'M *******!"

Our *** mixed together and dripped out of her ***** and dripped loudly onto the floor


I snuck her into the break room and got her another pair of her pants. I snuck her outside on her break and then took her to her car.

We got in the driver's seat and she sat down on my ***-covered **** with no other choice but to put it inside her

"Mmmmmmmm, Tori"
"Joe, please let me go. Please just-"

I started ******* her as she straddled me. I teased her **** as I was reclined back in the driver's seat.

I ripped off her shirt and we were now both naked, in her car, without her approval.


We ****** like rabbits and came all over my lap and her seat. She only responded to my deep kisses with "mmmmmmmmm"


I ****** her rough for the rest of the day in the changing room of Victoria's Secret for the next 5 hours until she had to go home.

When she had to go, she was **** near passed out but repeating softly, "Thank you, Joe. Thank you. Thank you, baby. Thank you."

I kissed her forehead and she went home.


Where I ****** her too...


But that's a story for another day ;)
Jiminy Cricket Jun 2013
Inhale and hold it in.
You don't want to be called a *****
Even by your closest friend.

Exhale and let everything around you disolve.
There are no worries at this point.
There is nothing to think about.
Only the thoughts of what you have just done.
They start to sink in
And your thoughts come at you like never before.

The walls around you have only disolved, as the walls of your thoughts build up 10x as strong.
Tring to break through them only acts as a self distruct.
So you hit the button,
Once
Twice
More times than you thought was possible.
Especially after saying you wouldn't hit it after the first.

Running away is hopeless, as you end up where you left
Like many others.
You are not like them.
The ones who are lost in thier own loop.
Learn from thier mistakes.


Gulp, gulp, gulp...
Onto something new we see.
A different country, a different coulture.

Swallow and discover the opposite.
There are no worries.
There are no thoughts.
There is nothing at all.
The only thing that sinks is the liquid inside your empty stomach.

The walls are blured
And your perception on reality is fuzzed.
Like a kid in a bouncy castle,
you don't want to leave.

The echoing sound of your parents escorts you out though.
You follow them home
And before you lay into slumber
They remind you of school in the morning.
ishaan khandpur Jan 2016
Run. Run.
Puff. Puff.
Run. Run.
Sip.

The daily life,
Of a slaving *****.
A sip of coffee,
A drag of the cancer stick.
And so the daily ritual begins.

The mail box beeps,
In a rhythmic beat,
The type of sound,
That makes you feel,
Like the back of your brain,
Just met a window pane.

Tring. Tring.
Shuffle. Shuffle.
Tring. Tring.
Click.

Pretentious people,
Pretend to be friends,
The knife behind their hands,
The smile plastered in.

The daily meetings,
The usual pains,
With the motor mouthed,
Sweet tongued *****.

Gulp. Gulp.
Slurp. Slurp.
Gulp. Gulp.
Hic.

The day ends as usual,
With a bottle,
What a kick.

As you swaddle over,
To that one room pit,
That you call home,
And see only in a swill.

Beep. Beep.
Tap. Tap.
Beep. Beep.
BANG.

You wished it over,
But the ritual just began.
jimmy tee Mar 2013
‘…. and now, here’s Rick with the latest Market news…’

‘Val, trading was very brisk today, with a number of influences
that set the market off to some defined trends and statements.
Of course, the Human Virtue Exchange always seems to rely
on the volatility that resides ‘between the ears’ as noted
by the veteran brokers on the floor, but the sharp ranges
of prices offered versus profit taking has set the bar
very high in the relative value of Basic Human Virtue.

Now to the numbers: Courage [WHOME], Patience [PP],
and former market darling Perseverance [GULP],
all varied widely today on news from Washington that
their value was doomed to fall in the light of the expected growth
of Persistence [IAM] which history has shown to be a marked drag
on just about everything. Outside of the self –efficacy bazaar,
old standbys  Ambition [HVY], Curiosity [WDF], Industry [HAHA] and Temperance [BFD],
continued their free fall into uncharted areas of cost and return.
Some analysts feel these virtues could be a real bargain in the future
despite their history of poor performance. Could a comeback not seen
since collapse of the Protestant Hypocrisy Era  be in the works? We’ll see as the lack of movement in the Kindness-Generosity-Forgiveness-Compassion Index [FARAWAY]  
leads many to believe that the end of Politeness [UPYRS],
Un-pretentiousness [ME-ME], Self Control [NWAY] and Sportsmanship [LONGONE], may lead to a complete miss-understanding between casual market players and devotees to the cause. The ratios cannot lie.
But without a doubt, today’s big winner was  Self Respect [YUP]
which jumped and amazing 40 points before active trading ceased at the bell. So people feel real good about themselves for reasons
that cannot be explained by the Ego File Indicator alone; this causes this reporter to predict that Naval Gazing [MOM] remains a ‘Hot to Trot’ stock fund
and the Vanity market is always a good bet.
Now, here’s Carl with
today’s Human Emotion Exchange report……’
“What do you think
The bravest drink
Under the sky?”
“Strong beer,” said I.

