"jameson" poems
Sitting on my bed
Gazing out at the view
Laptop in lap
I wonder
Being of mixed race
The truth of my origins
The blood coursing through my veins
Goffle they would say
But iv always believed a man's skin colour doesn't define who he is
Kwabulawayo
A place where he is being killed
Home of the Ndebele
My hometown
Built on the ruins of a Royal town
uMzilikazi ,Leander Starr Jameson ,Lobengula ,Cecil john rhodes
Men of courage
Black and white
Fought struggles
Years before my birth
Mater Dei Hospital
My journeys beginning
My grandfathers end.
Joy and pain
My hearts memories
From Primary
Whitestone
Green fields
Where i spent my childhood
Life's little joys
Clay-yaki
In the rain
Barefoot.
Speargrass
How it stung
Running through the grass
Taller than i was
Forts
Built with shoelaces
Marbles
Fights in the sand
Afternoons spent picking mullberyys
The girls dormitory
Offbounds.
Matrons
Got me the cain
Thursday Nights
Prefects Priveleges
Sports
Cross country
The houses of Tuli, Shangani, Shashe
lifelong friends made
A place frozen in memory
Home of the best years of my life
Tears streaming down
Every Sunday evening
The way back
A boarders sentiment
Lasting 5min till reunited with friends
Tuck shared
Eskimo Hut
The Green Mamba Or Pink Panther
The food hall
Quiet
Till dessert came
Mr Haworth
Everyday
"The queen would be disgusted if she saw u eating"
The tide of his time
Wandering around my childhood
I bumped unintentionally into
Maturity
Starless nights
First kisses
A little bit older i was
Aug 21, 2010
Aug 21, 2010 at 8:34 AM UTC
In pubs with bar flies.
Kronenburg, Becks, Carling, Stella Artois and Fosters,
Dancing in our blood,
Utterly inured; we are endured by all:
The solipsism most profound.
And when Johnnie, Jack and Jameson join,
The sentimental and the morbid
Are conjoined.
And ****
In the custody of beer halls,
The shadows that draw, fade,
And calls – e’en Death’s! -- are put on hold!
No time; instead, before the last, another pint.
For in this hallowed inn,
Drinking what’s in the glass,
And espousing the glow within,
Cares regress.
No woes,
Or loaded psyches,
For when the pressure builds,
The best: a jet of yellow bliss,
Relieves the pain,
On Armitage Shanks' porcelain.
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 6:50 PM UTC
a tumblr full of rocks
a pour of ichiro malt
and a stir
gan bei
and
ichi
to the yamazaki and nikkas
i am in the land of the sun
i go down to the land of the dead
mei hi ko
anejo
casa amigo,
to my brothers in arms
jose, i must have my agave
cheers to the alamo
to the land of the prohibition
kentucky
yippee kay yay
bourbon,
spicy rye kick
spur to the horse
giddy up, giddy up
riding off into the sun
set to kentucky
derby
bourbon
ballentines
tom ford west
make your mark
with maker’s mark
bottoms up
and now i am staggering
vichi patia
better than grey goose
aunt jiin
and all the cult gin
navy strength and **** juice
getting rowdy
like irish bloke jameson
and that **** scot
macallan
and his gang
oiban, glenfiddich, and
glenlivet
I am livid
at that son of a *****
son of peat
another round
i am monkeying around
monkey 47
sun set
sun rise
*** on the beach
i see kings and queens
louis thirteen
i am going to sleep
pappy van winkle
100 years
like rip van winkle
don’t wake me
stir and not shaken
good night, mama
sweet havana
neat
a shot of don papa
i go to sleep
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC
I want to be the Ginger Rogers
to your Fred Astaire
the rocks of ice
in your Jameson glass,
I want to be the girl
you sing about
or the lit cigarette
your lipstick marks
Chanel rouge noir,
I want each embrace
you encounter
to touch me too
through the spaces,
I'd even be the words
in the book
you lift to read at night,
I just simply want to be
every single
missing piece
you've ever felt
or ever needed,
I want to be Cupid
stealing your heart
selfishly for
my own pleasure,
oh what toil and trouble
a girl unhinged
her unbalanced mind
bursting bubbles of blood
through her boiling passion
deep within the skin.
