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I drank way too much last night
now I feel like I'm paying my dues,
I woke up real early this morning,
all dry in the mouth and my head was pounding,
I've have me a case of those hangover blues.
All I ate last night
was what I think was horsemeat.
With a sickly sweet sauce
in greasy, greasy flat bread.
The man said it was a Donair
but whatever it was
I really don't care,
because my wallet is empty
and my life doesn't seem fair.
I feel I have nothing left to lose
I have a real bad case of those hangover blues.
My wife tells me that I wasn't any fun,
I had me a case of whiskey ****,
I just wouldn't get it up,
and after my epic fail
i moaned...òh ****,
I just rolled over on my side
and then got sick.
Well, life is about winning
just as much as you lose
and I woke up this morning
with a mean old case
of those hangover blues.
Thank god I didn't have to work today
because I would have giving my boss the bad news,
I would have been staying at home today
with one of those 40 ounce flues.
Oh, the things that I just know that I said,
and the people that I *******.
The peoples faces that stick in my mind
haunting me hard,
while I sit with my head in my hands,
my money all spent
and my bloodshot eyes
that I can't conceal,
Total disgust for myself
is the way that I feel.
Oh the self pity that I ooze
with this mean old case of those hangover blues.

© 2012
I woke up this morning and I just had to write this down.  I spent a boring night at home and was on facebook all night readind other peoples postings. One guy was begging people to bring him over some beer as everything was closed for the night. he finally said "**** this noise, I'm going to go to the bootleggers and pay 50 bones for a case". This is just a rough draft but I can see that I may very well be something that I wanna keep.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
as i said before, the real active ingredient in cigarettes is not nicotine, nicotine is the flavoursome bit, the real active ingredient is carbon monoxide, the thing that spins your head a little on the first cigarette of the day.

oh god my nicotine hangovers
are worse than my alcohol hangovers,
i get this cough when waking
that makes schnitzel from my lungs
on the cough up (you'd think
it was tuberculosis), but recedes
once enough active ingregient in
my addiction is inhaled...
but the odd thing is...
when by odd chance i do get the classical
hangover with a headache...
my nicotine hangover is not apparent,
i don't cough...
and i cure this hangover by not
trying to think, thinking and brain
pain don't work together...
so i lie in bed, sing some *rammstein

and later drink enough coffee
for the caffeine cure of increasing
blood pressure / blood flow;
or the classical hangover could be due
to the fact that i was headbanging to
sepultura's ratamahatta...
   any coin flip is just as good to explain
this scenario.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
ah crap... what a moral hangover...
the first one for a long while,
and i do mean it as: a moral hangover,
well... "moral"...
coming from a society of a "failed"
economic model... my my... look at China...
their communism has endured way
past the use-by-date in europe and elsewhere...
communism was experimented with
in Mongolia... that's what i read...
now i moved into the lands of
those that state cultural-marxism...
   from what i heard, it's wasn't so bad
under the iron curtain...
       people actually had lives,
my father played bridge and waterpolo,
and there actually was an olympic
spirit concerning sports...
more olympics than **** football
and darts... you know: diversity.
**** on me though... this hangover is
killing me...
  it's rare, so i have to write about,
usually after i drink a bottle ov ***** i'm
sloth-smiling the next day,
spending about half an hour in bed
looking at it with closed eyes -
yes, the it is indefinite, i know don't:
world? either listening to a dying clock's tick-tock
or classical music on the radio...
i only get out from a lying position
into full momentum of the day when i hear
something inspirational...
i can't be bothered without a feeling
of being inspired... just how it works...
so today i received the gift of a hangover,
a moral one, perhaps because i feel
i'm been misunderstood...
  used some "inappropriate" word
last time i took to the canvas, only yesterday.
lao che... yep, kept listening
to these songs about the warsaw uprising
in the year '44...
    and how english can be sloppy when
further shortening itself from german,
say, ****- as a prefix, -stani as a suffix...
don't and do not...
   well, another "offensive" word is also
four letters long...
   pole... am i to be offended that there
isn't really a prefix and suffix dynamic
and that's it's really mono-syllable?
you get to say that word in one go,
not need to dissect it...
or should i move outside a national category
and into the realm of ethnicity,
mind you, that's slav(e)...
            sounds better in my native tongue
juggle - słowianin...
   and yes: słowo means: word.
(self-clarity moment, the narrator
becomes conscious and deviates into
the pronoun game saying:
hey! i think they're getting it!
  the negated (dis-) ease is spreading!)
**** this hangover...
well... what can you do if not drink more?
as i am doing now...
but for the past 2 hours i was sitting from
6 pm in the garden, watching clouds
in the night... drinking 6 cups of tea
and smoking while working to
de-phlegm my throat...
     and like some mud-monster piece of
it clear, spat into the bathroom basic
clinging to the ceramic, until
   is drool-moved into the hole...
    and i do know that my headache
originated in my neck, the back of it,
right side... *******!
then onto heidegger, apphorism 201...
man categorising himself as an animal...
well: man sometimes would make
sense if he was such a presence...
    but that's the cure for a hangover,
fresh air, cigarettes, plenty of tea
with its antioxidants and clouds on
a night sky, and the best medicine
i've yet to find a competitor for:
patience, something
the time-space theory doesn't really
include, or thereby need;
the positive element in the retrograde
mode of determination
(point 5
of aphorism 201) -
i know you won't (will not) buy the book,
it's being sold at 30 quid (originally $60)...
and it really was a mad investment,
but this book will last me for...
well... almost forever.
lucky me moving from the ashes of central
europe's communism into little *******
telling me what the left means...
no economic policy... nothing...
hollow ideals about taking drugs...
     and that's not even working given
in england smoking marijuana is illegal...
these days i listen to reggae and get ******...
it actually makes more sense
than doing the cliche of smoking it
     and listening to israel vibration
culture or bunny wailer -
    what an *** i was when i first took to it
aged 21... started late, finished early...
i found that it absolutely emptied me of
the capacity to think...
    years later i concocted the concept
against descartes' res cogitans...
i.e. res vanus -
   i just thought my version to be of a higher
quality, there was no need to constantly
think, or make thinking man's prime essential...
i'd say man's prime essential can be
as needed as a knife... or a fork...
plus, res vanus (empty thing) leaves
you absorbed into admiring clouds at night,
so you essentially become at earnest about
this world as a sponge absorbing water...
pretty much what heidegger says:
you can't teach philosophy,
not unless you want your self to be intact,
it can't be taught, it can't be taught
   and there's absolutely no reason why it
would only be reflected by long paragraphs
and aphorisms in the academic style...
    but i dare say, a tipping for what's very
much a vanity "project"...
        still... that ****** hangover,
and yesterday's, whatever it was that happened
when listening to lao che's album
powstanie warszawskie -
        that medium of having a definite
background, and retaining your mother tongue...
and all these sensitivities of those who live
in england, but who apparently "shouldn't"...
yep, just like that chinese product imported...
   a free movement of goods, countered
without a free movement of people...
   to be honest, if the intended failure of
communism didn't happen,
        i'd just like to ask my fellow "countrymen"
what good came from having a pole
as a pope, as if that wasn't the real reason
for the economic failure?
                       finally! we can kneel!
it's quiet nice, being adequately complicated
as a human being is, without
having to deal with the animal
   constantly stressed by natural elements...
it's great.... i can complicate it
            with things, primarily pertaining
to memory.
    just enough ***** and today will turn into
a smooth petal of a tulip,
  and i'll glide... like those floating nuns
in the film death becomes her.
I drank way too much last night,
now I feel like I'm paying my dues.

