"hangovers" poems
the lady has me temporarily off the bottle
and now the pecker stands up
better.
however, things change overnight--
instead of listening to Shostakovich and
Mozart through a smeared haze of smoke
the nights change, new
complexities:
we drive to Baskin-Robbins,
31 flavors:
Rocky Road, Bubble Gum, Apricot Ice, Strawberry
Cheesecake, Chocolate Mint...
we park outside and look at icecream
people
a very healthy and satisfied people,
nary a potential suicide in sight
(they probably even vote)
and I tell her
"what if the boys saw me go in there? suppose they
find out I'm going in for a walnut peach sundae?"
"come on, chicken," she laughs and we go in
and stand with the icecream people.
none of them are cursing or threatening
the clerks.
there seem to be no hangovers or
grievances.
I am alarmed at the placid and calm wave
that flows about. I feel like a ***** in a
beauty contest. we finally get our sundaes and
sit in the car and eat them.
I must admit they are quite good. a curious new
world. (all my friends tell me I am looking
better. "you're looking good, man, we thought you
were going to die there for a while...")
--those 4,500 dark nights, the jails, the
hospitals...
and later that night
there is use for the pecker, use for
love, and it is glorious,
long and true,
and afterwards we speak of easy things;
our heads by the open window with the moonlight
looking through, we sleep in each other's
arms.
the icecream people make me feel good,
inside and out.
195.8k
during my worst times
on the park benches
in the jails
or living with
******
I always had this certain
contentment-
I wouldn't call it
happiness-
it was more of an inner
balance
that settled for
whatever was occuring
and it helped in the
factories
and when relationships
went wrong
with the
girls.
it helped
through the
wars and the
hangovers
the backalley fights
the
hospitals.
to awaken in a cheap room
in a strange city and
pull up the shade-
this was the craziest kind of
contentment
and to walk across the floor
to an old dresser with a
cracked mirror-
see myself, ugly,
grinning at it all.
what matters most is
how well you
walk through the
fire.
141.9k
The tide collects it all by morning;
The drama and the ***** napalmed across the path.
The scenes at second warning for most had been swept away
Before they wiped the sand from their shoes.
Empty cans of Dutch and Tuborg slouched on the dunes
Are tight-lipped about the Velvet Strand's secret ecosystem;
An underground microcosm;
A peripheral cluster of seething emotions drowned.
Memories of those years - although some expired,
The vestiges take pride of place - hold a cosmic clump of smells,
Tastes, firsts, goosebumps, hangovers, and ends.
I never before understood what I was holding on to.
Winters down in the shelters nearly killed us but we
Huddled through the cold, lit cheap firelogs and
Found our oblivion. It didn't take much for me to develop
A stagger - tolerance for a lot of things was learned later.
I narrowly recall my first taste of poor judgement and
Hazy-headed stargazing. Six cans of Stonehouse
Dry cider - most of which ended up on the hillside -
Was a ridiculous endeavour that will always be sublime.
At the heart of it, I did it to impress a girl;
The one every boy has or has had that sticks;
Who holds your firsts and your hands and makes
Things simple if only for her complexity;
The one that never fails to bring upon digression when
Pens are involved. Revisiting reminiscence on a jarring note,
I think of my Junior Cert exams and a cross-dressed man
Exposing himself to two uniformed boys behind the public toilets.
This one doesn't stir the joy of the others.
This one I wish would dissolve;
An ugly, awkward blotch on a childhood.
Luckily fondness trumps disgust when recalling that place
Because of sunrises and sunsets absorbed from the roof.
The Summers spent jumping the gap and drowning in the
Heat of the sun were everything.
The fugitive sand between our toes and under finger nails
Became an accepted nuisance, a part of the territory;
A lingering grain or two to drag you back.
I miss waking up with the smell of last night's faded fire.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC
Your living water
ferments my soul.
Out spills wine—
a sweet elixir
for thirsty souls,
for hungry hearts.
