"lager" poems
From whence we tip to toast the Cocktail new
Too pricey for a Sip, if you ask me
Still, those Pubbers demand your Freshest Brew
Either for Show or Truest Cheers that be
Now who composed the Price which I complain
May rob my Wages on half-month's budget?
You have Defense, though: Is that my Domain
To liver that Sign out of my Pocket?
I suppose either way Purchased or not
Those Senses concerned will take no Notice
With Baskets fare, Bread and Butter forgot
Mix the Lager still Best Friends acquiesce.
The Currant still topped, which to Celebrate
Ignore the Side-Bugs; Light the Good Debate.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
I used to hate your healthy avocados...until I had one
Not that your coffee tasted superior to my tea
But what's taste when you season mine with gun powder?
Yes, In case you did not detect
There is a lot of hate in this one
Call me aggressive and spiteful
Whilst holding your rifle
They say hate begets hate begets hate begets hate
So for you to understand
I put aside my ignorance and try to walk in your shoes
OK, let's start:
A lot of trees
Beautiful sky, delightful breeze
A rich land where tenants are a many and they shun the proprietor
I know I promised to be nice
But let's face it for that white picket fence, someone had to pay the price.
Start again:
Sunny coasts
Bacon, eggs on toast
Walk the dog in the park, life is not all that hectic here.
To make it clear, running out of coffee is my basic fear.
Flat stomachs
In fact, six packs!
Cupboard full of knick-knacks
and plenty of time to kick back and relax
Never-ending supply of niceties
Calm waters
Long walks along the harbor
and perhaps a tall pint of lager at the pub
Throw some juicy ones on the barbie mate!
Who cares if 6.2 mil in Somalia are starving mate?
You say to me:
"survival of the fittest, Darwin mate"
"It's so difficult to fit in" I say; so tiring MATE
Did I say that right?
I'm Mohammad, as James in a play called "Aussie Catch Up"
and I don't know how to play that part
What else can I say? they gave me a voice (although in English)
between the self deprecating migrant and the middle eastern rag head, the gave me a choice
And by the way my boss tried to anglicize my name
Said Sebastian had a nice ‘ring’ to it
Well go ahead, march to your colonial tune and have me sing to it
Oh healthy avocados, you're too ripe for my liking
Maybe I'm just used to a bit of rawness in my diet
To be honest
I have a heavy heart, a dark one
Maybe to reconcile, you should take a step
a very very very very very very long one
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 6:00 AM UTC
We are a global society
When we want oranges in the fruit bowl,
When we want out of our rut
Just long enough
To brown in a patch of Spanish sun.
We are a global society
When the Japanese car breaks down
And we are in need of a cheap fix
To keep food on the table,
Some Latvian mechanic
Who helps us find our way home.
We are our own nation,
An island nation,
When the zeroes run low
And there are spaces,
Foreign faces,
To which we can point
And blame.
We are a global society
With our sweat-shop chic,
American coffee chains
Selling Colombian ground beans,
Frappuccinos in plastic cups-
Made in China
And served by a Romanian barista
In Italian heels.
We are a global society
When the demand is high
And the payment is low.
We are our own nation,
An island nation,
When hands reach out for help
And our pockets are too shallow,
Our time, too brief
To commit to a unity
We feel is dragging us down.
We are a global society
When the football is on,
When the lager is Belgian
And the supermodel, Greek.
When we cradle that bag of Cheetos
After smoking too much ****
We are a global society
When oppression is overt,
Caricatured in bulletin posters,
Threatening to land
Upon our own front door.
We are our own nation,
An island nation,
When poverty seems contagious,
When we have to clean up
Someone else’s mess,
Still we scar the Middle East
Only half-interested in an exit.
We are a global society
When we get sick,
When we borrow another doctor
For our ailing NHS.
When cities of white people burn,
We are a global society,
When Africa is divided,
We are nowhere to be seen.