I woke up real early this morning,
my head was dry and  pounding,
I've had me a case of those Hangover blues.

What it was that I had to eat, I really
don't care to remember 'cause my breath
knocked everyone over and my wallet is bare.

And it's now I feel like I have nothing left to lose,
I had one hell of a case of them Hangover blues.

My wife tells me, it wasn't any fun,
I had one big case of Whisky ****,
and couldn't get it on.

Yet I still acted like a ***** and
after an Epic failure, I rolled over
to one side and tossed my cookies,
yes me, a real gentleman, right as rain.
so buckle up because here's the refrain..

Sometimes life is about winning  
just as well as you lose
I woke up this morning
with a case of the Hangover Blues.
I'm on a train.

One of those red ones with black trimmed windows you can imagine rolling through the suburbs on the way to NYC. Not a subway car but a classier vintage with proper rows of cushioned seats and a lever to pull if there is an emergency. There are sparse shrubberies on one side of the tracks and the ocean on the other. Young trees and bushes stroll by.  A little wind is pushing off the ocean, massaging the car ever so gently back and forth as we move along. A gentle click-clack is on the tips of our ears.

We got on together. I hadn't known you for very long but the connection was stronger than anything I had ever felt or have since. You practically sat on top of me for the first few miles. Couldn't keep your hands off me,  staring in my eyes like you were searching for something lost but you couldn't remember what. The edges of your lips turned upwards permanently as if you were always at the verge of a laugh. You interlaced my fingers with yours and held on like you would be ripped away if your grip loosened for even a second. Slender fingers holding so tightly that they were becoming red.

You were excited to to be riding with me, about where we were going and all the things we would do when we got there. I would see you peer out of the corner of your eye, then lean over to brush your soft cheek against my budding stubble. Kissing and gently biting my lips insatiably. The suns rays coming in at an angle and lighting up your perfect smile and dimple.

I had to remind you we were in public.

I was lost in your blonde curls and the incense of your neck. I had fallen incredibly hard and so fast that my face hurt from smiling and my heart beat with vibrations I had never known. Not even a whiff of anxiety or neurosis. Some of the best memories of my life, as fleeting as they turned out to be.

I yawned and you put your finger in my mouth. I bent over to tie my shoe and you would poke my **** and laugh with your own reflection in the window, like this was the first and best joke of all time. Maybe it was and maybe it is.

The waiter came and informed us that a thing called "the bar car" existed. We both jumped at the idea. I didn't exactly notice at the time, during our excitement, but that's when the train started going faster and everything out the windows began to blur.

The bar car was a wild ride and we took advantage of our lo'cal. All kinds of fine wine, liquors and illicit substances were available. We tried them all. You were beautiful, your laugh infecting everyone around you, I was charming and held a captive audience.   It was a dark, loud and glorious blur. We were the life of the party and it chugged on till dawn.

We woke up in our seats, disheveled and discombobulated. It was dark out already. Did we sleep through the entire day? The train was slowing down, maybe approaching a station. The party was amazing but we were certainly paying the price for the black out. You moved over to the seat across from me to have some more space and lay down. I saw myself in the reflection. My hat, charm and smile from the night before had vanished. I must have left them in the bar car the night before.
      You had changed, beauty uninterrupted but different somehow. I couldn't put my finger on it. Irritated maybe? I invited you to cuddle and battle the hangover together but you ignored me. Like you couldn't hear me or didn't want to. I decided to let you be.

I got up to use the bathroom and thought I would go look for my scattered belongings. Maybe I could find a scrap of leftover dignity while you rested. I inquired to the conductor who directed me to the bartender in the bar car. He hadn't changed a bit, somehow untouched and unaffected by last nights antics that had effected me so dramatically.  Same black suspenders and white pressed shirt with impeccably slicked hair. I asked him what happened and if I had an open tab. While slowly polishing a rocks glass he looked up and made eye contact for a split second before looking away.
He said:  "Oh the bar car takes its toll. In the end we all end up paying one way or another". I still don't know what he meant by that or if he knew.
      I asked him if he found my hat and he said he would check the camera. We walked in to a small back room, while he was reviewing the tape, over his shoulder I noticed a tragedy.

We were drunk. I was going on to a group of new friends on one side of the bar, they were hanging on my words and I was eagerly explaining whatever nonsense they were drooling over. You were in the corner wearing that red dress I love, with your hair up in a tight bun. A few curls had escaped and brushed your high cheekbones, a thin line of pearls dancing delicately across your perfectly symmetrical collar. You were stunning and inebriated, swaying with each bump and motion of the train. A man wearing my hat put his hand on your side to keep you from swaying over and then he left it there.
I took a sharp breath.

It looked like you put your hand on his hand to move it but then it stayed and you both swayed together. As the air left my lungs and the blood drained out of my face I watched your lips touch the strangers. A small piece of my soul slipped away forever. I couldn't watch any further. When I asked the bartender how long it went on he fidgeted for a moment and uncomfortably muttered "quite some time". I never found my hat or the other part of me that left that day.  

The train slowed. I walked to the back, as far away from you as I could get, in utter disbelief. How could you? I thought to myself.
I mourned the loss of the you as I knew you yesterday, quietly and to myself. A tear  escaped my eye and rolled down my now fully formed stubble as I fell in to a random seat in mild shock. There were a few passengers back there so I had to pull together relatively quickly. After gaining some composure I knew it was time to get off. I knew we could never get back to yesterday morning though I would have said or done anything to do so.

The train had stopped. I went back to my seat and you were sleeping. I took my coat and gathered my things. The conductor looked at me confused as to why I would leave something so magnificent, I assume he had no idea what had transpired.   

I walked to the rear of the car and slid the door open slower than required. I stepped to the stairs and put one foot down on the step and the other on the ground. I stopped, rooted with my hand on the railing, lingering between two very different paths.
     I knew that it was time to get off, I knew this was the sensible thing to do, that I couldn't get past this offense regardless of how I had felt earlier the day before. The whistle screamed from the locomotive. The conductor looked at me and shook his head, I'm not sure if he was trying to tell me to stay or go but a decision had to be made.