“There’s a place for everything,
Everything, anything,
There’s a place for everything
Where it ought to be:
For a chicken, the hen’s wing;
For poison, the bee’s sting;
For almond-blossom, Spring;
A beerhouse for me.”

“There’s a prize for every one
Every one, any one,
There’s a prize for every one,
Whoever he may be:
Crags for the mountaineer,
Flags for the Fusilier,
For English poets, beer!
Strong beer for me!”

“Tell us, now, how and when
We may find the bravest men?”
“A sure test, an easy test:
Those that drink beer are the best,
Brown beer strongly brewed,
English drink and English food.”

Oh, never choose as Gideon chose
By the cold well, but rather those
Who look on beer when it is brown,
Smack their lips and gulp it down.
Leave the lads who tamely drink
With Gideon by the water brink,
But search the benches of the Plough,
The Tun, the Sun, the Spotted Cow,
For jolly rascal lads who pray,
Pewter in hand, at close of day,
“Teach me to live that I may fear
The grave as little as my beer.”
Joseph Valle Dec 2012
There's ***** on the train ride home
and I'm sitting next to it.
It's not on purpose, of course.
Mind you though, I cannot say,
for sure, that it isn't mine.

Putrid, 2am wetness
rises into my nostrils.
From floor, this airborne form
lacks the blacked-out, bile-wine color,
but the stench more than makes up for it.

I'm in and out of consciousness.
"I'm just tired," I swear to the ticket-ticker,
"and my memory mind haunts me."
That's why I truly do not know
whose what this belongs to.

I should bag it and take it home.
With cooled hand on warm, glass cup,
gulp it down and let it simmer.
Chunked broth, swished bitter,
headached pieces puddled on the floor.

I'm not home yet, I've got an hour to go.
Seat reeks, I smell. Hands tremble and a girl laughs.
The train begins moving and I without it.
Can you taste the sickness?
I still do, my mouth fills out with it.
CandidlySubtle Jul 2016
A glass cup sits on a table,
Five inches tall and smooth walls,
Plain, ordinary, transparent,
Water filled to the rim,
Glistening, clean, and pure.

A thirsty man sees the cup,
Gets excited and reaches out,
Be gentle, he says to himself,
But the water still spills,
It was filled to the the rim, you see.

A few drops fell onto the table,
But it's only a few,
Only a few drops slipped,
Only a few drops gone,
Only a few drops missed.

The man takes a gulp,
Quenching his thirst,
The water is no longer pure,
He takes another gulp,
The cup is no longer clean,
Another and another,
Until a sliver is left.

The man refills the cup,
With something he likes,
Slightly below the rim this time,
The liquid is no longer clear,
But the glass still transparent.

The man takes another gulp,
Another and a few sips,
Until there is two inches left,
He abandons the cup,
         Unfinished.

A glass cup sits on a table,
Filled less than halfway,
Opaque and unclean,
It stands on the table,
Among clean water,
         Spilled from before.
Teetering on her baby legs
A newborn with a Solo cup
bombastic red with a few
undulating ribs
Held firmly in her hand
Is this her first or her third?
Somnambulant yet eager
And just a little out of place
In a foreign territory
On newly contested lands
She stumbles through a raucous crowd
Or was it just white noise?
She’s lost her companions
Somewhere
Although they could very well be close at hand

In the distance she can make out
Laughing faces
Bodies moving to and fro
Spilling forward, little messes
Throwing back cheap libation

She passes through a room and out the door
Into the out-of-doors
Someone following her unbeknownst
Watching her cautious, curious steps
And when she turns and sees the blur standing
She greets it
“Hail Fellow!”