© Sia Jane
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 7:25 AM UTC
*She's there, suddenly noticed, woman from the dream
Above the dance floor, red hair fire falling down around a moonlight face
All others blur in the sea of bodies and burn on the sidelines of tunnel vision as the freckles of stars
Cerulean eyes vacuum the dark within a frame that illuminates and
I'm struck, suddenly pulling a name from ether*
Julia,
I whisper
Gunshot
rings, three drinks in
reach to the rib to feel dress wear for which metal was traded
Gunshot
bartender dead
one stray bullet punctured his head burst through the back and then popped
a fifth of Jameson.
Kick
Punch
Elbow
Motion slicing and justified
Neck
Snap
Disarm
Violent crash when pacified
Autonomy engage,
Bang, bang
Enrage
She
A
Knife
Gunshot
nine times in row
nine suited men dropped still in tow, two more take employees' door
Gunshot
following fast
upstair sprint with empty clip, K.O. with strong arm hefty throw
She leaves safe with escort
Up one more flight to the rooftop
This isn't the first time Julia's run away
This is the first time she's been chased by wanting legs
Who otherwise stood still on the platform watching a present face
Depart when maybe just maybe there was a chance in three words, sure
In three words
Violent crash in memory
Autonomy engage,
Retrace the pain
and follow
dream
A
l
i
g
h
t
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 9:23 AM UTC
I rode a curb side
dust devil into
the low side of
town.
Found myself
adrift right along side
the lip stick stained
cigarette butts,
empty dime baggies and
a city days worth
of welfare diapers
and plastic bottles who
will out last us all.
Same old dogs
along the same
old streets.
Dogs so old
they no longer
lift their legs to ****
Its a bit shameful
but a Hell of alot
less painful just
to let it go where
you lay or stand.
Bad kids with
big sticks and
fist fulls of
C cell batteries
chase the winos
along the railroad tracks.
They generate
terror and call it fun.
Televised Gods
for your televised mind.
Fall asleep with the
lights on ,leave
something to guide
me back home.
Blame it all on me
and I'll leave before
the hate sets in.
My time here is
far past due,
summers over and
the rare California rains
have come in.
I came only for the
weather and whatever
there was to drink.
Moonshine Cherries and
Jameson on ice.
The conversations all died with
that last bottle of whisky.
The mason jars are all empty
and this passing moment
feels right
for me to leave with.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
Yellow jackets’ yellow jackets
Licorice made of Venison
Stand over there, quite queer, my dear
While I drink a handle of Jameson
**** wizards and Eddie Izzard
Speak to me in glad tidings
Astronauts, sweet lizards' space gizzards
Jump over the back of book bindings
***** the misconceptions
Drive off the road into gravy
Split the checks, and **** on decks
Mistake my sound perceptions
Habeus Corpus
Parlay with ***
Start with darts
And move to the porpoise
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 4:26 PM UTC
the age old adage rings loud
1 tequila, 2 tequila, 3 tequila
FLOOR!
I look around and I see some simple ********
some lying in their own filth
when will you learn
it is sip not slam
god forbid you order training wheels
next one with lime and salt
better be eating crisps not drinking
bartender pour me the long glass
let me savor a whiskey back
i've got drinking to do
tequila for me and everyone standing
i plan on looking at my liver in the face tomorrow.
bring me the bottles
because if you didn't know
joe crow and jameson are long lost cousins
and play something loud
lets see if this liquid gold makes them dance.