(Your drinking songs
soothe parched throats)
For our hangovers:
Your living water
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:13 AM UTC
The lady has me temporarily off the bottle
and now the pecker stands up
better.
however, things change overnight--
instead of listening to Shostakovich and
Mozart through a smeared haze of smoke
the nights change, new
complexities:
we drive to Baskin-Robbins,
31 flavors:
Rocky Road, Bubble Gum, Apricot Ice, Strawberry
Cheesecake, Chocolate Mint...
we park outside and look at icecream
people
a very healthy and satisfied people,
nary a potential suicide in sight
(they probably even vote)
and I tell her
"what if the boys saw me go in there? suppose they
find out I'm going in for a walnut peach sundae?"
"come on, chicken," she laughs and we go in
and stand with the icecream people.
none of them are cursing or threatening
the clerks.
there seem to be no hangovers or
grievances.
I am alarmed at the placid and calm wave
that flows about. I feel like a ***** in a
beauty contest. we finally get our sundaes and
sit in the car and eat them.
I must admit they are quite good. a curious new
world. (all my friends tell me I am looking
better. "you're looking good, man, we thought you
were going to die there for a while...")
--those 4,500 dark nights, the jails, the
hospitals...
and later that night
there is use for the pecker, use for
love, and it is glorious,
long and true,
and afterwards we speak of easy things;
our heads by the open window with the moonlight
looking through, we sleep in each other's
arms.
the icecream people make me feel good,
inside and out.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
without the memories of playgrounds--
the smell of too many American Spirits
(andsometimesnewportmentholswhentimesgottough)
the taste of chocolate wine
the cold of holy river water
the sting of heartache and hangovers and broken toes
the glow of midnight fires built too high with entire trees
the feel of tears on my sun-scorched collarbones
the sound of e.e. cummings and the poems from our adolescence being read over baking bread at three in the morning
rushing back to me.
i still remember our fears of shadow people and the
too loud screams of *** rock
over men(i should say boys)
who we centered our summer around
when we weren't busy being goddesses.
& there isn't a day i don't see a swing set
or hear the beginnings of Johnny Cash song
when i do not think of you
and hope
that the world will not change you
that the world will not change me
and we will one day
have a practical magic houses
and hostas
that i glare at
while i make tea in the mornings.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 11:10 PM UTC
Take me to a pub
So I can drink and get drunk
Forget all my sorrows for five minutes
And after the five minutes are gone
I shall grab the phone
And shout my anger with similes and curses
And melancholic poetic verses
Take to me to a pub.
Take me to a pub
So I can drink and get drunk
Then drive my tombstone of a car
And empty my rage in shifting gears
Of crashing death
A representation of the life
Of advanced products of simple humans
Dumb enough to die
Take me to a pub
Take me to a pub
So that I can meet some girls
And maybe go back with them home
And smoke some ****
And ashes
Of the dead people of the past
Which has now become a part of my mouth
And in my mouth
Mixed things
With either a sharp taste
Or a sharp color
Or a sharp texture…
Like multicolored knives entering my veins approaching my heart
To rip it apart
Take me to a pub…
Take me to a pub
Where I can die
Under tables and cups
And bartenders
And miserable people trying to laugh
With eyes that are not theirs
And faces that are not faces
Like animals unstrapped for one night
And once they wake up the more impossible are the braces
Shaped into bubbles that are suffocating
With no hope for air
That it becomes unfair
Take me to a pub
And then blame God
For my torment and bad hangovers
Saying why God!? Why did you let me go to a pub…
And after I wake up for reason
And logic, discover my flaws
I go back to my illogical ways
Because you are taking me to a pub
Television takes me to a pub
Politics takes me to a pub
Consumerism takes me to a pub
I feel like I’m the hot girl of the night
Because everyone is taking me to a pub
Grab some beer
Some *****
Mojitos and some Absen
Leave my mind unaware
And my thought absent
Take
Me
To
A pub
Now!
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 7:15 PM UTC
Saturday night, offered to read your palm
When I don't even know how to read palms,
It was just an excuse to get to touch you.
And oh, touch you I did,
All over.
Sunday morning, nursing hangovers with scenic strolls,
Holding hands
Until our palms get sweaty and we let go.
And next weekend we'll do this again,
All over.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 9:05 AM UTC
Mild day in winter, week before Christmas
Turns out the tree in your front yard has been
A holly tree all along, finally showing true colors
As a taxi driver leaves the driveway and
A neighbor in a red shirt crosses the concrete
Sidewalk. The succulents to my side reach like alien
Synapses, your white car looks at me cross-
eyed, cinnabar brick damp with Peninsula fog.