Prime mover of the commonwealth
Yet we fall beneath the breadline
And living easy is so rare.
We are our own nation,
An island nation,
Under the false flag
Of a golden age
We were conned to believe in.
Our nation, our island nation,
Lost amongst a sea of misinformation.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
The bar behind the theatre was nearly empty apart from a couple of gay boys.
Well, it was a gay bar, so no ******* surprise there.
I glanced at the fat one and decided, 'No thank you very much,'
as I have noticed fat people often smell unpleasantly,
maybe it's the sweat trapped between their ********** that does it.
But the other one was very cute and I decided I would have him.
In those days, it was regarded as 'de rigeur' to buy a lad a lager and lime
before dragging him home with you for some nookie,
so I coughed up for a half pint with charm and grace.
Sadly, he was no great shakes in the conversational stakes,
but was I after intellectual stimulation? No, I ******* wasn't.
Anyway, once I'd checked his passport to ensure he was over-age
(no one wants any ******* trouble from the bigoted morality squad)
I dragged him back to my elegant bachelor orgy-pad
and stripped him off to investigate his lithe little body;
a nice smooth little **** and a reasonably clean ****
What more can you want from a one night stand?
After a bit of a damp snog and a good old *****
I lubed him up and gave his *** a right good poking.
He moaned a bit, but then who wouldn't moan,
with seven and a half inches of thick gristle shoved
all the way up their sphincter? I know I would.
After I had filled his rear end with love juice a couple of times,
I felt that kicking out was the name of the game.
Generously, I gave him a half-crown for his bus fare
as he said he was a bit short of cash, being unemployed.
It was the least I could do, as he had three miles to go home,
and it was raining cats and ******* dogs outside.
After he'd left, I checked out the bed sheets (as you would)
and was irritated to find a few skidmarks there,
or they may have been where I wiped my fingers
after having eaten a bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk.
A quick sniff confirmed my worst suspicions though.
'Ah well, true love always comes at a price', I reflected,
as I scraped the worst bits off with a nail file.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 11:49 AM UTC
Where to begin
I think to myself as I submerge
my thoughts
In you and what it is that
Gives the tick to your tock.
I think of your eyes
And the depth
That lies
Folded within
Green and brown
Layered
Life
Disguised
And smiling.
Lost glasses
And lager
That comes in pints
Accompanied by
Epic
And
Blatant
Action and statement
Your energy blasts
Fast and furious
Frenzy
I sense more to you
Than what meets my eye.
And in that thought
I lie
Here now
Creased brow
In anticipation of knowing you more.
I think of your nails
And the way they touch
Me deeper than
The welts
That are kissed
Crimson stain
Onto my skin.
Your essence
Seeps inside
Within
And bleeds out of my body
Through my lips
As I savour
The flavour
That makes
You taste
So simply
Divine.
You have this way
Of ceasing time
And pausing
The beat of my heart.
Just a smile
Is all it takes
And your laugh,
The way your eyes
Drop low,
The dip of your neck and
The way you glance up
And out from
Under your
Fringe.
You unhinge
The door
That stands
Shut and heavy
Before
My eyes
Wide open
Surprise
As you storm
Into my soul
And take whole
My delight
And spin its
Weave
Into gold.
I am sold
On you
And your cold hands
Warm heart.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 3:01 AM UTC
I **** the mood in a sour June,
opulent misery, scorched Earth,
exchanging platitudes with old faces,
full of ******** full of hot air.
Both sides of the fence
at war with themselves,
feigning inner peace and profit
across the beer garden table.
I talk of hangmen and floods,
child brides and dressing gowns,
my hometown under the mythic spell
of collective memory loss.
We have forgotten our place
in the comfort of our urban sprawl;
sirens caterwaul past the high-rise,
past the vacant church with locked doors
and the homeless on the street.
