"liqueur" poems
From blossoms
released
by the moonlight,
from an
aroma of exasperated
love,
steeped in fragrance,
yellowness
drifted from the lemon tree,
and from its planetarium
lemons descended to the earth.
Tender yield!
The coasts,
the markets glowed
with light, with
unrefined gold;
we opened
two halves
of a miracle,
congealed acid
trickled
from the hemispheres
of a star,
the most intense liqueur
of nature,
unique, vivid,
concentrated,
born of the cool, fresh
lemon,
of its fragrant house,
its acid, secret symmetry.
Knives
sliced a small
cathedral
in the lemon,
the concealed apse, opened,
revealed acid stained glass,
drops
oozed topaz,
altars,
cool architecture.
So, when you hold
the hemisphere
of a cut lemon
above your plate,
you spill
a universe of gold,
a
yellow goblet
of miracles,
a fragrant ******
of the earth's breast,
a ray of light that was made fruit,
the minute fire of a planet.
6.8k
Named for you alone
I call it 'Sugar Apples'
Green apple schnapps
and thimbles of a pink
pomegranate liqueur
add some **** tamarind
then sweet chilli sugar
before splashes of gin
to your taste and cry
Shaking in romance
and a lovely organic
cloudy apple juice
A pianist sings love
"*Moonlight slumbers
in your heart*..."
A rosy red jug full
to sweeten our kisses
sipped from each
carved sugar apple
through long straws
Where do I shake it
to cradle your heart
David x
Jul 18, 2010
Jul 18, 2010 at 11:51 AM UTC
It’s the early morning that does it for me
I don’t mean to seek it
But I am sought in these quiet empty-full hours -
All or nothing out-with-the-bath-water seclusion.
(Delusions of liqueur
cocksure
Every flavor of azure)
Oh god what I would give to extend the great expanse of 4am, ribbon slick and taut as a ******
And me, warm and creative.
It’s the early morning that does it for me
I’m staying up with a song.
-Call-
Respond
Eyes and lips and abandoned ships
Mirages of **** below long, fluted throats
Gliding between notes
and me too
Ready to drown you.
(It’s the early morning that does it for me)
As you give yourself over to the caresses of the mistress
and dream of flying over perfect fields of wheat
and then land
and then wake
≈furrowed≈
disappointed to find
a cold pillow where a head should be asleep
I release my held breath and meet you
Half way
I was singing
I say
And collapse in a heap
Wet hair
Bare feet
It’s dawning and day
Closing my eyes
Sunset at sunrise
Holding onto a secret key
I dream of the sea
Nov 6, 2021
Nov 6, 2021 at 4:43 AM UTC
Handed a drink
Smells of grape
Clear strong liquids
Black plastic cup
***** robed priest
Fair Snow White
Queen of hearts
***** canteen Indian
Hollister tall guy
Jeremy Matt Jake
Beer pong games
Intense with time
3 hours later
Winners and losers
Rookies against all-stars
My big mouth
"Flip cup anyone?!"
Four on four
Too intense now
Every round played
Too much beer
Way too fast
Louder and louder
Crazier and crazier
Drink after drink
Chug faster chug
Lost count already
16? Or 23?
Not slowing yet
Out of mind
Last game now
One on one
No more beer
Liqueur in cups
Don't even kno
Tap down up
Chug chug chug
Flip cup once
Winner me winner
One more game
Asks a stranger
What's one more?
Okay I say
Lost this match
But that's okay
Leave the room
Pop a squat
Not a couch?
But it works
Spinning room spins
Blurry figures there
Not too sure
What's going on
Black out hard
Can't hear anything
Can't see anything
Every once-in-a-while
"Are you okay?"
I can't feel
I can't answer
Black out again
Lost in deep
Seas of waves
Awake for seconds
How did I
Get on the
Steps to upstairs?
People drag me
Up and up
Black out again
Black black black
Dark dark dark
Oceans of drunkenness
10 o'clock a.m.
Holy ******* ****
What is this?
A soft pillow?
A warm blanket?
Someone was nice
I look behind
Me and there's
3 strangers sleeping
Next to me
What's that smell?
Puke on my
Jeans and clothes
Pillow in puke
How do I
Not remember puking?
I do not
Remember a thing
After flip cup
Lay for a
Few more minutes
Gain enough balance
To sit up
I see Mary
In the hallway
"Liiisaaaa!!!
How are you?"
What the ****
I feel okay
Not bad actually
Until I stand
Make my way
Down the steps
Bathroom is trashed
Sink ripped off
Of the wall!!
Beer, bottles, shots
Everywhere ******* disaster
I feel fine
But the smells
Make me puke
Think, never again
******* crazy night
Stories of me
Retold to me
You went hard
You're so little
You drank alot
You played every
Single game of
Flip cup dude!
I saw you
With your head
In a bucket
Puking so hard
I couldn't leave
You like that
So me and
A few people
Dragged you upstairs
Hahaha thanks guys
Blah cupcake blah
Pizza ******* blah
Apple pie moonshine
Stale white bread
Memories kinda lost
Everyone had fun!
The ******* end
Till next time
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC
we leave by passing through.
by outlasting
roots.
by grooming deep runes
like arabian
horses....
mountainous [ pontoons ]
spine crack
liqueur
of soft doom
and true Orchids...
the ******** aftermath of covenants
at half mast
a limp flag of jolly rogers
pettifogging
dull noggins.
we pass through, phantom roosters
ante-Bantam
in the Bedlam....
Conscience
Chauntecleer
as
Opaque.
our blood has new boots
and now our hearts
can Mussolini
{ you strangle The Headless Horseman; as i lust for your Ichabod }
no cranes.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 8:54 AM UTC
Salt+Pepper=Vinegar-Ketchup-Barbeque-Sour Cream+Onions
Mint+Lime=OneTequilaTwoTequilaThreeTequilaFloor
Bread+Mornings=Buttered Side+Lands Down
Potatoes+Oil=Burgers+Wings+Club Sandwiches
Milk+Chocolate=Nostalgia+Marshmallows
Freezer+Yoghurt-Regrets=Dissatisfaction
Coffee+Liqueur=Saturday Night=OJ+Champagne=Sunday Morning
Apr 5, 2012
Apr 5, 2012 at 12:30 AM UTC
Frozen moments,
embraced,
visions of
luminous things,
unpretentious
pearls dancing;
embers of memory linger,
elegy of the lachrymose,
this horizoning self
lying low in saturnine
tranquility
and repose – paternity lost
to the provisional.
The cross of lassitude,
forming
scars of loss;
estrangement,
preface to
ineluctable autonomy.
Earthen treasure - immortal
footprints, the migration
of fair maidens across my
effusive heart.
Venus trio in bloom,
aesthetic allusion,
ephemeral incarnations
of beauty - perishable fruit,
transcending the plebeian.
Aerial substance-
the hermeneutic,
betraying desire’s
ambrosial tyranny;
The permuted passage -
savor the sojourn, submit
to the fated peregrination.
Purple orchids blossom,
immortal creatures,
culminating
in perfection
from the sheath
respectively,
each plume,
singular,
the continuum of
splendor, mediate
the inviolable.
Eternity compounding,
time and essence suffuse
the already and not yet
into an
orbiting mosaic.
The susurrant devotions
of a satellite father,
summon the quest -
both, and,
absence and proximity,
conduits of
distress and peace
ironically,
solace and
terror
traverse the
same path.
Plunge though,
deep, the depth of pain;
deeper, sweeter
the taste of pleasure.
Engender and witness,
window into
preeminence,
surface azure,
the sacred -
inimitable gravity of
grandeur,
ma petite,
you - are
lived poetry
seen and heard;
cosmic order,
a mediating heuristic -
to love is to see,
in the dismal,
gift of distance.
child of delight,
evermore, Don’t I hold you?
Beauty and strangeness,
music found
in linear,
secret places
beyond the tangent,
purview of limitation,
arousing imagination -
infinititude as near
as it is far.
Long loneliness -
dissonance that
resolves;
perceiving,
the tertiary refrain -
as exquisite verse,
and matchless liqueur,
sublime gratuity
derived
through
doors of surrender.
Daughter,
in adoration and wonder,
I hold you.
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
fed the birds.
fed the birds a
book about
my dead
weight.
fed the
birds a heavy.
fed them from
my thin
hands. The words
that live.
The birds ate.
The birds ate words that
lived and always
lived
in
separate
houses. if...
and i mean if
and only if
they
could afford
it.
if these
clever pagans
ever had
a dime.
they found
it boring rich
folk to
death.
i fed the birds
my indigenous
nomads. they dined
in high style...
dined black and
fancy
on
shabby
addicts, as they
hopped
trains . i fed the birds
my
swarthy tribe.
and they supped.
i fed the birds
a monologue
with trains of
thought
the words i fed
them... the vagabonds...
hopped
trains.
of thought.
I fed
the birds.
i fed the birds just
outside.
i sat
and fed them
black light and Harmalade
fed them blackly
fed them with
piano keys; the black
ones, the ones
that radiate
i fed
i watched them. watched
them fancy peck. and peck
and fancy
pluck.
i watched. they dined
on serene defeat
by technicality.
it was surreal
to watch a blackbird
pluck from black
keys - peck
a morsel of glum
from
the black rays, yes.
the black rays with
opposable thumbs
and a
lifeline. the only one i
know forbidding gypsies
with three eyes.
an open
palm.
a paranoid
black radish
white dwarf star
with piano keys
for black rays
of
nimbus, yes
mine is the hand that bites the hand
that writes the book
it wants
to ban, that ain't
a fan
not at all. just an appendage. a pen dirge ? What ?
i fed the flock lots
I fed
the black ones -
with dolls'
eyes...
tucked
under
wing.
i fed them, yes.
a book
about the size
of any welcome
malcontent.
i fed
them sorrows
and ellipses with
adjacent lawns.
wutherings in
stately manors, squatting
on either side
of memory
lane, like
a bourbon and
coke had
practically crawled
across shards
of hard
things to break,
with a drink
in your
hand
and crawled, well blended
down the hatch
of enormous, well appointed
gothic frogs, that -
were mostly refurbished toads
with odd columns.
i fed
the birds,
broke out the
Good
Chi
na
hang the tantrums !
yes
One should expect
a rich metaphor to want to
watch you
eat it's every
word
or
by extension;
lick the toad with 15 rooms,
three stories, unfit for children
and a full staff
of Adjectives,
highly trained
to
short-sheet the Bedlam, and fluff the pillories.
one should sip the liqueur
off the floor, inside the huge
and tipsy
gorgon
and be thankful
for the dank
and
the solid gold flyswatters.
they're complementary. take one
as you leave out
thinking
" toads, eat flies.... so it follows...."
apropos of nothing, on the
' Good China ',
now in the belly of birds, well fed
an unwell.
a book about
my dead-weight's
dream
to eat fewer
flies and
more
steak.
to grow wings.
yes.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:23 AM UTC
Sugar and spice
And everything nice
A delicate blush, a secret crush
Rings, white wings and other fine things
Ribbons and laces, tender embraces
Elegant grace and a sweet pretty face
Cheeks of pink, colorful drinks
Holding hands and fluttering fans
Smiles sweet, small and petite
Soft, luscious hair and a whispered prayer
Ballroom dancing, timid glancing
Liqueur and ****
Jealousy, greed
In dark rooms, kneeling and wasted
Under the sheets, squealing, getting tasted
Smeared lipstick, hair mussed, no longer slick
Bleary red lips, curvy hips
Tattoos and lingerie see-through
Heavy petting, getting drunk and forgetting
Ripped tights, endless nights
Coke and hazy smoke
Expensive drugs and sweaty hugs
Twisted lies, glazed eyes,
Strong musky perfumes, dark rooms
Sketchy guys, spread thighs
Broken trust, humid lust
Mindless fornication, empty stimulation,
With bated respiration, nothing but degradation
Vodka-cherry shots and hazy thoughts
Dancing, grinding, lights all blinding
Backstabbing, hands jabbing
Dark magic, endings tragic
Secrets revealed, wounds opened or healed
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
A call on the white telephone awakens the room, disturbing the crystal liqueur bottles I will never drink from. She sweeps in from the balcony where she was wistfully overseeing-
All the dogs have fled. On some nights though, I see them in some corner or some alley mouth, a pair of howitzer eyes lying in the bunker of a ruined doorway. Nobody told them it was over.
And in the studios you never see the outdoors, never see that grainy drunken view of the streets, just the pristine suites, a hint of sun and the telephone, the white telephone.
Level the rest I say. Sink and crumble any who were passed over. Cut the power lines, burn the last scraps of food and cut a perfect hole in every cinema screen. Ruins are what we do best.
It didn't happen.
It did.
But it didn't happen.
But it did.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 6:40 AM UTC
What is originality anymore?
The pop songs we listen to day in day out,
That are only updated remixes of
Songs that our parents
Already know every lyric to.
Is it the pranks we play on each other at school,
Poking holes in the top of water bottles,
So we don’t get caught when we try to catch our class mates.
Drowning them
In carbonated energy drinks.
Don’t think you’ll get away with it.
The teachers already know,
About flicking elastic bands at the backs of girls knees,
So they scream a little louder
And turn around to see
Boys smirking faces,
Because they have been there before.
Define originality.
Originality
. /əˌrɪdʒɪˈnalɪti/
noun
1. the ability to think independently and creatively.
•the quality of being novel or unusual
synonyms: inventiveness, creativeness, creativity, innovativeness, innovation, novelty, freshness, newness, imagination, break with tradition, resourcefulness, cleverness, daring, individuality, unusualness, unprecedentedness, uniqueness, distinctiveness
.
Is it smuggling ***** in water bottles,
Or sneaking down to the back garden
To have one last cigarette with your friends,
At 1am
On New Years
When you have had more to drink than your parents
Yet you are only 15.
Watering down whiskey from your parents liqueur cabinet
With apple juice.
Getting caught drunk
After being out with friends, Stumbling in at 2am
On Sunday morning.
Storming up to your room
After having a row with your parents.
Slamming the door,
Screaming at the floor,
Calling a friend,
And ******** about the people who brought you into this world.
Maybe
I’m not as good with words
Than I thought I was
O r i g i n a l i t y I s D e a d
Your parents Grandparents
Aunties and uncles
Have seen it all before
It’s a fact of growing up
And one day
You will too know
Exactly how it is
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
Acrostic poems shouldn't be reserved for the
Mildly ******** fifth graders who still can't identify
Arkansas on a blank map of the United States.
Real "poets" use formulas, too. Are you trying to tell me
Elizabethan sonnets hold more "poetic" merit
Than this skillfully crafted,
Thought-provoking
Ode to my favorite liqueur?
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 2:22 AM UTC
A handcream made with shea butter,
A record collection all-a-stutter,
Fancy watches, ermine fur,
“Cold blooded luxury”
Strawberry liqueur.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
It's hard to live without *******
Tied to powder by a chain.
"Help," I say, but no one knows:
I'm bleeding lifeblood from my nose.
It's hard to live without some *****
Liqueur up and start to cruise.
"I want to die." I flip a penny,
Rev the car and hit one-twenty.
It's hard to live without some shrooms,
I liked my life as a cartoon.
"I'm broken inside," I tell my friends,
They laugh along, the world bends.
It's hard to live without some ****
It helps to balance out the speed,
"I'm in danger," no one cares,
Buried under thoughts and prayers.
It's hard to live with conscious mind,
I need poison, make me blind.
Roll me, smoke me, snort me up,
Pipe, spoon, **** or cup.
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 6:20 PM UTC
i sent flashing lights to his door,
i didn't want to risk it.
the image of those pills and that deep brown coffee liqueur scared me, the thought of him filling himself with it.
he told me he wasn't mad at me for it,
he told me everything was okay and not to do it again, though.
i guess he felt too bad,
i guess it hurt him like last time.
she sent the flashing lights to the forest,
she told me that things weren't looking up.
my cheeks are tacky with tears,
my nose is stuffy.
now i'm just waiting all night,
now i'm just waiting until i get a message that they found him in the forest.
i can't sleep knowing that i'm part of why,
i can't sleep wondering if he'll be okay.
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 3:45 AM UTC
rows and rows of decadence
chocolate covered dreams
gold and purple velvet
exotic coffee steams
haute coutre on sterling racks
staffed by aphrodite
cherry blossoms in the air
art to serve the mighty
gilded goblets fat with rubies
thick potions to control
ivory pipes on opal stands
pink smoke from their bowls
mahogany and marble
amber glass aglow
tinkling diamond chandeliers
funiture art nouveau
elixirs and magic rings
magenta fire in a jar
thick and heavy gold
tiffany eggs for the czar
pastel parisian cakes
hand stitched italian shoes
hornback crocodile leather
master barbers fine shampoos
bespoke tailor in a corner
adonis with fine liqueur
any delicacy or art
for any type connoisseur
richly wrapped and waiting
your opulent desires
soak them drink them in
bask in their fires
all priceless things
based on human lies
worth less than dust
compared to love in
someone’s eyes
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
There is no fantastical world in which civility between us can exist. Civility, of course, being perceived in the sense that we can coexist pleasantly, without a romance topped with jaded raspberries and peppermint liqueur.
After a generous amount of sneezing and crawling and crying in the moonlight with half embered cigarettes hanging from our dripping mouths, I saw this. A grievous vision of Hank Stamper clawing at my back end, a still-life embedded someplace dark and dank, a cradle so forgotten and filthy that only a mother woven from dirt-covered cloth could love it. We built some ridiculous, disgusting house and made love in it. Day in, day out.
In the end our urinary tract infections infected our kidneys and became fatal when paired with the dysentery. I will always remember your name paired with dysentery, my love.
I promised myself endlessly that I was laying in such a softer settlement without you. Your reckless lifestyle was grimier than mine and our paths collided and collapsed with validity, I was sure of that. I am sure of that. However, it seems my insistence that I recover from you, brings with it some kind of ****** up honor to be dealt your way. Should I write a song about you? No, I'd soon hear it in your trapeze act. Should I make a film about you? No, the lead would be sinfully attractive and further engorge your rather large head. Should I write a book about you? Should I? Have I? Can I? I doubt you would see the honor here. In fact, if you were to look for anything other than consistent misuses of punctuation in my writing, I feel sure you would find solace and comfort and silence would soon follow.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 7:23 PM UTC
it was not so clear, the day. it was hostile and tranquil.
what sort of Day is That ?
I think it sparkles.
But it's gem is mean, beneath carbuncles -
and none shall pass
without wretched disfunction.
without Unpeace swilling the liqueur
of dark sweets.
it was not so clear, the day. but it clarified the manacles.
what sort of Day is that Dark ???
I think it hardens the heart of all kindness....
but it's dream is obscene, and needs the rest of Heaven's Council.
But Love's an ***
that saw the Angel... not the bulletproof glass.
just the the angle of Descent
and the " No Wisdom ".
it hurts Because.
You Live
for no reason at all
and that's the worst
Joy.
Because.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
Tonight, I am afraid.
I am afraid because I had a piece of toast 13 hours ago, and there's nothing left in the fridge except some horrible strawberry liqueur, which I am drinking despite the fact that it feels like acid in my empty stomach. Me, I'm 5 feet 11 inches, 112 pounds, blue-eyed with longish blonde hair. I'm hungry, but it appears that New York doesn't feed outsiders. So I'm listening to Leonard Cohen on Leonard Street because that's the only thing I can think of that makes sense right now. Smoking in bed, my small luxury. I had a neighbor who leaves me toast and coffee in the morning, except I haven't seen him in a while and I'm too proud to knock on the door and ask for food. It's strange, leaving a perfectly ordinary life for this desperation, this skinny **** that I thought was important but now just makes it hard to climb the stairs. I'll make it, though, right? It's almost September and that's when I'm supposed to make money. Money. I just wanted to go to Italy again, feel the life I should never have left again. So okay I’ll be their clothes hanger, their one-man show, walk a pretty walk for them, and then go somewhere else. Except right now I'm considering the hospital, that sweet IV that will keep me nourished. I can't afford a taxi though, and I don't know what is I’d tell them- “Hi I'm 20 years old, broke, starving, alone, and afraid to sleep because I don't know if I'll see another day”- I think they would send me to the psych ward instead. I don't know, I am supposed to be a hybrid of girlish innocence and feminine mystique, but all I really want is someone to put me to bed and watch me sleep so I know I'll be safe. It's 3:26 am. I have no one to call. It's just Leonard Cohen and I on Leonard Street, singing through dry lips and fading into the white of the sheets. If I called for help, I doubt they'd find me in the bed. I'm here, though, I'm here.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC
Sickly, sticky-sweet syrup
oozes into our minds,
unbeknownst to us, so vulnerable.
We are painted the perfect picture,
sneak peaks of Utopia;
and are kept locked away by a camera lens.
Agonised and deliberated over,
by those who seek a fairy tale to repair a torn away heart.
Take a Lollipop with a wink,
Break up those four letters
and attack them with a recipe preached by idols,
two spoonfuls of lust,
a pinch of promiscuity,
and, (if you're really ravenous,)
finish with a sprinkle with insatiability.
Greedily we gluttonous Gannets
eat and eat and eat,
until the idea of right and wrong flies off the end of the scales.
Discover me using your own map;
And pick me,
and make me your favourite chocolate,
Throw away the box.
I'll be your smooth praline,
your sweet Turkish delight,
your bitter liqueur
all in one bite.
Love me: Dust me in a gentle coating of sugar.
Don't drown me in treacle.
Enjoy me: Dip me in dark chocolate.
No need to top me with whipped cream.
Nov 7, 2010
Nov 7, 2010 at 6:23 AM UTC
Dim-cast stars
Begin their vigil
Thunder strums
The lyres of myth
Puddles of dreams
Rinse dying skies
Iridescent crags
Breathe petrichor
Lightning arcs
Invading my dreams
Dusty feet stumble
Unto sinless floors
Love-burnt hands
In reckless abandon
Bloodied with ink
And papercuts
Words sewn to fit;
To tailor the soul
Coalesced by cords
Of liqueur and brew
Only to be abandoned
And forgotten.
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC
Like an unbuttoned blouse, she hangs in sky,
Her shifting phases tease with lust’s delay.
Her light, a lover’s touch, brushes my thigh,
Her tides rise, fall, and leave me cold, astray.
Her light finds my door with unknown intent,
As night fades, dawn’s horizon drinks her deep.
Secrets, stolen, through her rapture sent,
A warm liqueur spills where earth lies asleep.
She pulls like tides that steal the shore’s embrace,
My secrets, stolen, fuel her sweet release.
Her hunger takes, yet leaves no hiding place,
As earth drinks deep her moonlit, stolen peace.
Oh, moon, a temptress, caught in your thread,
You weave the night, leave me naked in your bed.
Jan 4, 2025
Jan 4, 2025 at 3:30 PM UTC
i write from a dark crotch
of the unthinkable
and hot breath
to crucify and feed
with my ****
red ink **** pen
inside you
i'm a bathing delirium
chanting
a bloodletting poem
in sonorous
vampire hieroglyphics
that boils
and exquisite liqueur
oiled and drunk with her moans
she
a dropped fruit panting
Barbie tied up
waiting for a tower of *****
heals over head
a stretched flower
every hole an open mouth
just asking for it
a **** can be sad music
like a shower cap with a dead head
especially in the web of a dream
that leaves your whole body
a hissing ***********
*****
she she
poodled up
improbable modernist
on the verge
of awareness
with a dim eye
drooling for
scapula's torment
a ghastly sacrifice
beast up her gut
a dire mental construct
a curse of pain
for pleasure
reborn of shadows
yet a banana shimmer's
like a smoldering door ***
her name
seen
in the mists of Venus
like a Siren of sparkles
a sprawling tangle
and bright eyes blue
in a molten hold
broken and healed
churning blood red moons
convulsing a *** blizzard
bed of rain
Jul 14, 2020
Jul 14, 2020 at 9:58 AM UTC