“lets split this diner and have a beer”  
four coffees in an hour made the world
too awake for him  
we walked to the Pink Mule,
the first bar we saw  
he knew all of the bars--all bars knew him  
the bartender was Abraham
but looked like a Bob    
he had a bourbon poured before
Charles made it to the stool
and looked at me like I was a fool  
“a light beer”  
Bukowski didn’t bother to laugh
though I am sure the word “***”
was rolling around in his head  
looking for a place to get out  
he kept on about Selma,
sweet succulent Selma  
how anybody that hot
could rule the world  
dragging men around by their dongs  
without lifting a finger  
that is why the gods made wine, he said  
not for some sacrament for the holy humbled
but for men hunched over like balless beggars,
he said, when Abraham Bob  
filled his jigger a second, or fourth time  
men made that way by all the Selmas  
whose middle name had to be vexation  
a whiff of her could get you to take  
a **** job, where you spent the day
hunched over, hoping, she would be there
when you got home  
even if she was, you wouldn’t remember  
in the morning, when you would go back  
to the grinless grind, hunched over, hoping  
Selma would be your wine

Take away your knowledge, Doktor.
It doesn't butter me up.

You say my heart is sick unto.
You ought to have more respect!

you with the goo on the suction cup.
You with your wires and electrodes

fastened at my ankle and wrist,
******* up the biological breast.

You with your zigzag machine
playing like the stock market up and down.

Give me the Phi Beta key you always twirl
and I will make a gold crown for my molar.

I will take a slug if you please
and make myself a perfectly good appendix.

Give me a fingernail for an eyeglass.
The world was milky all along.

I will take an iron and press out
my slipped disk until it is flat.

But take away my mother's carcinoma
for I have only one cup of fetus tears.

Take away my father's cerebral hemorrhage
for I have only a jigger of blood in my hand.

Take away my sister's broken neck
for I have only my schoolroom ruler for a cure.

Is there such a device for my heart?
I have only a gimmick called magic fingers.

Let me dilate like a bad debt.
Here is a sponge. I can squeeze it myself.

O heart, tobacco red heart,
beat like a rock guitar.

I am at the ship's prow.
I am no longer the suicide

with her raft and paddle.
Herr Doktor! I'll no longer die

to spite you, you wallowing
seasick grounded man.

My heart will never cease to bleed
I'll never stop thinking about the life they lead
My soul will keep aching for them in need
toiling for another half a decade due to them with greed
my eyes will never cease to see their deed
and ponder why did them,God have to seed
my feet are tired of wishing they could go an extra mile
maybe take some gunfire, burn for my country man to smile
my back is broken by the weight of my rage
it's a fire that isn't dying out, will I ever turn the page?
I'm stuck in a labyrinth of contemplation
wondering what other illness awaits my nation
besides ignorance, illiteracy, corruption,tyranny and fear
& much more, yet I still appreciate hailing from mid the sphere
There's a throb rooted deep in my mind
pondering what on earth could make one so unkind
I hope someday to injustice I'll be blind
I hope a day will come when I'll leave behind
these whys,hows, whats and whens like it never was
I hope time heals all wounds as the saying goes
otherwise I believe the cut is deep and infested
  by the loathing for everyone who stood by a government
we badly wanted away and a system we detested
I've tried to have the pain excreted but it's all digested
it's overdue and getting me dizzy due to the ferment
the memory is fresh, the election a forgotten torment
to some but to many like me it's here,it's every moment
it's that grass thatched house at angle theta or beta
it's the agony of the teacher, doctor & whoever's bitter
it's a sting worse than a cut by a banister's wrong splinter
it's the south pole in juxtaposition to winter
it's that malnourished barefooted child battling a jigger
it's the starving,and those plagued by poverty with food but meagre
from my position this wasn't a loss to the opposition
it was a golden chance ripped off the feeble hands of the next generation
a robbery in plain sight,hit below the belt in our fight
my fingers will never tire of typing about this plight
for the crested crane was shot midway her flight
fooled to go to the polls and defiled worse than a little girl
my prowess will but always demand for a piece
about the day we totally lost the beautiful pearl
and thence not a single heart ever knew true peace
not the losers as we have been falsely accused
but worse, not kigundu and many more who were used

I nominate the grape
my doctor lives in Kentucky
cozy corners red shaded shadows
a jigger of laughter
dissolved in loneliness
a non linear journey
sprays of sunshine
rays of rain
meaning that requires searching
as empty as my cup

There'll come days when you'll have nothing to write
and trust me even that nothing will be enough
you'll try to embrace the hollow of deficiency
but choke in the dark fumes of attempting to put up a fight
against the void whilst you search for your efficiency
you will scratch your mind for just a word but in vain
shake you will the trees and nothing will fall,it will pain
no single leaf will, not even a dry little twig
you'll wander all over the gardens of creativity
but find no soft alluviums,not a single spot to dig
it will feel an unfair election that fate is going to rig
yet your petition will yield no fruit, not an apple,nor a fig
your fingers will itch worse than infestation by a jigger
with the enema of motivation present but meagre
you'll miss the days whence it rained rhymes
oh! how much you'll long for those flooding times
like a pauper loitering the streets hopelessly thirsty for dimes
and the bells of your emotions will ring melancholic chimes
as you remember that sweet piece that got many hailing your prowess
and like a snail, return will your abilities in
an unbearable wait, call it a steady progress
you will be an active volcano whose vent's blocked from within
forced to abide by the nonentity blank of where to begin
unlike the usual floret and bombastic sweet nothings
you'll draw the fly speck in ink of unclear etchings
to give definition to the infinity of your nullity
and the insubstantiality of the ink sprayed
will be tattered clothes that patch your mental ******
you won't be satiated, but you'll survive the monsters of obsession that hide
in the furthest corners of your psychomotor, deep inside
and you'll appreciate the philosophy, sometimes obstacle's the path
for the scratch and naught from your struggle'll bear worth
so never take shelter under the sunless tree of the writers block
the wave of emotions poets command can break any stumbling block

My heart is bigger
Than your little jigger
Attempts to hurt me,
You'll die; waiting to see,
The effects of your conniving
Ways, ask whose driving,
If giving pain is your thrill
My love is krill
Vast and limitless
Forgiving endless,
Try and try again
A man amongst men
I'm adept and strong
Can do me no wrong,
Yes, I'll weep for you
I'm still human too,
But I'll squeeze you out
Through the last tear; have no doubt,
It won't be me who'll avenge
I have no room for revenge,
You'll suffer at your own hand
Your very own special hell, name brand...
© okpoet

Old Charlie was a winning

the gambling game that night.

He was in a frenzy glorious with

sheer delight.

He'd swig another jigger of his

favorite ***,

then laugh his head off, he was really

on a run.

He'd met a tiny man before this

gambling match

who promised all the gold just

for a lighted match.

Charlie lite the little man's cigar

and the little man blew

smoke on Charlie's wrinkled cards.

"Now, you accepted the deal," the

little man said.

"I'll be back to collect my investment,

you have to pay the debt."

Charlie just shook his head

and sat with his pals with flashing cards

of death.

The clock struck twelve and Charlie

had beaten all the rest.. One begged

for mercy, for his kids but Charlie

only growled. "I won the gold fair

and square, out with you to bed."

Charlie sat with all his gold and the

*** went to is head.

The door opened into Charlie's room

and entered a shadowed shape.

A voice from Hades growled with

lust and Charlie nearly fainted.

"Time to pay what I invested in thee."

the voice was hot and fierce.

Charlie's fright sent his heart

a quiver and he fell towards

the hearth.

"Get up you fool, you'll be charred later

now I want my debt, no later."

"Here's  all the gold." Charlie whimpered.

The dark One only laughed. "Ti's not the

gold we bargained for it is another matter."

In the morning the pile of gold shone

brightly on the table.

All that remained of Charlie was a

*** glass and a shadow,

jigger blood
pumping neatly
only an ounce
and a quarter

I’ve been pulling away, walking astray
Preserving the ice, avoiding your eyes
Walking alone, believing you’re gone
Watching the burning paradise.

You’ve forgotten my name, I walked in shame
Singing in gloom, locked in my room
Dancing the night, thought I’m doing it right
But I stepped on my own foot.

You are now a stranger, and I’m still a dreamer
Badly wishing that our poem would rhyme
Hope you’re still better than I thought you were
Not forgetting how we could’ve been fine.

I rode on a lonely train, hiding the pain
Still missing you, feeling so blue
Hiding my tears, along with my fears
That I might not get over you.

I opened a good book, tried to not look
Laughed at a tragedy, felt with such misery
Drank from the jigger, thought I’ll feel better
But I just felt awfully done.