The train lurched forward and I watched as the station slip away slowly. I sat in between the cars for a while and watched the ocean and birds. With a heavy heart and shoes I walked back to my seat. You were waiting. Crying. You knew. The bartender had told you. You didn't mean do do it, didn't realize what you were doing and thought it was me. He was wearing my hat and the whole world was blurry and dark.

I believed you. Self anguish mixed with alcohol was dripping from your pores. I knew you didn't mean it and were drunk, but could I ever forgive you or trust you again?

I loved you still.

I caught a glimpse of my reflection, a weaker version of myself looked back. As if an invisible chip in my teeth had developed and my shoulders lowered. The charming, confident man from the bar car the day before had been replaced. Something was off but not enough for anyone else to notice, just enough to know a change has happened.
       The train started to pick up speed again as we distanced ourselves from the station.  I second guessed my decision to stay but I didn't look back.

I found the man with my hat and punished him with a few blows in the dark. He knew he ****** up, apologized and took the beating like a man. I never got the hat back.

The engineer announced that we would be going through a tunnel soon and to turn on our lights and keep our hands in the windows.

It would be dark.  

We stayed away from the bar car for a while but the draw was irresistible. After a few hours we were there again but you never left my side.  Then you did. I was looking for you but you would disappear and not answer me when I called you name. The tunnel went deeper and darker and I didn't know where you were and I suspected you liked it that way. The train began to slow down again as we exited the tunnel.

I finally found you back at our seat, you had moved one row away from me. I asked you to come back, tried to hold your hands but you pulled away with vehemence. When I came back from the bathroom you had moved another row farther.
I knew I was losing you.
I begged you to return but you told me calmly that it was time for you to get off. At some point in the tunnel you had decided that you didn't want to go anymore . Your mind was made. You were going to catch another train at the next station.

When the train stopped I thought for sure you would reconsider but you didn't. Didn't even give it a thought. You just grabbed your coat and hat with one big bag under your arm. You kissed me on the cheek like a french stranger and were off. Going somewhere else on a different train. Just like that.

I rode the rails for quite some time by myself , many people getting on and getting off, passing me by. Every once in a while I would think I saw you at a station or in a **** though the window of another train. I often thought I could smell you but when I breathed deeper it was always gone. A ghost dancing on the edge of my senses.

A young girl in a headband got on the train. She was listening to headphones and dancing to herself as she bobbed along. She sat down in the seat next to me flashing a smile. She had a wedding ring on and I dismissed her immediately.  She didn't move from the seat or stop glancing my way. Eventually she confessed that she wanted to talk. I told her I wasn't interested but she persisted.  I hadn't talked to anyone on the train for quite some time and after some more mild persistence, I gave in.

We had a lot in common. We were both riding alone, desperately wanted attention and were thrilled to receive some.  After a few laughs she slid her hand in to mine and interlaced her fingers. I left it there. It was warm, comforting and wrong. She was married but I had been riding alone so long it felt good to have some company. She stayed and we talked. She was broken and I had a knack for fixing things. After a few hours of dramatic conversation I fell asleep with her head on my shoulder.

When I woke up  the train was flying up the track on the side of a mountain. Trees and rocks were a blur of green and grey. The engineer must be trying to make up for lost time I thought to myself.

The girl was asleep with her head on my lap. I looked down at her hand and the rings were gone. I woke her briefly to ask where they went. She said she didn't need them anymore and had thrown  them out the window.  She could of sold them, I said, but she said she just wanted them gone so she could be mine and fell back to sleep.  All of a sudden I couldn't breath. This train was roaring down the tracks, the once gentle click clack had become a loud hum. Suddenly too loud. This girl in my lap who had just gotten on the train wanted to stay. I considered her for a while as she looked up at me with big blue eyes, shining and wet, like a puppy in the shelter, terrified of rejection and desperate to be adopted.

At the peak of the mountain, just when the train began to even out, you waltzed back in to the car with a champagne flute in one hand and your bag in the other.

I don't know when or where you got back on, must have been a few stations ago when I stopped looking for you. Maybe you were wearing a disguise, who knows what you had been up to while you were gone. I'm not sure how long you were away but it was quite some time. That you had been through something was obvious, a new wrinkle had formed on your brow and you're once confident stride had changed to a cautious stroll. What actually happened out there I don't know.  I never asked and I don't want answers.

You looked at me and smiled. It was good to see that smile, like sun on my face on a brisk day.  You took a step toward me and then I looked down in my lap at the girl at the same time you did. I looked up. You and your smile were gone.

Everything I had begun to feel for this broken, head banded girl in my lap dried up like a puddle in  the dessert.  I quietly and gently nudged her awake and told her I had to use the bathroom. She put her head down on my coat and fell back into what ever trance she had been in, eyelids gently fluttering, eyes searching beneath them for what I would never give her.

I dashed up the isle and threw open the door, almost shattering the glass. The conductor glared at me and rolled his eyes as I barged past to the space between the cars.

There you were. Standing on the stairs with your head out the opening. The wind was blowing your perfectly formed curls around your head like a blonde explosion of familiarity. I yelled your name and you dove in to me. My senses erupted, my mind went numb as the train was nearing another station and I inhaled your essence greedily.

We moved to another car. I abandoned my coat with the married girl and never looked back. I hope she found what she was looking for. I  never could have been the answer she was so desperately seeking but I know I  helped steer her towards it.

You told me you had encountered some other people out there on the rails and they had reminded you of what we had when we first left the station. I never forgot.  

The train started to rock and get going again. We were back in the bar car and starting to brown out. We had to get off of this train right ******* now. In a desperate moment we looked at each other and put our hands, together, on the emergency brake cord. I looked in your eyes with your hand on top of mine. You kissed me while yanking down on the cord. Time slowed, the breaks squealed and everything exploded throwing luggage, people and the entire contents of the bar car in to a nondiscriminatory chaos . We got up off the ground, ran to the end of the car, dove off the side in to a soft patch of grass and rolled down a small incline. We watched as the conductor sifted through  the mess and interrogated the passengers, trying to ferret out the party responsible for pulling the brake. He spotted us off the side of the tracks and shook his fist while shouting every conceivable obscenity combination.

We laughed, held each other in the grass and kissed deeply.

We watched the train pick up speed and disappear in to the hills as relief spread over me.

You interlaced your fingers in to mine and we both looked out to where the tracks disappeared into the horizon, wondering how far of a walk it was to the next station.
Ysa Pa Dec 2016
Habang nag-iisa
At walang kamalay-malay
Ako'y nadampot ng mga
Naghahanap ng karamay

Nayaya ng promotor
At hindi na makatatakas
Hinamon ng mga tomador
At nagkasukatan na ng angas

Marami nang bote ang walang laman
Nakabasag na rin ng mga baso
Paubos na ang mga pulutan
Amoy na rin ang halimuyak ng chiko

May di matapos-tapos na asaran
May mga pikon ngunit puno parin ng tawa
May mga tulog na at may nagkukulitan
Mayroon din namang nagkukwento ng paluha

Walang humpay rin ang kantahan
Punong-puno ang lamesa ng kwnetuhan
Rinig hanggang langit ang halakhakan
Tuloy-tuloy lang ang kasiyahan

Masayang salo-salo
Matibay na pagsasamahan
At ang highlight dito
Ay ang hangover kinabukasan

Sana'y king bilis mawala
Gaya ng hangover kinabukasan
Ang aking mga alaala
At ang sakit ng iyong paglisan
Oops! There goes my heart, splattered all over the place again.
The weight of the night is starting to settle on my shoulders
and everything is heavy and everything is breaking
And I’m honestly lying on the open carpet
Shifting between positions where I might not get sick
From a hangover of tears and sinking realizations
And my body aches badly where you pinched me too hard
Yes you’ve drawn some blood and left some scars
Yes you wanted too much and you clung too hard
But  it’s proof that you played an equal part
And that you cared to stop about as terribly much as a brush fire
cares about leaving the earth un-charred.

An Eagle Creek poem.
Frankie Abraham May 2015
That's the thing about drinking,
it makes you forget.

Forget mistakes,
people you hate,
people you love,
what matters,
...who matters.

And all that's left is the hangover.
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.”
“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?”
“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.

“ 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.”
“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.
“From what you were saying earlier... you know, about the bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.”
“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...”
“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.

david badgerow Jan 2012
you taste like candy
and i am starving and swallowing your tricks
i dreamt of a greasy hotel and
a box to sleep in.
i am not a cannibal,
i am not a sky diver
& and i am not a pilgrim,
but i hunger for your body
and i'm falling for your holy curves.
i will hang from your window and dance in the sunlight
even though i am not a pink velvet curtain.
i am a garbage-collector poet,
fresh from the allabaster market
who has found the words once lost
in a dark fox hole
near the bend of a lazily flowing river.
all i need is a dime and a glass vase,
a short story and a wet cigarette.
i've come back to town--i climbed right out of that stop sign
standing on a shotgun bullet-holed volkswagon
with a 7 day hangover
holding burning grace in my hands and you say
"lead me to the garbage"
carrying with you a bag of soggy french fries
and i stop to show you a dying tulip,
and we watch as it floats into a cloud.
we'll hide all our money in a glowing furnace
and as i try to write this with a water logged pen
you show me pictures of shirley temple with her head in a noose.
my name is not moses, and i do not want to be remembered.
Ankit J Chheda Nov 2012
On Monday I started to write a song,
The afternoon spent lazing around,
Memories of the Sunday night,
Like a hangover hanging around,
I close my eyes for a moment,

As I always feel the day slipping away,
Before I know it Tuesday is on,
I start to put down words,
But the end won’t come to my mind,

And I know the day is slipping away
For Wednesday has come now,
I feel the wakening of the doer inside of me,
I sit down with my pen and paper,
With the t.v. switched on besides me,

Oh I know the day has slipped away,
Now at the centre of the week I’m on Thursday,
I start for one last time,
But I know I won’t finish for the next 2 days,

And I wrote dad a dum da beep pada,
And I’m not surprised for the day has slipped away,
And I begin my weekend on the Friday,
Hanging around my incomplete song,
Just 5 words on the paper,
My head is spinning around,

And floating through time I’m onto the next one,
Its Saturday night I’m partying hard,
Not hard enough for my song undone is weighing me down,
I’m not sure what I’m gonna do about it,
So I try not to think just loose myself in the sound

As I dance to Sunday morning I,
I sleep from sun up to sun down,
Sunday night I’m roaming around,
I know tomorrow’s a new day,
I’m gonna finish that song,

Monday morning, I’m writing a song,
The afternoon spent lazing around,
Memories of the Sunday night,
Like a hangover hanging around,
I close my eyes for a moment,
My life’s slipped past when my eyes were shut,
Now I’ve forgotten what I was writing about,
Back to the start I don’t have another chance,
I curse life, for when I stopped it kept moving on.
Procrastination, the demon in me.
ji Dec 2015
I tremble at the thought
that you might get drunk
with too much of me,
and that my sweet-bitterness
that you once so craved
just start running stale;
that you'd wake up
with a hangover to
some other different ale.
i Mar 2014
i woke up,
in a different clothing,
and a different bed from
the gray t-shirt stuck
to my sweaty skin,
and i got out of the untidy
bed, to find the source
of the delicious pancakes
what i found weren't
but a lying, lifeless
body on the kitchen
floor and burnt
Hannah Beth Aug 2014
High in the sky
And we’re coming down
we drink again
in our glasses we drown

it’s curious, isn’t it?
The escapes that we have found

This bliss is
But at the very least
It will dull
the sound
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
The burr shaking in a
Bohemian Awakening
(Long) vintage stare how
her words were spelled
out snake tongue (Short)
The Death
Whats Up* Chap of a sport
Whats Up Doc
Going tick tock Mr. Rick
Don't trick this document
Oh! where did it drop
What!! He made the drop
dead gorgeous dress?

Born to die last lip of the spoonfuls
Cut to the chase with my chap lips
More deaths on the rise to deliver 
How love was the
mind controller
Hands out of the grave
couldn't hold her
Like the Boulder Chief head
Hothead on her shoulder
The better herbs of medicine
His racing car hot flame

The Rapsody of her melody
holding on to her life
What a unique wife
Until time changes her moods
Opening up her world of flower buds
A different silence of home goods
We do believe we can be

The Champions

But the fallout of promises
Or jobs never big advances

Oh! Christ
Her chapped lips needed some
time to heal where is her next meal
The heat catching a death of cold
But staying alive the second
wind hot Ferrari Italian drive
Feeling deathly-sick faking
your death was no trick

Who disappeared never
really certain
if it was truly their
Building the fire mountain
Don't keep complaining
where the time went
Death of a cold wishes
not to die
where is our youth
Only takes one amazing birth
Lips kissing the fountain
The fortune teller booth

Who would want her chapped lips
Baby Ruth crunchy bar
down the mountain
The love confused her the
death would be
faster going once or twice up
Guilty trip or the graveyard shift
Hangover ski lift with her
Beeswax for chap lips
Taxman on the number rise flirting
What a good chap
In her coffee cup a little Robin birdie
told you

You made your own grave
time on my side or hanging
by a thread of stitches
Hats off up and away
Getting a green facelift of witches
You lived so far the good life
Feeling so wanted
he cooked your meals
He cleaned up your mess wearing
The Chef Apron 
 *He's Wanted
the sign
All over the world,
his face is wanted
The fool lips the fuller up lips
The heart went out of touch a deathly cold
She is wearing her heart-shaped lips
Doing what she is told
How the world has been
smudged with
Noone knows where here

All her cracks of her lips
The cute button nose
Not Rudolph the Reindeer
The hunt for the ****** nose
Up close and personal
Lip to his lip journal
Such odds of numbers
So many even deaths
like tumblers
Through the loopers
Love and resentment
The world is a village commitment
Mcdonald Man beef and the
melted lady
You got an alert notice
The cast of spells the
fire went high
You couldn't even put it out
The death of a Salesman novice
Papercut snip computer nasty chip
The charcoal grill felt like it burned you
The fires new hires of California
The peace sign
Imagine people with no

Holy water
Whose mind is in order
The Dementia patients
Your own flame so many hot flames
The rest of the world caught a death
of a cold like an old flame

*The Goddess of Venus

The darker edge his cool hummer
Going on a shoot with chapped lips
Who is really keeping tabs

There was nothing to believe in to hold
To restore how do we balance the world
But we are not Gods
Chapped lips caused
such an alarm
All things take time then
it's in harm's way
Someone will understand to pay
Like a settlement
Deathly gray hairs on the pavement
Getting hurt but the best Godly soil
is still their like dirt
There was no reception hell broke
loose riot
Everything was naked sound
No time to sing a duet to
feet on the ground love couplet

That snow drift fall on your face
Who will be where you are in
the next century place

Perhaps your last picture
before you die
How the singer live on
to be remembered
  Why are we not discovered
Can we be saved from redemption
Like you have been squirted on
Like Heinz Ketchup did you catch up
To get his kiss did he feel your death of cold
But never to exist
What is on our bucket list?
This was something I thought of not everything we breath is pure that we adore
times are changing don't you feel your getting a death of a cold to think about it
Mckenna Lynn Sep 2015
You promised to love me
and forever we would be.
I fell for your lustful lies
and got lost in your green eyes.
I was just another body to touch
and of me you didn't think much.
Now you're kissing someone new
and I'm still stuck missing you.
I drink to numb the pain
of falling victim to your game.
A hangover after drinking cannot heal,
yet hurts less than the heartbreak I feel.
he promised to never leave...
berry Dec 2014
i wonder if the doors in the house you grew up in
started slamming themselves to save your father the trouble.
i wonder if you can remember the last time you prayed,
and if you had trouble unfolding your hands.
i wonder if your mother knows
about the collection of hearts you hide in your closet,
i wonder if she could tell mine apart from the rest.
i wonder if your shoes know the reason why
you keep them by the back door and not your bedside.
and sometimes, i wonder
if you ever think about that night when i told you,
you wouldn't need to drink so much if you had me.
but it seems like we only speak when you've got body on your brain,
whiskey in your glass,
your judgement is overcast,
and you know i'm too weak to ignore you.
i learned how to translate your texts
from drunken mess back into english.
i am fluent in apology, but i don't ask you for them anymore.
this is just how it is.
it's not enough for either of us
but ******* it we are not above settling.
so i will ignore her name on your breath,
and you will ignore the fact that this means something to me.
i always thought the first time i kissed you,
it would be on your mouth.
i just wanted to be something warm for you to sink into,
something that could convince you to stay a second night.
but i sneak you out in the early morning,
and you take a piece of my pride with you when you go.
i am left to nurse the hangover from a wine i've never tasted,
wondering how this is possible.
waiting for the next drunk call,
for the next time i get to pretend we are lovers,
the next time i get to live out the fantasy i am most ashamed of.
it is the one in my head where you want me when you're sober too.

- m.f.
Jamie L Cantore Nov 2014
Gin in the mo'nin
I just woke up
First thang I did
was puke my guts

This headache o' mines
feels mighty bad
bes' hangover
I ever had had

sun's hurtin' my eyes
neighbors are yellin'
last weeks trash
sho' is smellin'

To  sober up
drinkin' heps my

Jimmy Beam on the side
Man, I gots to stop drinkin'

Good ole Jack Daniels
& his buddies too

Seem to have it out fo' you
sho' nuff they do

When you got those Hangover Blues
Wrote this humorous bit with my old friend Brad. Hope you are doing well.
matilda shaye Sep 2018
I pull into my driveway and my neighbor is standing in
front of his door wearing a wife beater and basketball shorts
that go to his mid calf with his bare feet shoved into
slides that are too small and he's owned since 2005
nearly every part of him is large, except he's 5'7:
his beer belly protrudes from his ribbed cotton shirt
his his ego escapes from his messy house
(his door is wide open, all the cold air is escaping)
he watches me park
his woman (I have to set this picture, there is no better term)
stands up straight at right
underneath his eyebrow
and glares at me in unison
I let my hand trace the chair sitting
on my front porch for a few seconds
and wonder why I’ve never sat here before
residue rain falls from the outside banister
and I feel as at home as I’ve ever felt in this
stupid little god forsaken ******* studio
my neighbors are still watching me and
I realize it’s because they don’t recognize me
because I'm really never here
with the hair on my arms all standing up in unison
I unlock my door and step inside
drop my money and count my keys
my knees are rusty, I feel small
there’s only so many times you can do this
and only so many times I can too
Anna Smith Nov 2014
pass the bottle
put on a smile
all fun and games
until it gets too wild
swallow your feelings
who knows what else
when it's all over
you don't even hate him
nearly as much as your self
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.but i wasn't obviously going to go far down this "worrisome" route for too long, maybe like ten minutes... i had to think of something relaxing to do... i looked in the mirror: ****! the wild-man of Essex! beard, shaggy, the neck barely visible... hair like Mozart composing, or as the Poles say: hair like a wkuriony Chopin (******* Chopin)... ****... better do something about it... ah... there's only one thing that can lighten my mood and this whole, tirade... a visit to the local traditional Turkish barbers... so i ****** off... in went the wild-man of Essex... out came well-groomed human being, not a sign of his werewolf past to be seen on him... ah... this is the 4th time, proper, that i visited the barbers (prior to? long hair... after? a shaved head like a Buddhist monk)... god... just sitting there with closed eyes... i'm starting to think that going to the barbers is better than ***.

i was never into blocking someone,
esp. if someone is liking your stuff,
but it happened to me with
that poetess on here,
       i wanted to know how it feels,
to just randomly block someone
who really enjoys your stuff...
             and then... ****! gone, never
to be seen again...
   Wattpad is basically a fascistic website
to boot this thread of thought...
who the hell gets booted off a platform
for starting a cordial conversation?
- but i really did wake up with
a moral hangover...
           there's just a certain level of
conversation i can take,
                              i can't get the pedant
out of me... i really can't...
i tried and i tried,
  notably because when speaking
to natives, i see them lazily doing this
or that, while i come with an acquisitive
perspective, hence the furthered
acquisitive impetus to further this
acquired language... while the natives
are like: blah... it has been given to them
from birth...
     and conversations,
after having completed a...
    well for me it was an exhausting poem,
the desire to finish it before off
the rails with the bourbon instigated
a thirst, matched with irritability...
               ****, i hope i can unblock the guy
and apologize...
spare of the moment thing...
            well... if i can't...
i know what it feels like:
           not being on the receiving end...
so... that's one plus from all of this.

p.s. that sort of direct messaging language,
aged... 40?
             how can i talk to someone
who's older than me, on that level...
(looks up his profile page)...
             so i didn't block him?