A commonplace emergency,
young male suicides, women *****
in the safety of their homes,
taught a kindness through physical force,
the way the gun drops to civilians
in countries saved through the filter
of television screens; of dust and distance.
I sit and write and think of ****
of old loves, anxieties-
they call me crazy all the while
for not committing to the scene.
Now Afghanistan is a blueprint,
extended diagram of steady-state destruction,
a conspiracy of white man dreams,
farmlands bruised by machines of war,
by the Big Black Boot,
the feeling we have been here before.
All the while, the illusion persists,
car parks filled with smoke, professional escapists
with their 9% lager, bags of tobacco,
and the megalomania of art.
I **** the mood of a whitewashed June,
advertised freedom, a mortgaged Earth,
exchanging currency for a chance of peace,
the zen garden smoker, the looted mind.
Both sides of the fence are collecting bones,
at war with themselves, whilst my eyes are red
and my philosophies, ******
They call me crazy for dreaming of escape,
whilst never leaving the confines of home.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
So celebrate with bread and wine,
With meat and lager,
With laughter and song,
And the slippery kiss of that woman,
Eyeing you from over there.
Outside your door ... another awaits.
One who has always been near,
Persuading you with stars.
Promising nothing, yet granting everything.
It is inconceivable,
So I won't even bother.
But with each passing day,
You step closer to that revelation,
Whether by choice or by fate.
And when the door opens for you,
You may find yourself holding a cold hand.
Her skin is stone, unforgiving, and rigid.
Her silent steps follow close behind.
Your shadow. Your mistress.
Regret
Dec 1, 2010
Dec 1, 2010 at 5:21 PM UTC
What would you do for an apple?
GIVE AN ORANGE...
If Lemonade was not too sour or too sweet I would replace my blood with lemonade. Are tomatoes really fruits but why are they cooked? Do we cook mango pickle? Would you prefer barbecued bananas?
BUY A GREEN WORM...
That little bridge on the pond with the rubber duckies next to the tree that sheds copper coins really does lead to another land. A land of shiny little boxes. I like the rustling hope of wrapping paper. Maybe if we all wrapped ourselves we wouldn’t be so cynical anymore.
**** EVE...
Swinging on tree branches naked is rather lovely. One gets scratched and itchy indeed, but the thrill is intoxicating. Moreover, there’s a whole pitcher of lager on the snow covered pine tree waiting for us **** little monkeys.
PS: Remember when money was for play and could be torn & eaten and ****** upon?
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 9:23 PM UTC
My friend published a book
of collected Scots Proverbs.
200 pages and more, filled
with countless ways of saying
"Don't show off."
And that precious wisdom,
generations in the making
percolated through smokey thatch
in dismal dripping glens,
Tattooed into tenement bricks
with the soot of dead industry,
added to the diet
with the excess salt and saturated fat,
Paving the roads
on which all ambition travels south,
And fizzing through the lager
on its way to the head
Now hangs around the kids
like the stink around an ashtray
and stifles any pride
they might invest in themselves.
They will pass it on
with their genes
and their endless disappointments,
despising anyone who rises
above the station
at which they are
eternally delayed.
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 4:15 PM UTC
Shiny bricks and skeins of yellow grass
Barely perceptible colours
Hung with liquid haze
Dog **** and thunder
Heavy close and thick
Miasma
Clings to sweat
Running with drizzle
Clings to damp
Drowning the pores of the skin
Making collars clinging sticky
Rubbing and abrasive
In view of the towering flats
The greyly awaiting wait
Standing at the bus stop
Speaking quiet weather talk
In the distantly English way
So safely meaningless
This polite evasion
Ignores their damp dilemma
Soon, as they sit inside the bus
These bodies shall steam
Like cattle in a byre
Kids hang around the shops
Emptying and kicking cans
The younger ones
Run and shout manically
Their elders spit
And swear casually
All hoods and shadows
Asking adults to buy them lager
Because they can't get served at the "offie"
Rain changes nothing here
A bedroom guitar plays
Weakly electric
And the Turneresque sky
Swallows the sound whole and flat
Sophisticated trash
Crying into a cloudy breast
Shaded darkly round
Full and swollen
Grey and sodden
The distant rumbling
Tumbling closer to home
By Phil Roberts
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 10:54 AM 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
They're digging up the cobbles in our street,
moving them to a classier area.