Bouncing from variable to variable
Frequency to frequency
Confident and in command
Of a seemingly controlled chaos
He approaches smiling and holds out his hand
Anonymous

Having drawn her attention from the stars
That she could not find above
Leaning against the garage’s eastern wall
She takes it awkwardly
Tentative she smiles back reassured
Wobbling she returns standing alongside him
Or was she in front?
Purposeful and en route
Emboldened by his presence
And how the way was parted before her
Just by his being there.
By being so close.
She felt vaguely special
it showed in her half-smile
Cloaked in bangs
She held her head just a little bit higher

The co-conspiratorial glances
Met by boys eyes
And shes
Went unseen by the girl with the
Solo cup
One of tens upon tens upon tens
A coven would have known
It’s better not to

However.

She was shown a seat to rest
And her cup refilled
She takes a sip and smiles again
She takes another and then a gulp
That spills
He takes the cup away
And places it on the low table
Suggests she go to the restroom upstairs and get herself
Sorted

Embarrassed she is relieved for direction
Someone knows what’s going on
And his caring
Taking the time
His kind eyes
She’s usually alone
She waddles up the stairs to find
a toilet and a mirror
God she thinks
I look a mess
She tries to fix it
The hair
The eyes
The lips
The dress
The stomach
The *******
The thighs

She shrugs her shoulders at her reflection
Exhales and steps out again
To find him standing there
waiting for more.

She wants another cup.
She’s missing her cup.
I’ll get you the cup he says
In just a second.
Come.
Dannie Marie Nov 2012
So young and trite is the day

Born from this new light

Creatures of the dark and mist curl and wither

Only to return by midlight

The rose afar rises and stretches

Bloodshed velvet bleeds its regal glow

Smooth tips and enticing fragrance

Dark greens, stiff and sharp as spines

Beads of water glisten and shimmer

A blood’s true jewel

Thy shadows came in thy’s slithery way

Enveloping Devil’s Beauty

Charcoal webs and silver-black imprints

Spiral and intertwine, death and blood a dangerous omen

Thy Beauty’s velvet lips decay

A cancer slow moving and fast changing

Taking over thy body in one gulp

Last, final tips of red appear before swallow

Accenting and tracing its last magnificent life

Midlight turns to midnight

Bloodlines disappear

As the wind wails through the dead

A song, chilling, unnerving to us all
Dorothy A May 2012
Trish had an uncanny ability to pick all the wrong ones. Like a friend once told her, “You always try to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear!”  If there were a hundred available guys in a room, she always managed to zone in on the worst one there, not the kindest one, not the one with the greatest character or honor. It's like she had a special gift for finding a man—a cursed one—yet she had only herself to blame—not  fate for it—like she tried to point her finger at for her troubles. In this regard, Trish was often her own worst enemy. And none of her bad experiences seemed to deter her from her defeating patterns, for it seemed that having a ****** choice of a man in her life was better than having no man at all.

A Friday night without any date was something she desperately wanted to avoid. At the age of fifty-six, trying to meet men was getting old, as old as she was feeling, lately.

At Pete’s Place, a local bar down at the end of her street, and two blocks over, Trish could at least feel like she was among friends. It was an old hangout that always felt like a safe haven to turn to, familiar territory that she could call her own turf, her home away from home. Often, Trish encountered regulars, down-to-earth faces who have been going to the family-like establishment as long as or longer than she has. Drinking really was not her thing, not more than one or two, at the most. But if anything, if worst came to worst, she could say she was not home alone and left out while the world seemed to go on its own merry way without her.  

Pete’s Place was far from a glamorous hangout, but it had a cozy charm to it that made it irresistible to Trish. In the back were a pool table and a dartboard that provided some harmless enjoyment. With a couple of flat screen TVs, there usually was some sports game to watch. And every other Saturday, there was a DJ conducting Karaoke that always attracted a regular crowd. Trish couldn’t sing a note, but she loved to watch and cheer everybody else on. She just felt so welcome here, so at home, that even if she felt depressed or lonely, the atmosphere eventually lifted her heaviness of heart.  

Entering the bar this time, Trish hardly saw a familiar face at all—that was except for the bartender, Henry, who worked this job since forever. For a Friday night, business seemed surprisingly slow. There was only an older couple watching a baseball game that was at Pete’s Place, a couple that she did not recognize.

“Where is everybody?” Trish asked Henry.