Dennis Willis's profile is not
visible because they have blocked you.

and i still have the block option

mind you... i didn't wake up today
recollecting some pretty
   trippy *******).
Natalie R Jun 2014
Pimple popping
Lathered deodorant
Awkward tampons
Hair in unwanted places
Drunken nights
Failed hangover cures
Flunked classes
Broken hearts
First kisses and first times
Rushes of frustration
These are all
unglamorous occasions
Of a not so florescent
If your an Arctic Monkey's fan, I hope you enjoyed the title :)
Danielle Shorr Oct 2014
I will regret this in the morning
but I will do it anyway
my impulsivity often overpowers my conscience
yet I am almost always fully aware
of the decisions I make
and their consequences
I am not exactly mentally stable
but I am sane enough
to know right from wrong
yesterday from today
love from lust
although sometimes I mix them up
I have a tendency to lunge at any pair of arms that open for me
my mind and body often disagree
my body saying yes to eager hands
my mind saying no
constantly looking towards my heart
thinking how stupid one must be
to fall repeatedly
get hurt every single time
and still manage to do the same
and over
I wonder
how many times I will have to hit the ground
in order to learn to stop falling face first?
I often say things
that should be left unsaid
I often do things
that should not be done
sleep in beds unfamiliar
make believe love to strangers
get to know people who will not remember me tomorrow
I am gone as quickly as the hangover
I can be washed off the tongue
just as quickly as the liquor
I often believe I am capable of inciting change
I kiss temporary lips with permanence
hoping that I can train them to stay
I love temporary people with permanence
hoping that I can train them not to leave
and when they do
I claim to have seen it coming
I am incapable of forgetting
a scrapbook memory of skin and heartbeat
of touch and moments
I know not to look directly into eyes
for they can be blinding
and I still
do it anyway
I know of the risks that shouldn't be taken
well aware of their consequences
and I still
take them anyway
you could say
it is my own fault
for the way that things continue to turn out
but I can make no promise of apology
I will live momentarily
**** up intentionally
love recklessly
fall unguarded
break enough times to learn how to put myself back together
crash into concrete enough times to learn how to shift a crooked smile
into something worth seeing
I have been told that a life lived in fear
is hardly a life lived at all
so I intend to live every second
like it is the last one I will have
I will write each night as it happens
narrate my own stories
and hope they turn out okay
I will regret this in the morning
but I will do it anyway.
Swathi eruvaram Aug 2015
My lips curl
My cheeks rise
My eyes blush
My teeth hide
Remembering a happy memory makes me happier
I am having a happiness hangover
Samantha Dias Dec 2011
Hung up on a Sunday with a strung-up savior
Hanging from a cross across the hall
Pleading that a deity annul her misbehavior-
Her previous activities, forestall.
Hung up on the hunger pains, insatiable and gnawing
Knowing well the vigor of the squall
Hung up on a strung up stranger, rendezvous withdrawing
Waiting on the King of Kings to call.
Carsyn Smith Mar 2014
I was a princess.
Long before the burden of knowledge --
before the reality of life plunged itself deep into me.
Tea parties and *****,
Gowns and pretty jewels,
Braids and long lashes,
We were the rulers of the kingdom.
Walls constructed of plastic kept us safe,
security from the barbarians that lurked outside.
A magic mirror that warped and bent from age,
from magic, to show your future,
which was often a short fat lady.
Thrones that swung back and forth,
so that her majesty does not bore herself.
We guarded our kingdom from the evil outside...
but we forgot to check within our walls.

At some age, we stopped guarding the plastic kingdom.
We stopped looking for the monsters outside --
realizing they were lurking inside of us...
whispering dark things.
Now Aurora is sleeping off a hangover --
that beautiful face streaked with wet mascara
maybe when she wakes up, everything will be better?
Ella is hiding from loan sharks,
wishing for a way out of the slums,
hoping a rich man will sweep her off her feet.
Ariel is running away from home
changing her identity for her new boyfriend,
desperate that no one will come between them.
Snow is sleeping with several men --
mommy issues ran her out of town,
now she's the walking herself to the abortion clinic.
Princesses we were.
Princesses we are.
Princesses we will be.
Olivia Dec 2013
"Everyone knows you wake up at 5, drink some water and take some ibuprofen"
Korey Miller Oct 2012
stars and stardust fall to freedom
from the press corpse,
from the incessant demand of chemical crises.
crowds ache for love or a substitute
and false amore is what they have.
love is folie a deux-
[the shared madness of two.]
attachment is an affliction,
infatuation is disease leaping from remission,
with deadly symptoms.
red roses lead to black coffin doors,
roses dropped on floors
from vases shattered,
and life is the water spilling from the stems.

golden hair won't keep me docile-
blue eyes and a smile
are weapons of mass destruction-
cities sunk and flags risen
from the depths of inhumanity.
it's all for you, Helen, and humankind will never
perceive its aftereffects,
its hangover headache
sprawled over the world on a bad day.
little city partylights and shiny beer bottles
broken upon the concrete
covering the grass.
reflections of insanity upon the glass.

devilish, the temptress,
the succubus, a mistress
sent by Him, to spin doubt into
the spiderwebbed life of family trees
split in two by axes, divorces
to fifty percent, no-
no wedding band-aid will stop this flood.
neglect gets to a child's head-
can't help but wonder if
they were the cause of this.
little anchors,
keeping the heart in one place-
an anchored rubber band that demoness
stretched and snapped.
the relapse gave her whiplash, and
the stepdad whipped the boy's back, and
the boy grew up and
found a girl to take his pain to.
she gave him five stunted children,
with eyes hollow and glazed,
a mechanical response to a command.

lack of emotion only seems cruel
to those on the other side.
lack of flourish means nothing
to those who grew up to grey skies.