:D
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 11:21 PM UTC
the morning after always hurts the worst
hazy brain
summersault stomach
and where in the hell is my car
i want a pizza
or two
it was nice to see you
i've missed your smile
and condensed stare
and the shape that your lips make while you confess your love to the beer bottle's neck
that explains the jameson
and all the beers at the bar
the beer bongs at the after party
and why i could stomach the strippers
it was all you
so nice to see you
why do i always feel guilty when the sun comes up
no one got a black eye
i didn't grab the mic
and my clothes stayed on until i was safely home
although
the cab driver may have caught a glance
to think
i'm "all grown up"
i'm not at all sorry
not for the whiskey gut
or the fire i'll throw up
or the kisses that i didn't plant along your collar
i'm still the same floral-print ship-wreck at the bottom of the bottle
my mother once said that the only people worth clinging to
are those who see all of your greatness outweighing your flaws
you still see the holes in my tights
and my falling hem line
not the honey sweet legs they shape
or the hips and thighs that the denim hides
i'll be just fine as the german genie in the bottle of irish whiskey
witty
and slack-jawed
and ready to kiss the lips off the face of the clock
and two shots away from dancing with the cops
i look great in hand-cuffs
i'll whistle the whole way to jail
small victories weigh the most
and right now
i feel like muhammed ali
thanks, babe
here's two asprin that glow better than your eyes
and they're mine
waiting to chase away the pain that came up with the sun
here's to endings that aren't a safe bet
here's to sleeping alone
here's to new mistakes
just waiting to happen
water never tasted so good to me
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
While reading an article last night about fathers and sons, memories came flooding back to
the time I took me son out for his first pint.
Off we went to our local pub only two blocks from the cottage.
I got him a Guinness. He didn't like it, so I drank it.
Then I got him a Kilkenny's, he didn't like that either, so I drank it.
Finally, I thought he might like some Harp Lager? He didn't. I drank it.
I thought maybe he'd like whiskey better than beer so we tried a Jameson's, nope!
In desperation, I had him try that rare Redbreast,Ireland's finest. He wouldn't even smell it.
What could I do but drink it!
By the time I realized he just didn't like to drink, I was so feckin ********* I could hardly
push his pram back Home.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 3:24 PM UTC
It's rare you'll find me in my home town
straw in mouth
**** on shoes
i'm a country boy loving this acid washed city life of "Ima get what's mine"
but don't call me bumpkin
while I'm sitting out on a back porch
jameson and RJ Reynolds
I have a tendency to spout off words like an unattended hydrant on a ghetto summer day
not all of them make sense
not all of them are in good taste
or right
but whether it be suburban Midlothian
farming village Drax
or downtown Richmond
I find my home on page
beneath the low chattering of keys
scratching of pens
Each word you never had the heart to say
is my place of residence
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 8:37 PM UTC
the empties
of the week
hold guard over my room.
they stand
like brave sentinels
and we watch the sun rise together.
bottles, cans, flasks, drams
these are my friends,
the empties
of the week.
sunlight burns
off of tinted brown glass
and i am alone,
except these are my friends,
the empties
of the week.
Pabst (7)
Coors (4)
Magic Hat (12)
Sierra Nevada (6)
Heineken (8)
Jack Daniel's (3)
Tanqueray (2)
Jameson (6)
Crown Royal (2)
Wild Turkey (5)
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 7:11 AM UTC
Ole planned
to go
to Las Vegas
but he didn't make it
his untimely death
got in the way
(such are the plans
of mice and men
they say)
he even noted it
on his
Face Book page
mentioned
in passing
as if
a whole clear road
was visible ahead
(now he's dead)
but I can can see him
now in spirit
making his
own way there
taking in
the bright lights
the neon signs
the shows
to be seen
(getting in for free too
what a Mutley laugh
that will bring)
and Ole
in his black hat
and coat and shirt
and dark shades
making his way
at his own
slow pace
around the casinos
his ghostly hand
pulling a few arms
of one armed bandit
machines
while the punters
look on
**** witless
as the arm
goes down
again and again
or in the other games
I can see you
taking your own part
your sense
of gamble and fair play
wandering the tables
ghostly whispering
advice
(in your quiet voice
being nice)
having a cool beer
at the bar
or Jim Beam
or Jameson
if they've got it
you sitting there
the barman unaware
you there
taking in
the whole scene
the big shows
the bright lights
neon signs
wish I
could go there
with you
walk at your side
sharing a beer
or whiskey
a soft conversation
or that special silence
we often shared
when words
weren't needed
where the bond
was strong
go to Vegas my son
go to Las Vegas Ole
take in
the whole scene
of Vegas fun
my departed son.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 1:40 AM UTC
There's a bluebird in my heart
too,
but unlike
yours
I like to let mine out
from time to time,
I let him spread his wings
I let him sing
his songs to me
& to the world,
My bartenders like him,
he's how I've gotten most
of the ****** into my bed
and he doesn't mind the smoke,
everyone needs a drag
from time to time,
He's the one
who prefers Jameson
and told my tongue
to not drink
much else,
I don't hide him,
But I'm not mad
that you hid yours away
I'm glad you did
because as much as you
inspire me and make me
want to share my songs
with the world,
I'm glad I'm not as angry
as you made yourself out
to be,
I get it, the image
is everything about
what seperates the men
from the boys,
and at this point I think
I'm all grown up
and we're stuck together
with the same fate,
So I let my bluebird sing
Bukowski,
because more than anything
your songs taught me
how to ****
what the world thinks.