Henry smiled. “Hey, Trish! Good to see ya! Yeah, it is like a ghost town tonight, isn’t it? I guess there are too many good things goin’ on down in Buffalo. I think there are some big boat races goin’ on. And, for sure, there is the jazz festival”.

“Well, I’m here, Henry! Look out, everybody! Let the fun begin!” she said jokingly as she sat herself up at one of the barstools. She looked around. Even the wait staff wasn’t around, obviously gone home early and not needed.

“Would have been nice to go somewhere fun like that. I mean the jazz festival. I like jazz”, Trish said to Henry.

Henry was trying to stay busy by wiping down the bar, cleaning every nook and cranny behind the counter. “You should have called up one of your girlfriends to go over there. I am sure someone would have gone with ya”.

Trish rolled her eyes. “What girlfriends? They are often too busy with their own husbands or men in their life to care about what poor, old Trish Urbine wants to do!”

Henry felt bad for her.  The more she frequented Pete’s Place, the more he knew she was all alone, was in between having some man in her life. And, lately, she was coming quite often to the bar by herself.

“You are not old, Trish! Hell, I am older than you!” Henry exclaimed.

Trish just frowned, not convinced at all by what Henry said. “Not old?” she asked. She pulled a small mirror out of her purse and looked at herself, giving herself the inspection of a drill sergeant. “That is a joke! Look at those bags under my eyes. Look at those crow’s feet, for pity’s sake!  Look at that droopy skin in my neck! Horrible! I am trying to save up for a face lift. I really need it! Been needing it for a while now!”

Henry shook his head. “All you women are alike. My wife does the same, **** thing, the same putdowns to herself. Says she’s fat. Says she’s getting old and ugly. Says this and says that. But let me tell you Trish, after thirty-six years of marriage, I still see her as my sweetheart. I’d have it no other way than with my Bernadette. He patted his belly and added, "Hell, look at me. Believe it or not, with my job, I don’t even drink that much beer. But look at the gut I am getting”.  

Trish scoffed at what he said. Henry looked nearly as lean as he did the first time she met him. He was just being nice. .Under better circumstances, she would have found what Henry said as endearing and charming. To say he still loved his wife as his “sweetheart” was incredibly adorable and rare.

“Hey”, Henry said. “Enough of my jibber jabber. Pardon my manners. What can I get for ya, dear?”

“Just a Diet Coke for me, Henry. I have to watch the calories myself. You know me—don’t want to get frumpy, lumpy and dumpy. At least not more than I am!” Trish smiled. She thought that her self disparaging remarks were a cute way of getting her point across with humor, but Henry couldn’t see anything funny about it.

He filled her glass of pop from the tap and handed it over to her. “Hey, how’s that daughter of yours doing? Is she still living in Albany?”  

Trish cupped her hands up to her forehead and rested her head on them. “She is still in Albany, but she might as be on the moon for all we ever talk to each other”. She looked up at Henry and he could see the frustration written all over her face.

“I didn’t mean to upset you”, he said.

“Oh, you didn’t”, she returned. “I appreciate you asking, but you know the situation with Patti and I. It is either that we are at each other’s throat or we just don’t talk. Truth be told, we haven’t really got along since she was a girl. Once she hit those teenage years—oh, man they were a nightmare! I wouldn’t relive those years for anything!”

Henry rested his elbows up on the bar counter. “Oh, I know what you mean!. My second son, my boy, Steven, and I had a terrible time once he hit about fifteen. Man, him and I bucked heads all the time. Yes, indeed! It could get ugly, and it sure as heck did! But now I’m proud of him! In Afghanistan, fighting for his country—that is somethin’ that makes me glad! Now, I say that I couldn’t ask for better sons. I’m proud of him—of all four of my boys as good, strong men that they are!”  

Trish sipped on her coke, a hurtful look upon her face while reflecting on her daughter, a daughter that she named after herself.  Both were named Patricia, but the same name did not mean two peas in a pod, actually far from it. Trish definitely preferred her name, short and sophisticated—so she had liked to think—and the name, Patti, seemed cute and carefree. But Patti seemed anything but cute and carefree, not like she was when she was very little. But the name stuck with her, as she preferred to be called

“Yeah, but Patti still lives in the past” Trish said. “She still blames me for everything wrong in her life. Nothing has changed, and I am still the bad guy. Trish thought for a second. “Well, her dad, too. He’s bad, too, in her eyes. She always says she raised herself, that she never had real parents. That’s crap because I raised her and I was around—unlike her useless father!”

“Sounds bitter on her part”, Henry agreed. He thought to say that Trish sounded a bit like that, too, but he did not think it was his place to say it out loud.

“Bitter is right”, Trish said in disgust.  

Bartenders have always been seen as good listeners, like the working man’s counselor. People, like Trish, often came in for a drink to try to forget their troubles, and wanting to lean on a trusty soul in need. Henry has seen plenty of this in his twenty-four years on the job, and he has honed the skill quite well, the skill of providing a listening ear. Sometimes he had good advice, but he knew he was no psychiatrist.    

Frustrated, Trish went on. “I mean who else was there for her? When her dad and I divorced, she wanted to stay with him just to spite me! But would he have her? No, he only wanted to be with his under aged, ***** wife!

“And who else would do what I did? When my step dad died, and my mom couldn’t handle my little brother anymore, who was it that took him in? It was me! He was eleven and I was almost twenty-two and living with my boyfriend. I helped to finish raising him, kept him at my place right up to the day that he was grown—and more! And I did it because it needed doing, and nobody else was stepping in! When my sister moved to Colorado, and one of her kids, my nephew, Craig, wanted to stay here to graduate here from high school, I agreed to take him in for two years until he finished high school. And yet I am such a bad, selfish person in Patti’s opinion! It makes me sick to think of how she sees me as her mother!”

Henry poured her a refill of pop in her half empty glass. He knew that Trish was on bad terms with her daughter, that their relationship was shaky and strained. Patti was Trish’s only child, and it troubled him that they didn’t have much of a relationship. Yet Trish did not need pity. She needed to refocus and find a new direction. Henry knew that she has needed a new direction for quite a while now.    

“Well, you know I love my daughter”, he replied. “I know your heart must be achin’ bad—real bad. I couldn’t imagine my life without Jocelyn or me not talkin’ to her. She’s the apple of my eye, ya know!  And my boys know it and get that she’s special to me—Daddy’s little girl. With four older brothers, she has always been outnumbered. And myself and the Mrs. never expected her, neither. One—two—three—four, the boys all came right in a row! She came way after, Ben, the last one—a big surprise, I tell ya! But I was tickled pink and couldn’t have been happier to have my little girl”.  Henry smiled warmly, and added, “No matter how old she gets, she will always be my little girl.”

Trish’s mood wasn’t influenced by what Henry said, not for the good. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Henry looked a bit embarrassed. “Oh, I ain’t tryin’ to rub it in to ya! No, no Trish!  I’m just sayin’ you should see Patti as someone special, no matter what it is like now. She still is your daughter. And ya lover her! You know ya do! Try to get through to her. Keep on tryin’ and don’t give up hope.”

Trish didn’t look convinced by his little pep talk, so he said, “One day she will have her own children, and realize she will make mistakes, too. You sure will want to see those grandkids. Trust me! I live to see all of mine! ”

Patti sniffed at that comment, putting forth a laugh that seemed so phony and snarky. This behavior was not like her at all, not the bubbly Trish that Henry used to see coming into the bar. “Grandchildren? Are you kidding me? Patti wants nothing to do with men! She avoids them like the plague! Says she doesn’t want to end up like me…married and divorced four times…she says there is no excuse for it. But she uses me all the time as an excuse! I think she is just scared to death of relationships with guys!”

“I thought you were married three times?” Henry asked. He had a surprised look on his face, but then he tried to think differently. “But I don’t want to **** in on your life. It’s your business, not mine to judge”.

“No, Henry, it’s ok. My last marriage lasted only seven weeks”. She turned red in the face now, but she wanted to set it straight. “Patti thinks it is disgusting that I married all those times. My last husband tried to clear out my bank account, and I left him. Patti says she will never marry. She won’t touch a man with a ten foot pole to save her life!”

She paused as Henry stared intently at her, listening. “She does not want to end up like me”, she added, her voice throaty. Tears welled up in her eyes.  

Patti was the product of Trish’s first marriage to a man named Earl Colbert. When Patti was six, her father divorced her mother. Since then, Patti had seen plenty of men come and go. In between her other three husbands, there were too many boyfriends to even keep track of. Trish was also engaged twice, but the engagements were eventually broken off.    

