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ConnectHook Nov 2015
♪♫♪♪

Your beaded snakeskin loincloth

strung beneath humid palms

cool rippling breeze that calms

our hammock hung under thatch

what a catch . . .

your Amazons running into my Congo

lost track of my bongo

back about one mile

from the sources of the Nile:

your jungle smile.

Restoring all celestial things

deep within your tropical clearings . . .

flowing slowly, going loco

at the mythic mouth of the Orinico;

shake your nut-brown biospheres

and banish all my worldly fears.

Dusk is nearing — clearing the hill

insects trilling a sinuous thrill;

the yuca half-mashed in the clay ***

the witch doctor hungover in his hut

while our little fire smolders

near the mountains of the moon

—or are they only boulders?

Come soon

Jesus, Lord of the Jungle . . .
NOTES: ♪♪♫♪♪♫♫
♪♫♪♪
I just woke up
I don't know how I got here
I don't know where I've been
all I know is
I want to get drunk again
does that make it a problem
ashley lingy Feb 14
i got out of his car
and
hopped on my bike
dashing through the neighborhoods
streaking down a bike path
faster
FASTER
squinting in the face
of an angry early morning sun

i stop

stumble off my bike

try to be discreet
***** into a bush


pick up my bike
wave to a jogger
force a smile

i head home
Roselyn Jan 25
imagine laying on the woven spread of your lovers bed

head pounding from one too many shots, the morning sun shining just a bit too bright

your mind is fuzzy and you can't remember when their eyes blinked open

corners of lips stained red quirk up

they whisper good morning, leaning in

the world fades and your soul is on fire

electricity shooting through veins, washing away any lingering fatigue

arms envelop you, heads tucked under chins, feet intertwined as you realize that

this is what it all was for
Natalie Feb 16
pour
clink
down
repeat.

maybe
this time
you can take
the heat.

actually,
probably not,
prepare for
defeat.
Jo Jul 9
My head feels hallow and its hard to swallow.
The roof of my mouth is like sandpaper turned inside out.
My stomach churns while I yearn for hydration, something to halt this perspiration.
Dizzy while the walls warp around me, hands start shaking, heartbeats racing, anxiety creeps in as I start to spin.
Why did I ever have that last Gin?
I'm never drinking again! I say, until the next hangover comes my way.
KiraLili Oct 2016
That after Saturday night Sunday tradition
We'd wake hungover slowly for coffee
Then hit the cold streets in search of more
Cafecrawling in pea coats and wool caps
Ears still ringing from the night
Looking for friends lost too the night
And getting too know the ones found
A day measured out in coffee spoons
Sometimes it took all day to shake sleepy vibes
In a city that party's too hard at night
Early 90s post party cafe culture
#coffee #cafes #90s
Cristina Oct 2018
liquid courage
Burning throats
The smokey taste of cigarettes on our tounges
This summer fling has obviously flung
Drunk and filled with love
Your heart fits mine like a glove
But with your hangover tomorrow
You will start to weep with sorrow
I was a drunk mistake
And my stone cold heart that was warmed starts to break
matilda shaye Apr 2014
right between the place of being perfectly okay, stable,
and content and ripping at ever seam, loose at the hinges
you can see that the stitches are coming apart and
the heart doesn't want to beat anymore
I was born here
between the lines of need it I need you and that
wouldn't be good for me and neither are you
the space between total distance and I miss
the word baby so much that I feel achey
I want to yell and I want to scream but
my mouth is shut, I know there are reasons why I'm here
whether it be bad karma or the way the world turns and
if there isn't then **** whatever card I drew out of the deck
once I said
excuse me father for I have sinned
because I didn't know how to pray so I begged for
forgiveness until my ego bled reasons that I needed
to be alone but I'd rather be excused then forgiven
because I'm good at excuses and I'm still waiting
around for the moment where I forgive you