The morning’s cup of coffee still lingers on my
Tongue, my body aches with last night’s indulgences
And repressions. Warmth is relative, hangovers
Are absolute. A pagan zodiac spins inside a
Haze of long-lost memories, a gauntlet of trees.
A gentler repercussion, a less insightful song,
For I am only human, stains on my sleeve,
Sleeping in when I should be producing anything.
I forget what I am, except a shivering flesh vessel.
I cannot remember what I was supposed
To be.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
She remembers the day the stick turned blue, “wow for **** up the spout”
He remembers her smile when she told him. Smile, really?
Then there was telling her parents, “okay we'll make this work”
Then there was telling his parents, “You threw your scholarship away for this ***** you're a dumb ***
She remembers the morning sickness
He remembers the hangovers
She felt warm inside when he said it was her choice
He felt like dying when she said she was keeping it
She framed the first ultra sound photo
He deleted his Myspace page
She noticed the day she started showing
The same day he noticed the legs on the waitress
She was snickered at behind locker doors
He quit the team
Her mom brought home baby shoes
His mom circled the classifieds
She got peanut butter cravings
He got hand gun cravings
It's a girl
It's a girl
She remembers finally talking again after four months
He remembers being cornered after 3rd period
She wanted to pick names
He wanted to hang up
She remembers their second first date
He remembers how nice she was
This could really work please kiss me goodnight
We'll see how this goes please don't kiss me
The doctors say the shadow on the ultra sound could be nothing
What if the thing on the picture is something
She prays for the health of Amelia
He begs God to do something about this
They have such a bright future ahead
He had such a bright future ahead
She goes to Goodwill for maternity clothes
He rings her up at the cash register with a kiss
She remembers buying baby clothes at the mall
He remembers how cute the onesies were
She sees him smile
Amelia...good name
She's due next week
He packs his cleats to make room for the crib
She packs to move into his house
His dad packs for a motel
She's still craving peanut butter
He's still craving the waitress
She ate peanut butter
He ate the waitress
She's in labour
He's in traffic
Hold my hand
Ouch...Okay breathe honey...ouch
There's no crying
Nice, quiet baby
Amelia's dead
I'm not a father
She cries into her shirt
He leaves the hospital
She cries into the onesies
He returns the crib to Wal Mart
She burns the ultra sound photos
He grabs his cleats
She gets a hair cut
He quits his job
She returns the diapers and shower gifts
His new Myspace says “single”
She shops for a prom dress
The waitress finds out he's seventeen
Her mom hugs her as she falls asleep
His dad pats him on the back after wind sprints
She can't stop starring at him during prom
He wonders if she went to prom
She writes Amelia in bubble letters on a piece of paper she hangs on her wall a reminder of what's important
He buys a Costco pack of condoms and tacks one to the wall a reminder of what's important
Jan 4, 2010
Jan 4, 2010 at 10:17 AM UTC
i will watch as you walk away with pieces of my brittle heart lodged into your palms
and i hope they sting every time her hand slips into yours
i will watch empty promises tumble from your mouth as you exhale
and i hope you choke on them
and as you breathe in every molecule of her perfume
i hope the scent stings your nose
i will watch you kiss her and kiss her and kiss her
and i hope it's the best experience of your life
so i watch you fall from grace as she discards you like a jumper she has outgrown
and i taste the same sweet satisfaction you did when she kissed you
i watch as a drunken mess
because the hangovers hurt much less than even a fleeting thought of you
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 3:23 PM UTC
Creating a character.
Its perfect dialogue.
Turn the page.
Find out what's next.
Read about his horrid past..
One that didn't last.
Find out that you were wrong all along.
That the hangovers don't last.
And sobriety comes fast.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
like electricity entering the body
heat from the vent, money well spent
being payed up on rent
like winning a trip to Disney land
or laying on the beach in the sand
laundry right out the dryer
setting a candle on fire
calling out a liar
your favourite song on at the right moment
being ready for in the morning
hangovers after a good party
having someone to lean on
is almost like all of the above ,
like the silver blade giving you a hug.
that feeling you get when you cut
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
I've tried every drug I could get my hands on;
I've tried every hobby that interest me;
I've tried to play every instrument loud;
but, none could save me.