We'll be given tarmac, black and soft in the sun.
Yes, even here it shines - on men's vests.
They're red faced, drinking from lager cans,
while their women finger scarved curlers.
At least, that's what others think they see.
But neighbours do talk with us.
There's a code of decency,
though Mum says, 'some have hearts
as black as the tarmac'.
There's a hierarchy,
in minds and heads,
if not in pockets.
Some day the toffs will turf us out,
gentrify our street. We'll be moved,
filed vertically, pigeon lofts in the sky.
Then they'll bring our cobbles back.
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 3:19 PM UTC
In old south down, where the mourn mountains sweep,
There's a bridge made of wood where the willow trolls meet,
It's on midsummers eve when the sun takes a bow,
And bids bye, and farewell to the willow tree bough.
Talk of the evenings events and the mood there about,
And the damage that was caused by those lager louts,
Father willow troll talks of the courtships that passed,
Between boy trolls and lady trolls, and whether it'll last.
The baby trolls settle as the darkness descends,
And the moon shows her face to the willow troll friends,
Merry music is made from the willow tree strings,
And the food is supplied by the south down night things.
Horrid worldly events are a lifetime away,
As the humans excist by the exposure of day,
Two worlds so close, but nature keeps separate,
Never mixing together, its chosen by fate.
Pay attention and watch now, as my tales have begun,
Of a day seeking willow troll and his son.....
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 3:11 AM UTC
bebop, bebop
sway your hips
tap your foot
tap, tap, tap
Cold November Evening
Cambridge, MA
Scarf, Pea coat, Flannel
Hot mulled Cider
Leaves have turned.
Red, orange, yellow.
They clutter the ground.
Wipe your feet.
sing, sing it loud
dance with her
dance with him
one two three four
Body Heat Insulates
472 Massachusetts Ave
Skinny Jeans, Toms Classics
Chilled Brooklyn Lager
Lights on the stage.
Red, orange, yellow.
They warm the atmosphere.
Play one more song.
Don’t let this night end.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 2:10 AM UTC
Spent the evening walking nowhere streets
dodging horns and sirens of hungry motorbike taxis.
It was a parade of street-food vendors,
security guards half asleep by bottles of whiskey.
Every woman I passed was beautiful,
laid their *** on the numbered tables
as off-hand as their mobile phone, their purse;
their bored men. Each one had their toenails painted,
wore short skirts and vest tops in the stifling heat.
The best of them wore tight dresses of black or red
and ate their food in the same studious manner
I imagined they would take to the zip of my jeans.
Could feel the sweat roll down my back
kicking gravel out my sandals every ten strides.
The playboys rev their motorbikes
as if it were a talent they had been working on,
a kind of siren song to tempt the free women.
Each one is on the lookout for a bargain.
Each one streaks past to some indiscernible point
where they will bury themselves amongst
the massage parlours, karaoke bars, and short-stay hotels;
Each one a straight-up brothel once you make it through the doors.
I feel too awkward in this ******* town to order a sandwich
let alone try out my second language to ask for a cheap *******
Every foreigner here had some kind of breakdown.
Some kind of complex that drew them like a moth to flame
to some place where white skin is enough to feign riches,
stimulate desire and place you amongst better men.
We steal a living for a year or two of forever blue skies.
We eat good food and toast ourselves every evening
with cold lager and palm leaf cigarettes.
We cannot read a word in these humid streets
where every single building holds a portrait of the King.
Spent the evening with my shadow, both alive in the night
beneath the heady aroma of cooking oil and street-food spice,
both hurting to become, both slipping out of sight.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC
Godless men wearing back
sit within blistering sun.