I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE.
WHEN WILL THE SKY STOP FADING
TO SUCH A DARK BLUE THAT I HAVE
TO TURN MY BRIGHTS ON AT 4 PM
WHEN WILL THIS CITY WAKE UP ONE
MORNING WHEN IT'S NOT EXHAUSTED
AND HUNGOVER ON IT'S LACK OF OXYGEN
WHEN WILL THE BIRDS SONG
BECOME OUR WAKE UP CALL
WHEN WILL THE LEASH COME OFF
WHEN WILL THE WORLD SPIN ON IT'S OWN FREE WILL
AND WHEN WILL I  STAND ON MY OWN TWO FEET
I DON'T WANT THIS, I NEVER WANTED THIS
I GOT STUCK INTO BEING SOMEONE
I AM NOT COMFORTABLE WITH
BUT I WANT TO BE
I WANT TO BE SO BAD
IF ONLY YOU KNEW HOW MUCH EFFORT I PUT
IN ASKING THE GRASS TO GROW FOR ME
IT NEVER DOES
IF ONLY YOU FELT HOW MANY TIMES I ASKED
GOD TO TAKE AWAY THE FEELINGS
TAKE AWAY THE KNOWLEDGE
TAKE AWAY WHAT I NOW UNDERSTAND
LEAVE ME BLIND AND IN THE DARK BEFORE
YOU LEAVE ME SOMEONE WHO WILL NOT BE
ACCEPTED BY ANYONE, ESPECIALLY HERSELF
IF ONLY YOU KNEW HOW MANY TIMES I BEGGED
EVERYBODY TO STOP STARING AT ME
I'M IN A ROOM ALONE BUT ALL I CAN FEEL IS EYES
AND I DON'T KNOW HOW TO STOP BEING ME
Natalie!
at present I am present on a small isle,
which is so green genteel
to the eyes and the ayes,
you might include it
among yet unmastered possibilities,
living here forever.

indeed, the crescent beach so welcoming that
francais et l'anglais des anglaise is spoken here,
but actuality
has a way of intruding,
like
Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Bleu,
saying I know you,
even if it doesn’t

this breeze bearing load suggests your name
as a candidate for future, honours, an MBE,
a practiced curtsy for a queen,
whatever is he babbling about?

why I am presenting an outline for a screenplay that
will make you a little rich and somewhat fameuse
so you buy a house on the water,
party all night,
write in the miracle wonder of the late afternoon
on a summery isle,
modestly hungover

say!

where is this isle so sheltered,
where nooks are set aside for poets and drunks
to pub crawl, to stand on tables and Irish sing of
those things that poets endlessly babble?

so add :

come here and let us listen to all your possibilities
and cross just this one,
your presence here,
off the list
'And when was this? I dunno, I dunno:
like everything else, twenty years ago.' - August Kleinzahler