I've raised the base of every bottle,
but, that, not even that could save me.
I've drenched my body with countless glasses -
glasses full of hangovers, and that -
even that cannot save me.
I've tried everything, yet -
the feeling of loneliness is the loudest,
and nothing seems to save me from it.
It's weighing heavy on my chest, and I'm hoping;
hoping someone, something, anything -
saves me from this stagnant, empty feeling of worthlessness.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 5:58 PM UTC
You are not cute Poem
3/5/2014
“You are cute.”
No.
Cute is a creature,
A little woodland chipmunk,
And I have news for you.
I don’t eat acorns or live my life in that wrong tree you’re barking up.
I’m not the poster child of a PETA campaign.
No.
Cute is a bow on a neatly packaged gift.
One with some fancy pattern.
And I have news for you.
There is nothing neat about this package, nor is it seasonal,
It won’t arrive on your doorstep for a special occasion.
I’m packaged with so many deep layers you couldn’t have it open in time for next year’s Christmas.
No.
Cute is young and unprofessional.
A little child playing with toys.
And I have news for you.
I’m not your toy.
You can’t pick me up to play, at your convenience, to then drop me on the floor forgotten.
And I’m a grown *** man – nothing cute about hangovers, hair loss, bills to pay, and unwashed laundry.
No.
Cute is not what we should aim for.
Cute is a one-liner and I am a Master’s Thesis.
Cute is what you’ll say before you cruise me online, ***** me, and then you’ll try to use me.
I’ll tell you what is cute though – you feeding me such a shallow compliment,
When really you should be treating me to the five-course conversation.
Ask me about my credentials darling,
Bachelors Degree with double majors,
working on law school and a PhD.
And finally, No.
I’m not **** *** ***** ‘tool,’ ‘trick,’ or **** either…
That’s only on Tuesdays.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
We trust ourselves to know right from wrong.
We trust in the age old sayings of people whose names we can’t remember.
We trust our dogs not to **** in our favourite pair of shoes whilst we’re asleep.
We trust that everyone means well and just wants to get by.
We trust the teachers who taught us the earth is round, and that Pi is 3.14159 and how Pluto is the 9th planet in our solar system...
We trust that not everyone is right all the time.
We trust bus drivers to not get lost.
We trust in the fact that our keys are probably in plain sight even though we’ve been looking for half an hour.
We trust our parents to know what to do no matter the situation.
We trust the world to keep spinning away in the dark void of space with no company but the moon.
We trust that everything will be alright.
We trust that one more pint won’t hurt.
We trust that hangovers are only temporary.
We trust our partners when they say I love you.
We trust in traffic lights and zebra crossings.
We trust that this is our last chance to get a brand new sofa in the DFS sale with O% APR for 4 years.
We trust that size doesn’t matter.
We trust Alexa won’t tell us to **** off, and that Siri will always help us no matter how many times we say we hate it.
We trust that despite our self-doubt and insecurities that we’ll probably still get through another day.
We trust in peanut butter.
We trust that no matter how many times things go wrong, mistakes are made and promises are forgotten, we will learn to trust again...
We trust.
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 7:33 PM UTC
wind cutting through my hair
and my expressionless face is still
while nostalgia overcomes me.
what have we come to?
words of hatred once spoken to one another,
followed by kind, apologetic letters,
and pure innocence engraved on our faces
turned into hangovers,
excuses and more excuses.
the worries drag my eyebrows down
like bent, rubber arcs that have been straightened
and are moving slowly back into formation.
am i the only one?
am i the only one?
i grab a pen and paper and write
the words inflaming my throat,
the visions in my eyes.
everyone moves.
everyone moves on and grows
with intoxication in hand
and fire
burning through their sockets.
is this growing up?
to enjoy and to live;
is it necessary to poison one's self?
what have we come to?
why, a different location
will not change the way they act.
am i the only one?
it's peer pressure what they do,
it's peer pressure.
but i am left,
because i refuse.
does that make me wrong?
my friends; their love and trust
bestilled in my heart;
it's weakening, it's breaking.
i shouldn't feel this way.
what have we come to?
is a dream of sanity and beauty
not enough?