Since the day that you came, no one’s to blame
Fell hard in love, wished much above
Things went so wrong, love was still strong
But I put it aside, and took that stupid stride

Away from you…

You're free to claim what life's giving you is meager
but we all know life ain't all the cause ******
Like the dying chain smoker cursing the cigar
yet it's obvious the bullet ain't to blame but the hand behind that trigger
you can cry foul, call her a ***** and gold digger
like at the touch of treasure in her Allan's wicker your pickle didn't grow bigger
like you didn't play in dirt with barefoot, loathe the jigger...
you can wait for answers or go seek out for them with vigor
You may keep on chasing shadow instead of figure
Growing up to the adults maybe we could've been less eager
if we only knew there was bitter to that sugar...
we had big dreams, I wanted to be an Author, she'd marry Bieber
she settled for a lad who loves her less than he loves liquor
she was sweet, but to his tongue the better was the bitter
and his thirst grew rocketing him to gallons from litre
and well, the apart twixt me and my dream is canyoning quicker
We was all reaching for the stars with glitter
we all wanted to be saints than sinners like Peter
but then you know life's turns at a complex angle theta
You don't always get to your dreams or maybe you do if you ain't no quitter...
So keep shooting for the stars even when left with a single bullet
chase after paper till you can fill beyond your wallet...
and when you buy the shoe remember all you once had was a slipper
so that you can even go harder, and be a lifetime seeker...
and when you land on the moon you didn't fail, be strong
you just found the destination whence you belong...

Crude brown-plaster'd brick walls
Layed without proper solder or
Mold or mud or water
A pit of curdled old-heavy blood
And sinewous joint hinge-pins
Of hard goliath, giant's muscles
Heads seemingly shrunken
But blimped to a surley saturated to an
greater-than original size
Their skin peeled off long ago
Bones meaten'd down and scaled-up
The center of this gore-pit
their hellish home
Butcher paper and amish quilts
Thrown in to produce
A dense coagulate
Fine milk-colored, powdered substrate
Bone-meal and motor oil
Plasma and marrow
Worm-wood
Genteel feathers
From a bird that poisoned
The creek-water of a now-lost
But powerful mexican tribe
Jigger meal from a child's feet
And an old mans
In Afrika
The skin dead and leather'd
The insides rap't of those terrible
world's tiniest insects
Macro-scale germs, most toxic fleas
Coca-Cola boiled down
Into a solid black ichorous
Malleable glucose material

And the umbilical chords
Of Two hundred fifty
New borns
Steamed and broken down
To a mushy substance
With a feathered appearance

To the tactility of even the most calloused and rough

Digits
Whether human

or proto-, pseudo- or neo-
hyper- and pre-
Hensile

The seeds of a million poppies
Cowardly, feverishly tossed into this

Horrid ***
Milewed down into a fine
Addition to the general rot, of this
Yet another putrid addition
The ***** from the second stomach
Of a calcified pterodactylus
And a dragon's mouth below the drain
In the center of this certain,
Gross sess pool
Lies a carv-ed Dragon's skull
To catch this sacred druel
Made out of greenheart
Black ironwood
And for the teeth, obsidion and
Caspian tiger bone
Together spliced and mal-formulated
To create a most
Septic funnel
Cone
All if it drains and
Gurgles down

Into a forged
Glass-Vial
Made in ancient, archaic
Olden times
But for this very abjectly
Evil trial
And he throws the switch!
The gurgle wrought
By this very motion of the level,
The level thrown by most
white un-sunned
Wizard-Warlock hand
It travels down into the vial
Mixing through emerald-hoses
With arsenic
And tainted possum spit--
--infused with cud
From cows thatnot
Even Cherised, prideful
India would permit!
And so a mustard-seeded gas
Also thrown into the mix
Clashes, bonds with
Stupid fluids

Made from the umbilical plugs of anencephalic and

Profound Down-syndrome
Czecho-kidnapped
Stolen'd infants

As their bones rake and smash through
The grinder that eats ANYthing
It goes down a rifled fluted core
Of Balsa-wood
God permits!!
Slimy
Messy

Filthy
Nasty
Hole in the witches den
From which spells are NOW born
To take the world
In a sanguine
Magick-whirl wind!

Friday twilights overlooking treetop reflections ,
with a smooth Marlboro and a jigger of bourbon ...