I
Whosis slunk next to the rastamagnet
dj booth, in a limabeanhued suit
jacket, limabean sleeves rolledup to
deploy albino ancons for jostling.
II
My ****** lungs ached; gluttonous Venomised
pelicanbills. Cig o' no mercy, cig of life.
Serpivolent smoke is nicocreaming
ceiling of this dive Dasein dosses in.
III
Unrequiting snoutcloud of her chuffing
form siffles thru her mousy enamel.
'Light reflecting booster technology',
advertising Boswellox, scents her hair.
IV
Male Black Widow Complex boings in my brain,
as the vogueress exits conceivable zone
of address. Yet she cigawrenches
my stalking thoughts across the pumptup ballroom.
V
O those farouche salad nights following
swotting up in the humid Octagon!
Male Black Widow Complex, th'always boinging,
lidded by lemony orange lager.
VI
I crashed Crasherkid frabble, rocked to
DJ Shoppinghour feat. MC Niche Jah.
My Sax Pustules & Dead Kinnocks LPs
accusingly mouldered in my heart.
VII
Crasherkids twatted then, dated now, now
grooveriders haggard. But time was the thud
of arterial Cherry7up
was the dub of their youthful BPM.
VIII
Triptown beefnecks w/ classic legoman's
Acid House ecaf (before e-cafes
had come & gone), mandy stag party.
I still slow my pace at their fearless napes.
IX
The rock club had delusions of grunger,
crush at the bar was lumberjack cubism.
Era of Jingajing-chicka-jing-jing Kurt,
anno domudhoney, left a zeitgash.
X
& in the goth club, cadavolescent,
guylinered Xennials listened to
Placebo, but poo-pooed manginas.
Identi90s: genres, not genders.
XI
Blotto elbows on sudsy bar, I cross
lanky barkeep's gulchy palm w/ nugget
for latest in a lost count of snakebites.
Streak of **** is a broom in a skinnytie.
XII
'I'm hyperboring as much as you!' quip I
to a cheetahthinking softdrinker.
There'd be no ruction if pickled franion
spilt his Tab Clear Kaliber, H2ooze.
XIII
Yestreen's teen mums of teen mums, renubile
on the glash. Simuladies who soft soap
saps to buy them...a drink, QVCexy.
If shopgilfs surrender the goods, QVChy.
XIV
Whosis, tattie-bogie of the floor,
turned Turok w/ liebestorschlusspanik.
But his limabean lines are jejune, even to
zirconia Zsa Zsas on the zhelf.
XV
Whosis, lima green last chancer, I'm a
aphroluddite like you. Both crud dancers
too, corybantersauruses. It's all
smoke 'n' mingers & we've got lunge cancer.
XVI
'There's a party on the hillside, would you like
to come? Bring your own cup & saucer
& your own cream bun!' Friends joyride
home dead, so ride dead joy home alone.
XVII
Simian, simulacrum, something for
the weekend, sir? Or are weekends just for
something before ip dip dogshit
******* ******* silly *** meet the kids then what?
XVIII
Stereotripe, not Stereospeare, yet unknown
plexors would kick in. Or was it the joypop?
Popliteal self on higher neon knees,
Mother Brown's got nothing on me!
XIX
Anansesum of my fancy footwork,
Bez in blossom under tiger strobe.
Chemical cochise, call me 'Tarantulip':
totem, tarantism, bruxism, bloom.
**
Yeah, I liked DJ Offroseanne before
the coward sounds of Simoncowellland
killed Cool. Taxi for the Corpse of Cool/
fetch your coat, love, you've pulled the Corpse of Cool!
XXI
Since the ears dot, aural laurels were hot.
& the beat authenticity lays down
is still the drill sergeant instrumental
that leads blind zeit pipers of all pied geists.
XXII
Lima bean fugue, forearm flash, Dear John tats.
Nocturnal vernal mental of the comeup
becomesdown w/ no summerlove, bad trip
(Raggaman Kafka say 'Uneazee Dreamz').
XXIII
'Taxi Driver' cinematography,
neon printcest of clubland signs dimmens.
Pick up your tuttifrutti braindamage
- time to go home, hungover twichildren.
http://www.pilkipedia.co.uk/wiki/index.php/Boswellox
Jack Jenkins Nov 2018
We met
We grew
We loved
We stalled
We fell apart
We're alone

At least I am
I hope you're not
I hope you're happy
Because I missed you happy
I hope you're in love
Real love for a change
I hope you're not stuck
Because you deserve the best

Hungover was the only way
To wake up this morning
Because **** I miss you
Everyday
And I wonder if I cross your mind
I think I do
But are they happy memories
Or just a mistake you don't want to think about?

So for the millionth time
I'm sorry
I know the wind won't carry it across an ocean
But I'm sorry
Pour one out for us
The memory of what we were
Tomorrow I'll be okay
But today you're on my mind
//On her//
Erik McKee Oct 2018
Faces blur
Like radio tower lights fuzzily blinking on the horizon
Flashes of red, orange and green
Fading to the chocolate brown of the night, her eyes in the dimming light.
BLINK BLINK POP

The words, "I love you" drifting through the swirling dimness,
Her hair playing upon the milky moons of her cheeks
Her eyes flicker and become closer, closer.
Again, closer
BLINK BLINK POP

My nose taps hers, the cheap wine making me sway to and fro,
The wonderful scent washes over me: Mint and lavender,
Wine on the breath, the tinge of bitter sweetness.
     "I love you"
     "I love you, too"  

Her tied hair falls, like the cherry brown leaves of winter
Onto her freckled neck, her moony face outlined
In the dark chocolate of her hair.  
     "I love you"