And thank you for lying
to me
You old, drunk *******
Because you let your bluebird
fly, you know it
and may the gods bless you
for not even trying.
I love you
************
Just one question,
Are you crying now?
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
I've kissed this whiskey bottle too many times reminsicing about your lips. A heartbreak and a hangover.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 4:09 PM UTC
1
I look at
my shredded fingertips,
turning gray from Ernie Ball string,
from obsession playing the instrument.
I look at
the only evidence
of any of that
ecstatic crucible
into my hands,
the technicolor
of each pile
of felt-tip paintings,
the endless rows
of recording
that I can
only navigate
by seconds, and by minute,
and I am
deflated.
not a single
work
was finished.
again,
nothing
could be used.
2
I look at
the hours flaying me
on my acoustic guitar, and the days
trapped in each sheet of sketches
spent sleep deprived and starving,
alone, not bathing
or speaking; just
drawing. drawing until
the pain reached
too high a threshhold
to be able
to endure,
but i did again and again this
in between those great periods
of being an invalid,
in the hope of something
to be proud of.
I decide I'll go for a walk
to the 7/11.
I buy a 40 dollar bottle
of my favorite Whiskey,
of Jameson and
I get a pack,
not the usual kind, not my favorite--
Marlboro Red One-Hundreds,
but I get a pack
of Parliament Light One-Hundreds
this time.
I go home, and I drink.
half the bottle. light a cigarette, play
one of my favorites--
those songs
from the 1990's.
I sit down
on the floor of my bedroom and
I cut open
my arms
with a pencil.
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 8:44 PM UTC
Jameson from the bottle
Bedroom floors
Faded stars
I told you all the secrets
And you swore you'd keep them
Wasted words
drunken love
Promises that would be broken
I feel naked
I'm fully clothed
my heart
In his hand
As I tried to steal his soul
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
And quite frankly
I don't need God
Two wires to my ears, and a glass of whisky
Is plenty enough to guide me through the fog.
Yet.. Sometimes..
Sir Jameson won't drown out..
The tingle of lavender that still tickles my nose
Or the scent of the sheets, or the rain on the streets.
And sometimes..
Mr. Daniels won't blind me from..
The traps
It no longer soothe..
How her lips refused to move.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 6:33 AM UTC
I was welcomed at hells gates
I was expecting a little more fire
Instead there was a line of people
And the body odor was terrible.
I looked around to see if I'd see anyone I knew
I always get so uncomfortable in lines
I hate them actually.
Every time I reached the front
I would get sent all the way to the back all over again.
I got a bad feeling in my gut
That this was it
This was my Hell.
I dug around in my pockets
And found a note that said
Welcome to Hell.
I got so thirsty sitting in that **** line
And I kept looking and I saw a water fountain
Kind of strange for Hell to have this glorious Culligan Water fountain
I knew the water would be so cold and delicious.
I walked towards the Water Fountain and went to take a drink
And all it did was spray me in the face
But the water never was able to quench my thirst.
this has always been a fear of mine
A Water Fountain spraying me in my face.
I was starting to get discouraged coming back and forth from the
****** water fountain back into the horrible stinking line of people.
I thought I'd at least be able to get into Hell.