because that is all you need
in my book.
you step in my book and see
a bird soaring
a flower blooming
an idea growing.
it's beautiful.
you step out of my book,
you don't see.
you're trapped
in the fumes, in the heat
of the crowd, in the smell
of the liquor.
what have we come to?
love is not an object.
it cannot be thrown around
and pestered with whenever you
please. it cannot get
carried around to become
an STD.
it cannot.
why?
it is not love.
it's hurt, it's stupidity.
the love is the feeling,
the lights,
the faith.
where is it?
lost,
disease has taken its place.
what have we come to?
it's what is inside, it's in
your soul, not displayed
on your skin.
what you are is not a material
thing, so why don't they bother
to take
a
second
look?
all walk with a label
instead of a name.
what have we come to?
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 4:33 AM UTC
I Disappear in the crowd of dancing people
The music is loud while I walk through the corridor
I am outside now, the first breath of fresh air for hours
My legs are hurt and my head are dancing with stars
I walk without saying goodbye, I just walk
I stand so sleepy watching the turn of the street lights
The sunrise in the horizon and I'm waking
My body has recovered but my head still hurts
but it's different from last night, cuz today
My phone rang and I got social hangovers
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 4:53 AM UTC
My goal could be
a post office,
and maybe hangovers.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 8:45 PM UTC
Back we go, again and again
into that void of
hangovers, bitter-sweet,
and bruised arms and legs.
Melancholic, involuntary smiles
wash away in the shower
with sleep dusted eyes that
barely caught a doze.
Headaches that make walls
quake and rooms spin
whilst cooking greasy breakfasts
and shaking heads.
But back we go again,
how many times now?
Hoping to forget;
dive into that beautiful void.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 1:32 PM UTC
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.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
I still feel all the vigors
And my mind is still sore
But my heart is too frail
To feel anything
I still hear voices at night
Or maybe it is just the sound
Of your voice
Sweetly calling my name
I still feel those chills
Or maybe it is just the longingness
Between the spaces
Of my fingers
I still look at my walls
As if my sight can strike against it
So steady and deep
With the sharp thoughts I have
I cannot tell what it is
But if there is something
That makes it hard for one to breathe
That is exactly it
We all get it
Hangovers
And the worst ones you get
Comes when you love
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 6:46 AM UTC
I'm trying to write a poem, because that's what I do
write poetry about me and you, you and I
those guys, these kids...
that time I choked on fireflies because every third word I'd say illuminated the sky and between every spark of light the shadows clenched my eyelids. Or all of the times Elmer fastened them shut and I saw nothing but sticky, icky white glue
poems about something true, like the genetic connect between my cats- they're sisters
or the non genetic connect between me and my stepsister- i miss her
poems about hating the way I destroy each building block I set aside
poems about hanging on for the ride
I could write a poem each and every day about the birth of the earth in may
but when springtime arrives and lucious life thrives I can barely get out of bed
poems about irony
poems about the law of murphy
There's a poem I've written too many times about the criminal I am and all of my crimes
there's a poem I have not yet written in ink, about not knowing what why or how my thoughts think
there's a poem I will write, and it fills me with fright yet gets me through the night
because the beauty blooming from your eyes intoxicated me, like the hug from a drug pollenating
You can't simply try to write a poem- upchuck the acidic thoughts you think
they weigh you down like past and future hangovers
molded like heavy boulders almost tipping off your shoulders- you can't simply try to write a poem
It's like loving your cousin though you've barely known him
like a conch pressed to trying to hear the ocean
but it's really just your blood pumping in motion
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 8:44 AM UTC
i've shut down
like a factory building typewriters or VCRs
you left a rotten tingling in my mouth
pepper-flavored rubbing alcohol
slap me like you check yourself out in the mirror
maybe that will set my brain back into motion
sparks and blue soda
i gave you too many chances to ruin my life
bald spots on my head
lungs black because you made me start smoking again
turn around
the back of your head is the only part that doesn't make me cry anymore
and yet it still does
build me up like legos and take me apart piece by piece
we had brooklyn and bagels and trains and hangovers and sheets
religious conversion was avoided
i just realized how unhappy i was with you
all of you
all of what you gave me
which was nothing
taker.
taker.
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC