"lagers" poems
Growing flames will turn your name into a cloud of ashes.
A flowing mane remains untamed through whirling dervish clashes.
Beating hearts as hope departs through valleys long and winding,
Burning sun, you turn and run, the path ahead is blinding.
You always knew I wouldn't do, so why'd you even bother?
Pass my time by penning rhymes and double ******* lagers.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
I come face-to-face with my Shadow
hungry
devouring
depraved.
The lupine
before a full hunter moon
bristles.
Hot saliva
falls
from hurtful pointed rows
in pearls.
This
in Goodge Street Station's
Underground
where a poster
promotes
The Hunger
a page-turner
The Clown in Soho:
3 Chocolate Martinis
4 lagers
1 gram of *******
300 press-ups
7 mile run and
1 sachet of Kamagra
… the night begins …
I howl with delight
- that’s me -
cracks open
a smile
yellow eddies swirl
in thrawl
to that shadow beast o’ mine.
This monstrous
I
can never satiated be --
a beast to straight jacket under the influence of the waning and waxing moon
and on the night of the carmine moon
release
My phone rings
(Excuse me, while I take this).
‘Hello, am I speaking to Ashley?’
‘Depends on who’s asking,’
I respond
licking my lips.
‘You Ashley Chapman?’
I like this kind o’ game.
‘Like I said,
who’s asking?’
Frustrated he repeats, ‘Confirm your name.’
I yawn and tell him as savagely as I can:
'No!'
Wolves
know 'no'
to the pack.
But as in Beauty and the Beast
(the Cocteau 1946 version, of course)
beneath that thick molting hair pelt
beasts have culture
and feelings, too
(a lion's heart?)
and mostly
(occasionally not)
given
space
food
The Den
a willing mate (or two)
we’re okay
affectionate dogs.
For when all is well with my shadow
-- no problem
in peace
in chains
'til the looped moon!
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 1:38 PM UTC
His martinis were dry
His reds were bitter
His lagers were dark
His coffee preferred black
He was stubborn and mean
His insults cut to the bone
He kept his house and record clean
His heart often rivaling stone
He loved few, respected less
He saw things scientifically, with math
Every problem logical, situations chess,
Yet he was lost, knowing no path
You could not touch him beyond skin
Only one or two had seen beyond his eyes
He valued those who held within their sin
And who did not let out cries.
But he did let a few in to his mind
These people saw its fatherly side
To them he would silently act kind
But they didn’t know it was all for pride.
Jan 8, 2011
Jan 8, 2011 at 5:28 AM UTC
My woman told me that drinking beer increases creativity. Now, I don't know whether that's true or not; but in this case, I'll put my faith in modernity. I'm drinking a can of Holsten Pils (there are other lagers available), and it's safe to say that I've aged a few years, since my uncle was laid out on the table. He drank beer. I remember that clearly. He was the only real person in my family, and for that I held him dearly. We built a bunk-bed for my brothers one summer, and he whistled throughout the day. For that day he was almost a father; for that moment, absence went away.
His death was inevitable, and we knew of its coming for years. It is because of this that I have accepted fate, and an eternity of tears. His muddied grave is a disgrace to his flesh, to the life that he lived, and to the friends he addressed. Now but a rotting Christian symbol, to remember an atheist; now but an unvisited grave, for those he loved dearest. So, I shall drink to my uncle, my makeshift father. For each Christmas he spent, drunk on cheap lager.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
January was dark. All **** day. A cold tequila car. A book with writing down the spine. Thick salt tears, a heaving chest and a shaking rib cage.
February was nothing like the movies. Sliding to the cheap seat theater on ice roads with friends you don't care to know. Numbness and red cartoon hearts.
March was my birthday. ***** and three sad ghosts in the basement. A banquet hall concert and a pack of gum. A boy turned stranger and a tragic lo-fi guitar.
April was bad. A hotel room filled with cousins and no blood to show for my innocence. Two-headed boys in painted sweaters. Tiny bottles of rage in the back of her parents' car.