As they carrying their sacred book
soaked in an evil not from any GOD.
And they some how get
**** **** ****
**** for God.
As they ironically tell the
world that it is
blaspheming.
Come and join us
or be buried alive.
Yes come and join us
Let us brutalize and castrate
your daughter your child.
And give your son a gun while
we go cut of some heads.
As we rip out your heart
with blood and violence.
And ask you to spit on all
love and humanity.
As you stand within your shaking bodies
you look into the eyes of your
wife and only see terror in
her heart.
You know that you must
RUN
Thousands of you are swept
like the dirt into the sea.
Mothers and Fathers crying as
children are lost and drowning.
Someones baby washed up like
drift wood or a log.
Cut all with razor wire
climbing caged out fences.
As a heart cry's I only want a
new family home I will polish
your shoes wash all your loos.
Please they scream we are only
human
Sorry I don't think anyone
is listening.
Westerners wake up lounging
on their sofa belly's spilling
over their trouser.
Stomachs extended inflated
from just a little to much
extra seconds.
Looking on disconnected
at those who traveled risked
their lives even walked
a thousand miles.
And some how spill out with
their lager down their cheek
thieves ****** and
lazy freeloaders.
And those who succeed to
find a new home some how
elegantly find a dignity
in being unwanted.
And those who failed their
perilous path trust in God
has left them homeless
As they find the west
also Godless.
As we with a cool glare tell
them go back to your guns
bombs your not welcome
here.
Stone face matter of fact
immigration explained
take your children back.
As we try to through them
back like babies into a dog
or snake pit.
SHAME ON US
for this frosty reception
and cloudy perception
I hold out hope for a
better conclusion.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 4:53 AM UTC
The sun is awfully mean these days
and the time for talk is past--
Fades aging, yellowed memories
reminds nothing ever lasts
I told you once, You did not heed.
Perhaps I spoke too loud.
But I'll speak from the best side of me
If you'll cool your temper down
Who knows where we'll be in 5 years?
I can't have it be here
Can't pierce the brine and murkiness
But today, it's warm and clear.
So let's wreck our heads
with Red Hook Lager,
Pedal down the road...
'Cause it's all that lies in front of us
that we can ever know
The clouds are overhead, my friend
but, bleak as this day seems,
We will not came undone because
we are made with stronger seams
If you tell me once, I'll try and heed
The very best I can
To what tops your list of memories
As we go hand-in-hand
You won't dwell upon next year
If I don't hole up in pride
That starts to seem so easy when
We think back on that time...
When we wrecked our bikes
on Gould and Brundage,
Laughing, walked back home...
And gingerly cleaned bleeding knees
then watched movies alone
And everything's okay
I prefer that, anyway
Everything's okay.
And we're better off that way
It's better than okay
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 11:41 AM UTC
Sometimes it’s hors d'âge
cognac
in neat round crystal,
pinned back and
twisted perfectly
to complement
this uniform.
But he prefers it as
amber lager,
spilling over in rich
loose curls,
filling him up
and making him
tipsy.
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 8:38 PM UTC
Some converted industrial uptown space
$20 brunch at a table for one
Nice and filling it seems, no room in my gut
Nor wondering why I walk gasping for breath
Pouring water, wishing it were alcohol
Too dumb when the check comes to add a figure
Some deep lasting sustenance from that, I figure
Stumbling home down block past shop and vacant space
Nothing sanitizes quite like alcohol
Great to see strangers holding hands one in one
Except I'd claw them and beat out their breath
Wrenched and stuffed I'd kick them in their stupid gut
That's not very nice, I know it in my gut
But somehow don't care much more to figure
Which story to tell or the smell of my breath
When tables for two require just as much space
And a spot at the counter suffices for one
Despite the sadness and lack of alcohol
I think lager, Malbec, other alcohol
And there is some deep craving still in my gut
For drunkenness or eternal truth, which one?