She sat in silence as Henry was still thinking of the right thing to say to comfort her. Soon, two young couples had entered through the door, dispersing the air of awkwardness, and stopping the conversation between Henry and Trish.  Henry continued to clean up around the bar as he waved to them and welcomed their presence. One of the guys came up and ordered a pitcher of beer before joining his friends at a table.

It was no more than a few minutes later that another customer approached inside Pete’s Place. It was Jake. Trish rolled her eyes at Henry. He was a regular here, too, like she was, and about the same age as her.

Jake immediately came up to Trish and put his arm around her. “Buy you a drink, darlin’?” he asked. His breath already smelled of alcohol.  

“Oh, Jake, get away!” Trish scolded him. “You know I don’t accept drinks from married men, so move on!” She waved her hand in the air to clear the bothersome odor of his ***** away from her.

Jack just laughed, and moved to the other end of the bar, his usual spot. Henry kept his calm although he did not like Jake acting like a fool to Trish, or to any of the women who came here. He had to do his duty and serve Jake, but if he had his way the guy would be just a step away from being told to leave. Henry always kept a close eye on how much Jake was drinking, and he often cut him off when it seemed he had his share.

“Whisky, Henry”, Jake ordered. They both knew the routine.

With his whisky in hand, Jake smirked at Trish and asked, “How come you ain’t at that big jazz festival downtown?”  

“How come you ain’t?” she echoed him, sarcastically

“Cuz I don’t have a sweet lady to go with me and keep my company”. He winked at her, and downed a gulp of whisky.

“Oh, you mean like your—wife!” Trish said.  Jake and Trish often bantered like this to each other. “You will never change, Jake. You are a rude and obnoxious flirt, and you ought to be ashamed!”

Jake just laughed her off.  “Sweetie, my wife knows I’m a big flirt. She’s OK with it! She says ‘as long as you are peeking and not seeking, who cares what you do!’”

The two young couples that came in a while ago overheard Jake’s conversation and started to crack up in laughter. It seemed that he was the entertainment for a lackluster evening at the bar, a court jester of sorts. Trish looked at the four, young faces that were laughing at her expense, glanced at Henry in silent agreement that Jake was an idiot, and quickly turned red in the face.

“Jake, shut your big mouth!” Henry intervened. “You lie as much as you belt them down!”  When Jake was more sober, he seemed pretty reasonable, but he was nauseating when he was on a drinking binge.

Henry exited into a room behind the bar for a moment. Jake whispered loudly to Trish, like an impish, little boy who knew he might get caught, but loved the thrill of it. “Psst. Hey, Trish! Look! My wife’s no fun at all! Won’t go out with me no more. The festival is going on all weekend. Just give me your number and I’ll call you tomorrow and pick you up to take you there”.

Trish pretended like she did not hear him, still rattled up a bit, but trying her best to hide it, and Jake soon devoted his mind to his drink.

She turned herself around in the barstool and pretended to watch the baseball game. The scene in the room was still practically the same way since she first arrived. Only now there was an edgier atmosphere with the four younger people in it. The older couple was still sitting together in the corner, intent on watching the ball game. The two younger couples were drinking down their pitcher of beer and talking away. One of the young man had his arm around his girlfriend, gently caressing her back, and the other young couple, that was sitting across from them was holding hands.  

In longing, Trish looked on at the young couples. How she m
Kewayne Wadley Jun 2018
I swirled in a ocean of brown.
Venting in steam.
My drown overlapped by current
On top of current.
I swirled around and around,
swimming in sugary spec.
I once dreamed of dry land.
Loosing my footing on the edge of a spoon.
The top of a pink packet torn off.
Sprinkled on my head.
There was no sense in fighting.
One single serving brewed.
It was exciting to feel myself swirl,
All I'd ever know.
around and around.
All I'd ever know.
The more I drunk the more evident it became.
The here after in addiction.
Sweet in taste.
My skin dipped in heart of something so delicious.
I swirled around in an ocean of brown.
Her eyes.
Never once did it occur that I couldn't gulp them.
I still tried.
Lost forever in Mocha flavored aroma
cheryl love Jan 2015
Respect our elders, for we'll be the same one day
with wrinkles, forgetfull and hair of silver grey
But apart from the old wrinkle
in the eye there will be a twinkle
As the old ones dont hold back on what they say.