It seemed like an eternity before I got to the Gates again
And when I finally reached them
I was greeted by The Devil Himself
He said "Sorry that took so long we got a special place for you here"
I looked him up and down
And the guy really wasn't wall that scary
I mean he had this sinister look to him
But nothing like I expected
Honestly I was a little disappointed.
I asked him where do you got me staying after all these years I'm finally here
And I'll be honest I'm not very impressed.
No demons
No Fire
No Heavy Metal Music
I don’t even see ****** or Ted Bundy
I was really hoping these cats would be here.
Honestly this place is pretty dead.
Like a really ****** bar that no one wants to be in
It's like I’m drinking alone in this Dive Bar.
I was just in line with
All these ******* people
And none of them are here!
Tell me why this is
Why did all those people suddenly vanish?
And I got in
And NO ONE IS HERE!
The Devil looked at me
Took my hand
And told me congratulations
All the other people asked to be saved by Jesus
And you just kept standing there praying that you could get into this
******* gate, sit down, and have some water.
The Devil pulled up a chair
Poured a glass of water
And Said Welcome to Hell.
We lit a couple smokes
Poured a nice strong glass of Jameson
And watched the Gates for the next sucker to fall for the trick.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
Tight smiles
At dinner again
Compliments to mother again
Little brother leaves the table first
Off he goes to his room he runs
If only my feet could race to my room
Like they could when I was little.
Into the living room
To watch a movie again
Father is already in his chair asleep
Sister grabs a tall glass
Fills it to the brim with Jameson whiskey
And ice.
I try to retreat
To my comforting room
With its comforting smell
And I slip by into the computer room.
After a while I sneak upstairs
Dreading saying goodnight.
Reading a book
Laying down
Mother comes in with an anger.
"why didn't you say goodnight?"
She demands
"what is so special about up here...?"
She leaves with a prim goodbye
And I let out an annoyed sigh
And pore myself into the pages
Trying to forget
How horrible and fake
My family is.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 4:50 AM UTC
Let me tell you 'bout a man called Chicago Robinson
with eyes like jade and breath smell like Jameson
He dances with girls who have skin taste like Cinnamon
He don't think about life, 'cause he too busy livin' it
He came out of his momma croonin' smooth as Sinatra
His voice makes the noises that'll sure hypnotize ya
The girls they all dance to the beat cause they wanna
they slide up and down like they coated in butter
He don't got many clothes, but he's got his own style
His eyes pierce on through you, he got steel in his smile
When you meet him you might not know how to feel
He'll fix you up quick, and you'll be soarin' with eagles
Chicago does what he does when he do what he do
while he's tellin' his stories in the language of Blues
He don't care where he goes, don't have much to lose
So long as he has women, music, and *****
You like hearin' stories? he gotsa lots of 'em
You want a fight? Best be movin' on, son
He's the best and the worst inside of all of us
There just ain't no one else like Chicago Robinson
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 10:50 PM UTC
Moon on the horizon.
Soft breeze rattles the
brambles out by the
old barn.
The cat enters, looks
about and begins to
speak.
“Fears take flight after years
of drinking the tears away
while the days responsibilities
are laughable in the light of
satori's brilliant realization.
Silly, silly man, thinking reality
something to achieve, a destination
to discover, a journey to undertake.
Listen and I will tell you what little
I have learned burning away my
short time on this horizon of
understanding.
All that is transitory is a metaphor
for the eternal and all that is eternal
is a metaphor for the self.
The self is the collective consciousness
we all share and what we share is our
experience of being.
Being is nothing but an illusion created
in the mind of God while God is simply
a metaphor for eternity in the mind of
man.
Now pour me some kibble for I know
many things, but do not possess opposable
thumbs”.
I woke with a start, cursing the spinning
room and swearing never to mix Jameson
and Absolute again.
The cat finished her kibble and crapped
in the litter box.
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 12:52 AM UTC
The truth it wavers
In mine eye
But the whiskey
It never lies
The smoked out burn
A liquid caress
That helps me slip out
Of my dress
And into bed
With book and glass in hand
To a peaceful
Troubled rest
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 9:12 PM UTC