I feel the surge of want building in my chest
I sway forward, steadying myself on the soft carpeted floor  
My heart's drumming
A shock of static, when flesh meets flesh
BLINK BLINK POP

I shudder, as I'm carried into the Fall rain
The frigid cold bites at my nose and lips, numbing them
Her face, blinking merrily, becoming further and further out on the horizon
I fall into bed
     BLINK BLINK POP  

                                        
The birds are chirping and my head hurts
Sebastian Macias Jul 2016
She still had tears in her eyes
Her eldest son, Max, just passed
He had an overdose on July 5th
This woman held in real pain
I don't doubt her for a second
She is old, burnt, mad
Her madness is pure, pure madness
She tells me her stories
And I sit there, hungover
Looking into those tearey eyes
She elaborates her stories
Wou her motion as she sweeps
"He chased me yesterday!
It was real, I knew it
Even if it didn't happen, it was real
The man loves under the budge that
Connects one building to another
I think she said she might have scared him
Maybe he thought she was real too
"I ran into the street screaming!!"
I'm at the edge of my seat.
The police have her ****,
"Historical" she says, well of course
Wouldn't you be too if you got chased
The man under the bridge
The second floor custodian
I was all too real
two poets, laureates both,
on the nature of hunger, discourse.

I was there, hungry in every aspect,
seeking wisdom of the hungering nature of human.

examine the word, hunger,
hardly a rolling off the tongue mellifluous.
you exhale it from the gut, in gowned resplendent ugliness,
go ahead, try it, it’s coarse and powerful insistent.

awoken empty but for the hunger, hungover from
dancing words and imagery not mine, now mine,
maddeningly demanding my dutiful attentions,
as if hunger was the master, me, obedient pupil.

the clean white slate the IPad re-presents repeatedly,
insulted that I have yet to crayon color it with the coherence
of hunger-exhaled words, dismissive that I am but an also-ran,
my village of lexical too unsophisticated,
the page addressed yet unplanned,
Apple white is the color of the
starving artist.
Sebastian Macias Oct 2016
My feet swayed back and forth
Back and forth as I sat on the edge
Of this cliff, the waves came in slowly
And the sound of the ocean below
Gave me serenity and I was okay
(bolt of lightning striking my body)
I opened my eyes, I was in bed
I ached badly all over
I felt like I had jumped out
Of a moving vehicle and survived
And crawled home
The pain was agonizing
I wasn't on the cliff anymore
I was home alone and almost 30
And perversely hungover
I was ******
I hear insurance goes up at 30
Britt Nichole Apr 2018
I waste good wine on you and wonder why I am not hungover in the morning
My stomach tells me it is not worth it to wonder - to just be thankful the ache is not pounding through my head
I agree
I tell my inner self to settle wildly on the idea that all of my flowers will bloom for someone who truly wants to see my colors
I tell my inner self that the most familiar hand to hold is the safest hand to hang on to
She tells me I am safer than a seatbelt
I say that a seatbelt is always optional
I say that my fingers are wrinkled from the water I soak too long in
They keep little secrets in their valleys
Maybe I will know them one day
Maybe one day they will touch you and not feel so numb
carminayasmin Apr 2018
As if I’m going to wash my sins,
by finding a substance so viscous - to annihilate the acid
that seeps through me.

Perhaps it’s you refilling my first glass,
which is dried up by 11,
and replenished by 5 past.

Must I keep forcing it down my refusing gut,
so I can bare the stutter drooling,
crumbling, out your teeth.

Till I’ve sipped needlessly on your lies
and fell drunken on your delusional fables.

Now I’m slurring in my nights,
awoke, still high on your acid.
Eyes are bulging, bloodshot
from you firing bullets of your decaying  burden.

-

As I walk I stumble,
diverging around solum streets.
Crows peck at my skin, to prompt me at sunrise.

Now and again I revisit
the morsels I had collected from the bottom of your chalice.
Savouring as I gulp down my regret.
Desperately urging to be hungover your reveries
one last time.
11 April, 00:31
I’m preparing myself for it all one day
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