chains and handcuffs keep stardust grounded,
remains from a nebula which
birthed a black hole.
straight razors and pinky nails
teach fledglings to reach for the sky
and never fall back down.
glass ceilings never seemed so
breakable- tiptoe upsidedown
and reach the other side
before you fall back down to the real world.

angels have no eyes.
angels have no souls.
angels judge and leave the helpless for below.
cliffsides crumble and clouds dissipate,
and the devil lends a hand-
he is helping sinners make it up to him.
in his face sit eyes gleaming brightly;
there are teeth grinning, off-white-
he is human, though sadistic
and he understands your plight.
the devil is forgiving,
and you understand nothing, because you
are nothing.
you are nothing.

stars and stardust fall to freedom, and the devil takes in all.
Red-Writing-Hood Oct 2012
There are lessons that school doesn't teach you
Some things can't be learned by sitting in an uncomfortable chair for several hours a day, tapping your pencil against a desk with your head in your hand staring blankly into space...and if you're like me you have headphones in your ears, thoughts in the clouds, feet off the ground with the touch screen of my phone at my finger tips.
One of those things you can't learn trapped in the four walls of a classroom is that life hits you, hard, in the face, like that first heartbreak...causing an unbearable ache in your chest that feels like you may be entering cardiac arrest.
Your body goes into shock and it's almost like you're in la la land for a moment with a hangover infecting your heart that no type of Advil can fix, until you realize that the person you've thought you were in love with for the past while is no longer that person...they reveal themselves by ripping off their mask of a handsome face to expose a terrifying appearance of sharp teeth and beady eyes, a monster, a liar, a cheater...a heart breaker...
Life waits for you to stand back up only to kick you back down and although you've already fallen seven times and your hearts a little bruised and tattered you stand up eight with a stubborn refusal like the ocean waves always coming back to kiss the shore line no matter how many times it's sent away.
When I was thirteen years old, my older brother taught me something that no teacher could ever have written down in their lesson plan, he said that the number one rule to being cool is to remain unphased, never admitting anything can hurt you, excite you or impress you.
I figure it's like walking through life with your arms as a shield, to protect yourself from all the unexpected miseries or hurt like heartbreak or getting fired or not getting hired. I try to walk through life with my arms and hands wide open...and yes that means catching every heartbreak and each last drop of pain life can squeeze out for me but it also means that when beautiful...amazing things just fall out of the love...I'm ready to catch them.
I may get an F on one of life's tests but that doesn't mean I can't study for the exam, the bigger picture, because failure is success when you allow yourself to learn from it and that's what I'll do, I will be as open as a book and make sure to write down all of my journeys with no details left out, highlighting the good parts but never forgetting the bad
But I'll be sure to tread carefully because life is as fragile as a bubble but I have to remember that I can't be afraid to stick my finger out and pop it if I don't like the direction it's going in and if popping that bubble means a down pour of miseries, bring it on because my hands are as strong as the suns love for the moon, so stack up my problems like books in a library and I'll read them again and again
And for each new lesson I'll show up with a backpack full of everywhere else I've been, eager to collect another souvenir like the laugh lines framing my mouth or the worry wrinkle etched into my forehead and my heart will come along for the ride, strapped in tight, prepared for all the potholes and sharp turns but there's no air bags aloud so every time we crash there's nothing coming between me and the beginning of a new lesson
Hope White Aug 2019
The compromised daylight still pours into the white Chevy where a rifle sits passenger- there will still be whisky on his lips when he walks into work.

Her body braces like she has rigor mortis to the sound of her morning alarm after a night of writhing to the bittersweet taste of ******* drips.

He seeks solace between arms and hips and lips and skin, which never satiates his ache for only her.

Time is a parasitic hangover, leaching from our highs and the small passing moment of brightness we seek all our lives.

Even if you cancel all your credit cards, make love to beautiful strangers, sleep in the streets, find yourself in Europe, lose yourself in your career, curse your parents for your own faults, write poetry to lovers you never had, seize every day every second every moment, join a cult in the backwoods of Northern California, donate your retirement to your church, torment your veins until they collapse into craters, visit your grandma religiously every Sunday, smoke ****** off of tinfoil, sleep eight hours a day and always take the stairs, drink Black Velvet you've hidden in the basement, bribe God to love you on Sundays and threaten him on Mondays. Even when we wait, even when we consent to waste away Time's a slow-creeping hangover already crawling up your spine and seeping into your brain. You won't have time to ask her why all she does is take. It's already too late.
Brittany Cather Jun 2010
Once i awaken, i feel the ground start shaken,
i realize he didn't come home last night,
which means there's gonna be a fight,
i don't wanna go home,
cause i don't wanna feel alone,
and there is no where to go...
xoxo those fights were the worst
Joe Mar 2013
I woke up, and my ears were ringing like the Tell-Tale heart.
Ring, ring, ringing like microphone headphones,
the screeching dog whistle in a *****'s bad dreams.

My scream-teen dreams
of Slime Time Lives gone by
drive-bys gettin' high,
drank all the way to drunk
and stayed up,
still alive.
A hangover hunger, eat that screaming meat
till my warm puffy eyes well up with sleep,
wait to wake up and repeat.

Though I breathe easy
I need pleasing,
a fortune in fulfillment and still aches
of incompletion.
Mi hermano dice siempre,
The poor search for food,
the rich search for an appetite.
Meka Boyle Aug 2013
Life is a tiny black x on the calendar,
Wedged between play dates and rescheduled doctors appointments.
2:00 floods into 4:00, until the entire day lies crumpled at the foot of the bed,
Lifeless except for the coffee stain memories of yesterday.
Nothing happens here.
Self questions self, and we all sit criss cross apple sauce on the linoleum floor;
Is this what it means to be alive?
Red and blue parachute above our tiny shoulders,
Mixing with green, yellow, and orange wedges
The same as pizza or convenience store cheesecake.
Outside, noisy blurs of grey and black whir by
Full of passengers too preoccupied with routine to venture
Into the far off world of innocence
That softly plagues everything detached enough to feel it.
Covered in paintings of a reality that's missing all of it's fingers.
Nothing lives here- beyond the faint ripple
Of three o'clock snack time:
Rosy cheeks and small, stubby fingers concealed by apple sauce,
The preservative of youth, it slowly takes on the texture
Of dad's lung cancer-
Dying pigeons rest nostalgically upon city rooftops,
As strangers stop to admire their stagnant beauty,
Crying out acclaim for the regal presence of those
Who can bear to sit still amidst the chaos of an hour:
Cigarette and polyester feathered Madonnas of the modern world-
Installation art at its finest.
Face paint and spaghetti hair
Are only tangible until replaced with something a little closer to
Reality. The American dream sinks to the bottom of a hollow mason jar, as preservatives soak the bones
Of every tiny heart, alive enough to give out at the faintest malfunction.
Dilapidated, our heavy feet tread over spare Lego pieces,
The tiny rectangles push up against our translucent flesh-
Leaving abstract indentations of a city that never was.
Images of the earth projected upon tiny marble surfaces,
Fallen from a cardboard box that was once on isle five,
Impress upon the weary feet
Of strangers, running to throw up beneath the red, green, and yellow windows
Of a Target grocery store.
Nothing grows here, yet we eagerly pluck our wilted produce
From the clammy hands of a metal machine
Programmed one, two, three
To dilute our logic with an even mist of something
Almost like water, but with more promise.
Until, we can easily swallow the bitter pill that
Holds the secrets of the world.
Tyler Loeslein Feb 2013
By some miracle,
I don't suffer my mornings after
nursing raging headaches
or hangover induced nausea.

my post drunken night mornings
lead me to raise with the eastern sun,
which is ironic when I usually claim
to be anything but a morning person.