On the sidewalk there's talk of a new generation that denigrates the old ways and only lives for blue sky days,
It pays to listen to the word on the street,to jive with the beat and to cool off in the heat with a jigger of ***,
and that's *** enough for the bums and bedraggled,the stragglers left behind in this race,
there's no place for them in the new blue sky days,we'll do away with the shoddy lot of them in our secretive ways
they won't worry us no more.
Thus the unwashed are cleansed,washed away in the Thames and the streets are so sterile
fertile indeed for the new generation who'll have their babies gestated in cappuccino cafes whilst bemoaning about the demise of the 'good old days'
I'm not a part of it
never have been in the new scene
I don't want to know so I'll go and bury my head in the sand,and
hope it all goes away.

Toking at the dam around twelve
Listening for rod tip bells
Muds slapping topwater , the hollow ring
of paddle striking boat , a bowed rod , a midnight
fight on a starlit warm Rico night
Connecting the heavens with wondering eyes
Tobacco smoke rising high into the sky
A jigger of peach brandy warmth
A chicken sandwich from the One Stop* ..

Fly away, Fly away fast
The Red Baron got you in his glass
with his finger on the trigger
he'll shoot you down in a jigger
and your end will be the same
shot by the Red Baron,
falling from the sky
like Icarus in flames .

By: Cedric McClester

Words have meaning (oh yes they do)
But some of us act like that isn’t true
Out of our own mouths we degrade ourselves
And call it a term of endearment
But that’s hoping and wishing
That the definition no longer means what it meant
Isn’t it strange that nothing has changed
Except the user’s intent

Ain’t it absurd people died for a word
That we openly use today
It never occurred that to be referred to
As sub-human is not okay
A term of affection (or misdirection)
Which do you think is in play
When you use that word that is so often heard
Out of young mouths today

Who can deny (or try to justify)
The use of a term born from hate
Open your eyes your wherefores and whys
Aren’t creditable things to debate
Too many fatalities come from the realities
Of the words that we state
We have to change course by influence or force
Cos the hour is getting late

Ain’t it absurd people died for a word
That we openly use today
It never occurred that to be referred to
As sub-human is not okay
A term of affection (or misdirection)
Which do you think is in play
When you use that word that is so often heard
Out of young mouths today

Why do you figure Jay-z became Jigger
And gave up his first claim to fame
It was his ambition to defy definition
Besides that wasn’t his name
It was a non-starter for Mr. Shawn Carter
That he wasn’t willing to barter

Ain’t it absurd people died for a word
That we openly use today
It never occurred that to be referred to
As sub-human is not okay
A term of affection (or misdirection)
Which do you think is in play
When you use that word that is so often heard
Out of young mouths today

So let us aspire to (remove or retire)
A term that we’ve come to abuse
I swear I’m no liar we can aim higher
Than some of the words that we use
Let’s give conscious thought to the thing we had ought
Not to do that we can refuse
It an offense that doesn’t make sense
And we’ve already paid the dues

Ain’t it absurd people died for a word
That we openly use today
It never occurred that to be referred to
As sub-human is not okay
A term of affection (or misdirection)
Which do you think is in play
When you use that word that is so often heard
Out of young mouths today

Words have meaning (oh yes they do)
But some of us act like that isn’t true
Out of our own mouths we degrade ourselves
And call it a term of endearment
But that’s hoping and wishing
That the definition no longer means what it meant
Isn’t it strange that nothing has changed
Except the user’s intent

(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester.  All rights reserved.

August 11th

How am I so smart to endure my head's turns or locks inside a box.

With some worth forgetting.

My erecting
inessential to come, we've all waited.

The diet of cowards.

The invisible exercises in...

New Guinea
New York
Japan
France

Gaining

Exonerated

Senators.
Wives.
Daughters.


Over years or weeks.

A lot to hold in. I'm here.
A lot to hold on to.


A pint.
Three.

Jigger.


Fly into roses, Broken Wing Heartache.


Later on...


It is only one small amount of sweat.
A pool filling and shifting with each of my breast's breaths.

Now maybe I can tell myself why I care.

It is you.
A leg paler.
A chipped smile.
A new thing with nothing shamed.

Time for a movie.

A bright future.
Fuzzy dream.

Picture you and I waking.
Picture the naked light.

Witness your hollows.
Amount short.

Void transaction.

Pay once.

Enter the transaction void.



Two beers and one or just one shot of one fifty one later...


Do the days go by and call your name?


No they don't register a mood.

A look see.
A look see reveals all of these new found memories.

But our memory is low and hazy.