What luck, I'm rescued by a dashing figure
Some vibrations in my pocket fill the space
Imagination comes up to catch its breath
But that's about it, no handsome man with fresh breath
Just me standing in line to buy alcohol
Squeezing past the register makes for tight space
But maybe it's all the sausage in my gut
There's no lasting sense in minding my figure
So long now resigned to the comforts of one
The alternative is an uncertain one
And to explain I feel I'm wasting my breath
But there's no harm in ogling a nice figure
And there's no harm in a little alcohol
Oh, poor decisions, I feel them in my gut
Forgetting prescient matters of Time & Space
Perhaps there is one, sipping on alcohol
Inhaling deep breath, with a fire in his gut
Awaiting a figure to write lines in space.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 6:23 AM UTC
Beneath my bed I placed some bread
and on it spread some jam
added some cheese and mushy peas
salami eggs and ham
a blob of sauce mustard of course
and relish three days old
some chips and dips and cherry lips
and baked beans full of mold
there's water cress and what a mess
of earwax and a scab
my used band aid from second grade
and frogspawn from the lab
I topped it off with lager froth
and nose hairs from the sink
and if you thought the food was bad
don't ask what's in his drink.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 8:06 AM UTC
Beneath my bed I placed some bread
and on it spread some jam
added some cheese and mushy peas
salami eggs and ham
a blob of sauce mustard of course
and relish three days old
some chips and dips and cherry lips
and baked beans full of mold
there's water cress and what a mess
of earwax and a scab
my used band aid from second grade
and frogspawn from the lab
I topped it off with lager froth
and nose hairs from the sink
and if you thought the food was bad
don't ask what's in his drink.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
Slim Dusty sings I love being in the afterlife
I love being in the afterlife
I think it's rather grand
I see people who dead before I was born
Including my great great great gran
You see I went up to her and asked the question
Do you wanna beer, or don'tcha
And she just said to me
I have never heard of beer, oh I know I never have
But I will have one just to try one
And I was happy to give her a taste
I love being in the afterlife
I think it's rather grand
I see people who died before I was born
Like Edward Teach, who was Blackbeard
And I asked him if he'll like a beer or do you want me
To walk the plank, and guess what he said to me
You see, Slim, I would love to have a beer with you
I think we never had beer back then
But even if we did, I don't think it's as nice as this
Thank you Slim, if we had more people like you
When I was on earth, I wouldn't had to be so bad
I love being in the afterlife
I think it's rather grand
I see people who died before I was born
Like the great WG Grace
I asked him, mate you played our game
You deserve a beer
And WG Grace took one look at me
And after that he said, you see back then I loved playing cricket
And I had my fair share of beer
But since you joined the afterlife Slim
A Saturn lager is the best for me
And to my gran and Blackbeard and WG Grace
Thanks for welcoming me here in the afterlife
And I love floating from planet to planet
See ya later
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 12:13 AM UTC
sitting on a street corner
stupid drunk off black lager
****** mood, no food
washed up, out of luck
always high, never dry
one more hit to feel alive
drinking away every cent
struggling to pay the rent
start to steal from next of kin
anything to blaze again
living in a constant peril
eyes becoming fierce and feral
focused on the next high
there’s no reason to survive
stuck in stages of denial
passerby’s all call you vile
waking up covered in bile
you can’t make that extra mile
settle for less, aspire for more
life is full of open doors
with a little hint of effort
everything could be much better
trying hard to just ignore
when ****** buddies offer more
get up, turn, and walk away
this isn’t how your life will stay
things could be charming and happy and swell
you can escape reality’s hell
it doesn’t take a genius to show or tell
cynical hatred never does well
so turn down the needles and pass on the pills
you’ll feel so much better, I promise you will
don’t let your negative side consume you
allow the positive light to shine through
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 5:44 PM UTC