May was my best friends, but not him. A return to the ribbon tree with plastic bottle poison. A handful of dirt to escape the way *** makes you think of me. Two girls with not much else to lose.
June was the night in overalls. Screams and tears and mouth fulls of craft beer and whisky. More ghosts - so many ghosts. First time ***** and my personal demise.
July was the night we went swimming on her birthday. Beer on the back porch. Forgetting why we ever hated one another. We slept together on my living room floor.
August was candle wax. A picnic on her mother's surgical scars. Tragedy and almost nothing else.
September was the great departure. Another year apart. The music festival in that field. Boxed wine and Pope Francis in the living room. the trifecta raged and kissed and called it a night.
October was leaves in pavement rivers. Sneaking into that concert just to watch them fall out of love. A pack of Marlboro Reds and unrequited fireworks. Animal masks and German beer. Four girls on ghostly slopes and celtic knot rings.
November was fevers and mirrors. The night we traveled back in time. PBR on your sister's porch and a long drive to the high school. A girl faced with the ghost residing in her hometown. Bob Dylan and a second bucket of gin.
December was mostly a blur. Christmas parties and holiday breaks. Basement promises and winter lagers. Old home movies and my best friends. Secrets in the college town and history's tragic repetition.
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
I want to float home,
high heels in hand,
arm in arm with you,
you
and your hippy music I love,
you
and your quiet ways,
my lips on your cheek
(and my number there, above your heart,
scrawled in sharpie)
and us surrounded by bodies,
the pull of the music
deafening in that crowded basement
obscure lagers and a young ego,
temporary tattoos courtesy
of another drunken night
earlier--
in the parking lot,
voices called my name from the dark,
the sound rising over our heads and shoulders,
the feel of it in the hollow of my chest
belonging
I see and hear and feel
so much
Where does it all go?
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 1:37 AM UTC
let's talk about lonely nights
and even lonelier mornings
what is there to love in the
sunrise when you can't see
that beauty reflected in
someone else's eyes?
there's only poetry in windy rooms
and without someone to share a quiet
cup of coffee with.
------------------
I want to float home,
high heels in hand,
arm in arm with you
you
and your hippy music I love
you
and your quiet ways, my lips on
your cheek
you
and your bare chest
(and my number there, above your heart,
scrawled in sharpie)
and us surrounded by bodies
and the pull of the music
deafening in the crowded basement
obscure lagers and a young ego
temporary tattoos courtesy
of the stoop crew
earlier, in the parking lot,
voices calling my name from the dark,
the sound rising over our heads and shoulders,
the feel of it in the hollow of my chest
belonging
I want to grasp the sleepy pines,
I want to hold the ease of your language
I see and hear and feel
so much
Where does it all go?
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 7:44 PM UTC
Whatever is that urge, that unthoughtful splurge, to annihilate every last thought of that day
to drink to kingdom come, conversations with anyone, and spend all that you have been paid
what ungodly flicker of thought, has you drinking that last drop that you bought
until the sun rises, awake on a bench, lessons that really cannot be taught
Rewind that human clock, until a time when all was once well
hindsight on a wrong word said, tripped in conversation, drink brings up its show and tell
that marriage that you could have had, now stalked each day on Facebook
sent them a drunk friend request, regrets in the morning, crazy thoughts that overtook
I love you man, a Tesco ban, for stealing ***** after the midnight hour of twelve
we laughed and sang, kebabs and dips, only here once so what the hell
the morning after, 12 cans and draught ale, anything that doesn’t touch the sides
your head is thumping, hair of the dog is calling, Round 2 of this stupid drunken ride
But at what point do we put the brakes on, man’s liver this wasn’t built for, the older the less wiser
you’ve tried the lagers, you’ve tried the ciders, lets knock it on the head, time for the Tizer
for the greyer the hair the less you can bare, as our bodies are not getting any younger
now I love to be merry, but it’s a weight I can’t carry, as drink is a thing I can’t do any longer
Drunk
JJB
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 4:01 PM UTC