Baby.
Oh beautiful showmanship, tell me...

Of love.
Of youth.
Of my eyes.
My hair.

My unbroken bones.

My perfect *****.

My golden hair.

My tan.

My ability to hold and stay

not too warm or dry

not too cold or wet.


Your tomb.
Undisturbed.

And now I wait.

For you to warm.

Oh it is you.

Only you.


I will recite also.

In regrets of my open heart.

Strange that father holds his chest in staples later than I.


I spoke of you.

To blood ancient and blood to see.


You know.
Or you don't.


I.
Here in new clothes.


Waiting beside the museum.
Under the cold window.


For you to interfere.

As close as I am.


And then you apperceive.

Love.


You appear love.

They didn’t take our rights,
We let them.
They didn’t steal our taxes,
We let them.
They didn’t jigger the laws,
We helped them.
They didn’t become bigots,
They always were.
They didn’t change into crooks,
They always were.
They didn’t take our birthrights,
We surrendered them.
They didn’t arrest criminals,
They arrested us.
They didn’t starve bad guys,
They starved children.
They didn’t steal our Social Security,
They stole all of our security.
They didn’t cancel our insurance,
They gave it to themselves.
They didn’t refuse to raise our wages,
They raised their own.
They didn’t just criminalize us,
They deified themselves.

it begins with a decanter of Rimbard
add 2 parts Villon
and 1 part Catullus
throw a jigger of Whitman
and a pony shot of D. Thomas
put in 3 dashes of Kerouac,
Ginsberg and Burroughs
add a splash of Cummings
for flavor and a float of Rumi,
shake well and pour into the
Nebauchadnezzar of D.H Lawrence
while intermixing Hemingway with
a kick of Yeats and Keats from the
oar stirrers of Celine and Pound,
drop in a few ice cubes of Thompson,
cold and solid and a bendy straw of
Carruth with garnish from Li Po and a
cocktail umbrella of Fante to decorate
and call this mixology a Bukowski
and raise the drink high
and pour it down fast
to honor the dying light
from the struggles of
writers before us and
to help us get through
the moil and toil that
holds us back from
what we truly want
within our guts because
I find living, drinking,
smoking, *******, reading
and writing to be difficult
as it is but breathing
should be the hardest
thing you'll have to do
under this dead moon night

Christianity died and was buried in Salem,
the wise men were missing
two were caught kissing
each other.

I know that if I go to hell
Mother will tell me off
for being very naughty.

The Pope is not available for
Fatwah's on Sunday and so
I'm safe from the
lunatic fringe.

The devil does not work for Primark,
that's a rumour encouraged
by a village in China where
they're all out of work.

Who do I pray to when the ***'s
boiling over?


See what I'm like here after a jigger of strong beer and I can't make my mind do the things that my eyes want to, but it's all down to the mischief of you who I know well and Mother will tell me for that.

Hell's not an inferno it's just the place that the mind goes.

Now,
if I'd been born into a different era and let's say the twenties things might have been clearer, but in the here and the now when the iron's in the fire and the Vicar's in the choir and yes I know all too well that I'm going to hell but only the devil regrets.

things sometimes go lowercase and I've found out that is the case when the prosecution has lost the case and the prisoner goes free.

And the sound of the  shutting door doesn't bother me anymore because I'm a Scientologist and I know  life is so much more than this.

Rolled up paper napkins and plastic
wrap
Guitar picks of varying thickness
Reading glasses , cold black coffee , a
polishing cloth for a wine colored Les Paul
Staff lines with blue notes penciled in
A midnight jigger of Gin
This worn out body held prisoner by a frantic
mind
Reads like a song for another time* ....

a gun
will you pull the trigger?

If I hand you
my bottle
will you take my last jigger?

If I hand you
a sentence
will you commit the crime?

If I hand you
my heart
would you make me some time?

If I hand you
a story
would you put it in print?

If I hand you
a clue –
Can you take a hint?

Gimme swill,
not one for smooth liquors,
I cannot fathom velvet.

Jigger me a burlap,
stir me a drink
in low thread counts,
course cottons and twill.

My throat itches for wool
and stiff denims. My throat
itches for loose weaves,
warped lazy on a loom,
distilled with a towel,
stiff on a rail in some
damp and arid bathroom.

Go out and disturb it then,
peace?
it's overrated when the world
is at war,
I want no more of it
I just want to sit in the rocker
with a jigger of ***
and
watch the sun go down.