Then they smile and deny what they have said
Have no remorse or feelings of guilt in their head
Nobody minds if they blow raspberries galore
or gulp down the sherry and then ask for more
I dont think being old is nothing to fear or dread!
Donall Dempsey Jun 2015
THE POWER OF PRAYER

Top blouse button goes ping!
“Oh! That sort of thing is always happening! ”
Happen again...please!

I CANNOT TELL A LIE!

Ravishing cleavage!
“Are you looking at my *******? ”
“Yes!  Oh yes...oh yes! ”

NATURAL JEWEL

A trickle of sweat
comes to rest between her *******.
Natural jewel!

NEVER VERY GOOD AT  CARDS

Playing Strip Poker.
You fully clothed  &  me
completely...starkers!

THERE MUST BE SOMETHING YOU’RE GOOD AT?

So...playing Strip SnAP!
Huh! Slightly evens things up!
I’m quick  &  you’re ****!

BLISS

A cascade of hair
covers & uncovers where
her lips leave kisses.

STRIKING THE FIRST BLOW.

“So...hello” she smiled.
“It didn’t look like you would
say hello, so...hello! ”

ARE YOU TRYING TO TELL ME SOMETHING I SHOULD ALREADY KNOW?

Your breast touches my
arm by mistake on purpose.
You smile – all knowing.

SAINT VALENTINE’S DAY IN THE POSH RESTAURANT.

As I order                  wine
your foot teases my   crotch.
“Yes...the...Char...don...ay! ”

SHE’S GOT IT ALL *******!

“Can you tie my lace? ”
she plonks her foot in my lap
parts her legs & laughs.

HARD NOT TO BE.

Ever so gently
you brush against me softly.
“Oh! You’re so – hard! ”

PUBLIC MENACE

Walking down the road
you stop...adjust stocking top
as cyclist crashes.

SURPRISE...SURPRISE!

Clothes lie scattered on
each successive step of stairs:
You...naked - in bed!

SUNLIGHT DAZZLES THE WATER

Cradling our bodies
the boat rocks us back & forth
...gently...making...love.

HERE'S LOOKING AT YOU KID!

Watch Casablanca
cry: tell you you're my girl...you
tell me I'm your guy!

HOW CAN WE TELL THE DANCER FROM THE DANCE?

She dances naked
dressed only in the sound of
wind chimes & bracelets.

Husband & Wife Team

Party! And your ****
pops out...and I...pop it back!
I'm handy like that.

HAVING TEXT

“X X X “ she texts
& yes...he feels it as if
they were real kisses.

HOPE SHE REMEMBERED TO WASH HER HANDS

She, prim as a pin:
emerges from the LADIES
skirt tucked in knickers.


THE PAPER  RESPONDS TO THE POEM

Writes a poem for me
about my naked body
on my bare bottom.

BECOMING MUSIC

You in a tutu
and...little else: my eyes wild
dancing with delight.

MY FAVOURITE FLAVOUR

Edible knickers?
Tasty! My favourite flavour..?
Mmmmmmm...you... you... you...you!

NOW, YOU'RE DECENT AGAIN!

Sewing button on..
your head near my crotch - you bite
the thread... job well done!

IN THE COLOURING BOOK OF OUR LOVE

Black painted toenails
beetles on a red carpet
white lake of spilt milk
YOU’LL CATCH  YOUR DEATH...HERE PUT ON THIS!

Caught in that shower
you dry my male attire
as I wear your dress.

INDEX RISES

Your fluffy white towel
falls: reveals all your assets!
Stock market goes up!

WHEREFOR ART THOU?

Lost in reverie
she combs her beautiful hair
remembering...him!

YOU MUST REMEMBER THIS?

How can I forget..?
Kisses taste of Chardonnay
Camel cigarettes.

SOME LIKE IT HOT!

Boil kettle for tea
make love instead...as water
turns itself to steam!

ESSENTIAL FOOTWEAR

Knickers & fishnets
stuffed into the left hand shoe
****/lighter in the right

HOT STUFF! '

The height of summer!
You in that little blue dress
...my ice cream melting!

REQUIRED VIEWING

I watch you watching
T.V. Soap(in the ****) .
Me... just glued...to you!

PRIVATE MEMBERS ONLY!

Oh! An *******
(kind of thing that grows on you)                        
Handy thing to have!

DIRECTIONS: YOU ARE HERE!

Go straight on into
your dreams: turn right at Love &
find yourself...in me.