So this morning,
I woke up before either of our alarms
and pulled my pants from the top rung
where I had hung them last night
so that your roommate wouldn't see
me prancing across the room in my underwear.

I gently shook you,
waking you just enough to ask
whether or not you were going to class,
and after you told me yours was cancelled
and closed your eyes to go back to sleep,
I took a moment to appreciate the beauty
of your peaceful sleeping form,
reluctant to leave the serenity
of your warm arms wrapped around me,
but I had already skipped this class once this week.

I left with one more goodbye,
and for the first time in a while,
I started my day off happy,
because waking up with you
finally felt like something right.

You texted me later,
telling me to have a good day,
and I smiled at the butterfly inducing thought
that I might have been what you were thinking about
when you finally first woke up.

Later, in slightly embarrassed excitement,
I begin to share our story of a shared night
with a friend we share, a common denominator,
but before I can even get to the good part,
he stops me, and confirms my last words,
"Wait, you guys made out?" "Yeah,"
and then he shook his head in exasperation
and muttered some disappointed mutterings
before telling me that you had recently
gotten back together with her, days ago.

The news hit me like a hangover,
like I needed to hug a porcelain bowl
and ***** the waves of guilt crashing
against the lining of my stomach.

You had promised me,
that I wouldn't become the entertainment
that filled the gaps that were void of her
in your romantic life, but this is worse,
you've made me a home wrecker in my ignorance
and used me like you promised you wouldn't.

I think would prefer having an alcohol induced hangover.
Nausher Banaji Mar 2011
I awake to the groggy hangover of sanity
symmetry of line
infidelity of motion
on other continents
under darker skies
we might have been lovers of the light
here we are acquaintances
groping for the end of a line
in a confusion of options
I sit in half shadows
menu in hand
alternatives swimming dimming
saturated by choice
hunger unfulfilled
appetite satiated. Nausher
Dexter Portalis Apr 2015
I was a ****** to the taste of alcohol for 18 years until the day I lost it to you
My first drink was a mix between reality and denial
This glass consumed the toxins from this relationship that I fell addictive too
I guess that makes you a double shot of ***
No, I guess that makes you alcohol poisoning
Because it felt as though you broke into my liquor cabinet and wrote your name on each bottle
Just to remind me why I am drinking in the first place
You shattered those empty bottles against my heart until I bled our memories
I guess that was your way of breaking the bad news
You used each shard to pierce my ribs
Becuase you never wanted to see us as one
Each shot of Tequila reminds me just how our relationship tasted
Sweet when drunk, but bitter when sober
Your name ran marathons down my esophagus anytime I found myself swallowing the sharp cracks and dents from this Crown
A puddle of Crown sat stagnant at the bottom of my stomach
Normally, Brown is the only thing that sparks a fire in my throat
But your attitude was more flammable than a full bottle of Everclear
And not even Bacardi 151 burns as bad as the feeling you left on my lips
I yearned for the nights where it was just me, you, and Hennessey
But now I spend my 2 am nights in the deepest of conversation with Jim and Jack
But each sip brings me closer to the bottom
Reminding me how we hit rock bottom
We hit rock bottom when you drove this relationship straight into a brick wall
You allowed our love to ride in the passenger unbuckled
So I guess that makes you a murderer
Because you killed everything we had
And now that you’re gone I subconsciously drink slowly
I drive slow
Hoping reality won't hit me so hard
I was hoping to eventually find you when I swallowed the last drop
Searching for the paradise I tried to give us while downing this Long Island
But instead I was brought back to the realization that you and alcohol go hand and hand
Both giving me the best feeling one night
Then leaving me numb
With the same emptiness I felt before I picked up this bottle
And the last thing I want
Is to wake up tomorrow morning
With the remnants of your taste still sitting on the tip of my tongue
You are my hangover
Kali Aug 2010
I'd cry for hours on the couch, curled on the floor, numb to the bone,
So I thought.
Razor, my shiny pal, proves me wrong.

No, I'm swirling down the sink.
Don't talk to me, I still smile like an idiot.
Don't text me, I think you want to talk.
Don't let me think about you.

I've run out of tears now.
I've begun to suffer internally.

Crack my sternum, check inside,
where oh where has my heart gone to hide?
Check your hands, broken,
Check the soles of your boots, that you tried wearing once
Check everywhere but here.

*******, draw the blinds, curl up once more.
Leave me the **** alone.
I'm trying to get over this
Heartbreak hangover
you've given me.
total improv.
Nik Bland Nov 2012
The amount of days I've been given have been kind, but each day rather cruel
Trying to lift the thumb off my back of the looming stresses that rule
It could be me again and this is not the end, if fact it probably is
So before I unleash my problems, swear to mind your business

I would be lying if I said I wanted this day to last a forever
Because I found myself one forever short once we weren't together
I've said my piece so many times the puzzle is almost complete
So I've decided it's time to get off my knees and back onto my feet

I've fallen so much I keep Flintstones band-aids close at hand
My heart sewn to my sleeve for only you, which I've yet to understand
You unscrewed the machine that was me and left the parts on the floor
And I'm pretty sure I won't work just right anymore

Fading is the dynasty of what we labeled our so-called "love"
Like sticking my foot inside my sock at night to find it's a glove
The discombobulation is so overwhelming, I think the ocean is jealous
Could I start swimming now or is that being too over-zealous

Life is hard and the people crammed in it tend to make it worse
At times I tell myself it to cry, look to the sky, and curse
But there's a tune in my mind that won't seem to shut up from that one song
Telling me life is a ride, kid: grieve, learn, burn, and move on
Robert Lae Wild Jul 2012
These mountains quiver with the pluck of a banjo, but they're really just hills.
Listen to their silence.
The stark still hush and the crackling of my cigarette.
This is the perfect place to have a hangover.

— The End —