How To Decide What To Get Him For A Present

She remembers how
he stroked...kissed.. her thighs: & buys
- the most shocking tie!

I Knew You'd Find It In The Bath! -

Note in a bottle
tells you: 'I'm shipwrecked in bed
...come & rescue me! '

EMPTY ENVELOPE

Eh? What can it mean?
Next letter explains: ' Sorry...
forgotl to put...letter in!

INTOXICATION

You pour me a drink
from your mouth to my mouth &
I am drunk on you.

IN LOVE WITH THE RAIN

The umbrellas merge
become as one as they fall
in love & puddles

* *

Laughter & chatter
the share the same umbrella
totally in love.

* *

Heads joined at forehead
lovers walking & talking
not noticing...rain.

JAILBREAK

Trapped in fluffy towels
one breast tries to escape but
gets stuffed   back inside.

INDEX RISES!

Your fluffy white towel
falls: reveals all your assets!
Stock market goes up!

KNOWING ME KNOWING YOU

A curtain of hair
hides that knowing look I know
you are giving me!

Coming To A Haiku Near You!

Yes! Appearing on
Brighton pavilion...a kiss
starring me & you!

Death By Telephone

The phone rings & it's:
...not you! Rings again - still not
you! What will I do!

'Gulp! Gulp! Gulp! ' - A Haiku

Naked, she drinks milk
...spills out of mouth...over *******.
She grins: 'Ya want...some? ! '
Cyril Blythe Aug 2012
I gulp down an Energy-Booster-X,
blue and sour.
Siri turns on Radiohead,
15 Step.

I step up to the pyramid of treadmills,
bouncing and salty.
Surrounded by Greek gods,
Beta, Alpha Gam, Pike.

I motivate myself by my surroundings,
bulging and ****.
Cardio first and then core,
2 miles, 200 crunches.

I connect my sweat in a line down my shirt,
blotchy and stagnant.
Everyone stretches in the end,
Thighs, biceps, pecs aflame.

I will not stop until I am perfection,
beautiful and sculpted.
Alarm set again,
For 6:30am, 7:30pm
The Triumph of Wit Over Suffering

Head alone shows you in the prodigious act
Of digesting what centuries alone digest:
The mammoth, lumbering statuary of sorrow,
Indissoluble enough to riddle the guts
Of a whale with holes and holes, and bleed him white
Into salt seas.  Hercules had a simple time,
Rinsing those stables:  a baby's tears would do it.
But who'd volunteer to gulp the Laocoon,
The Dying Gaul and those innumerable pietas
Festering on the dim walls of Europe's chapels,
Museums and sepulchers?  You.
                               You
Who borrowed feathers for your feet, not lead,
Not nails, and a mirror to keep the snaky head
In safe perspective, could outface the gorgon-grimace
Of human agony:  a look to numb
Limbs:  not a basilisk-blink, nor a double whammy,
But all the accumulated last grunts, groans,
Cries and heroic couplets concluding the million
Enacted tragedies on these blood-soaked boards,
And every private twinge a hissing asp
To petrify your eyes, and every village
Catastrophe a writhing length of cobra,
And the decline of empires the thick coil of a vast
Anacnoda.
          Imagine:  the world
****** to a foetus head, ravined, seamed
With suffering from conception upwards, and there
You have it in hand.  Grit in the eye or a sore
Thumb can make anyone wince, but the whole globe
Expressive of grief turns gods, like kings, to rocks.
Those rocks, cleft and worn, themselves then grow
Ponderous and extend despair on earth's
Dark face.
           So might rigor mortis come to stiffen
All creation, were it not for a bigger belly
Still than swallows joy.
                         You enter now,
Armed with feathers to tickle as well as fly,
And a fun-house mirror that turns the tragic muse
To the beheaded head of a sullen doll, one braid,
A bedraggled snake, hanging limp as the absurd mouth
Hangs in its lugubious pout.  Where are
The classic limbs of stubborn Antigone?
The red, royal robes of Phedre?  The tear-dazzled
Sorrows of Malfi's gentle duchess?
                                   Gone
In the deep convulsion gripping your face, muscles
And sinews bunched, victorious, as the cosmic
Laugh does away with the unstitching, plaguey wounds
Of an eternal sufferer.
                         To you
Perseus, the palm, and may you poise
And repoise until time stop, the celestial balance
Which weighs our madness with our sanity.

— The End —