"litre" poems
This is an ode to my friends.
For the ones I've loved since day one
the ones I have learnt to love
and for the ones I hate to love.
This is for my friend,
for the one, I got drunk with first.
We stole a litre bottle of cider and four beers then drank them in the park at midnight.
This is an ode to my friend who cries at parties,
who swears he will die alone.
This is for my friend who laughs at every joke,
the **** and comedian but shakes when no one is looking.
This is an ode to my friends,
for the one who's grandma is dying but they
still, manage to draw on a smile and present a joke.
This is for my friend who has depression,
Or the friend who has anxiety,
and asks me to speak for her at restaurants,
This is an ode to my friends,
who is finally taking control of her body
after being trapped in the wrong one.
For the friend who is scared to leave the house
when it's icy because he might slip and hurt his ***
For the friend, I fancied till I was sixteen,
and even though it's been years my lips still burn when
I look at her.
This is an ode to my friends who leave me out of conversations.
who have inside jokes they sprout when I'm around
This is for the ones that went to the movies to see the film they knew I was dying to see.
This is an ode to my friend,
who broke her leg whilst dancing in her favourite musical,
and the part was given to someone else.
This is for the friend whose mother died when she was 12
but she remains the strongest person ever.
This is an ode to those who
forget I'm their friend,
who ignore me when they're upset,
who tell me daily that they love me,
who cry at Disney movies,
who laugh at videos of past times,
who I hate that I adore,
who I cry over,
because I can't make them happy anymore.
This is an ode to my friends,
for the one who is so self-conscious, he wears baggy jumpers to hide his stomach.
This is an ode to my friend who has scary parents,
for the friends who made a pyramid out of stones and raised a nation,
for the friends who try their hardest and still achieve nothing,
for my friends the world has seemingly forgotten,
This is an Ode to my friends,
the ones I know I will die loving,
they give me cups of tea with two sugars when I'm having a bad episode,
for the ones that cry when they hear a certain song, because it reminds them of when I tried to off myself in the toilet,
for the one that has never had a kiss,
for the one who refuses to get married.
This is an ode to my friends,
the family I chose,
the ones that send me stupid messages at four am,
then question why I'm awake so late.
For the friend that gets blackout drunk,
for the one with weak knees,
who, when she laughs, falls to the ground in a fit of giggles,
for the friends, I will marry, loving.
Speak now or forever hold your peace,
An ode to my friends,
who I love more than anything,
as we collapse through the stars,
I'll hear them laughing at a joke.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 6:53 PM UTC
I once woke up screaming because I dreamt the price of gas was only 7 cents a litre. It was a scream of holy infinite ecstasy and I believe I also woke to discover I'd had an ****** in my sleep. My voice was deeper. Puberty is a beautiful thing. Economics was prettier in my head.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
you kidding me, right?
nachos? tacos? tortilla wraps?
guacamole molé molé?
sombrero(s)...
the revised eastern european
moustache?
tequila!
that's it?
well... not if you consider
the second tier of soy boys -
the ones that drink that...
budscheiss that's
"der könig aus bier"...
one word... no... actually two:
CER-VE(H)-ZA(H) -
probably the spanish word,
that sounds better than all
the other spanish words...
what did mexíxíxíxíco give
us?
the orthodox script
of a german beer:
yeast, hops, barley, malt,
water... fizz: boom!
a fine summer's day...
mexíxíxíxíco beer?
MALTED, BARLEY...
don't ask me how the genius
figured out a smoothness
so subtle,
that you actually had to shove
a lime wedge into the neck
of the bottle...
or, as i did - buying an almost litre
sized bottle,
and a lime -
looking at this ***** goliath
at the checkout thinking:
david?
am i david?
did we really enslave such people?
david, meet goliath...
goliath wanders off like some
happy ****** giggling and brings
another strawberry milkshake
to the checkout...
so the west, enslaved these
nearing 7ft Baobabs?
king david's audacity,
nothing more...
so i buy the CO(H)-RHO-NA(H),
and a lime (30 pence a piece)...
**** no knife...
guess teeth will have to do...
shove a whole lime in bits and bites
and walk on...
seriously?
guacamole molé molé?
that's the best you can do?
drinking a beer with lime...
compared to the h'american
budscheiss?
who... apart from the japanese...
extracts alcohol...
from: ******* rice!
malted, barley...
whoever that sergio
sanchez was...
hats off to him...
sometimes it's just nice...
to take a break from the heavy cavalry,
orthodoxy brew of german
beers...
americans?
know jackshit about brewing
a decent beer...
mexicans?
they put a lime in it!
**** you have to drink it!
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 6:44 PM UTC
Heading west from La Pesa to the streets of Calabazar for a trip to the markets,
a dance through bazaars.
The lighthouse in Cayo Guano lit the way to the end of the day as we snorkelled deep off the archipelago.
The night filled with Hemingway's stories being drip fed a litre of ***
as the moon slipped behind old Havana awaiting the birth of the sun.
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 5:41 AM UTC
A litre of cider later
And its like nothing matters
The good memories are fading
And the dreams are tattered
And shattered
But nonetheless gone,
Down the drain, the sink, my throat
you wring with your cold dead hands
and your heartless plans
to decieve and manipulate
but i still persist
the love, torment
hence
One litre of cider later,
im by myself still
watching, waiting for the phone to ring
i pop another pill
to fill
me with joy and happiness
but all i feel is haze
as everything swirls the days
sweep by
if only it was faster.
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 2:03 PM UTC
we went to Little Blue
that summer in a bum'd car.
riding in extravagance
we couldn't afford.
camping in the Oklahoma ozarks,
we brought liquor. the two of us
drank a half-litre honey whiskey
and twenty-eight of thirty Pabsts.
your chick only nab'd two.
we were sunk from that point on.
i vomit'd behind the car, and
there were left retched handprints.
left were a phantom's handprints,
having been drown'd by their hedonism.
the bikers partied along
with us apart from us.
they ask'd to use our hatchet,
that's the way we met.
men share tools, and that was
the only instance of civility
for two days. we ran feral.
rip'd shirt to ribbons,
wrap'd them 'round a stick,
soak'd citronella,
commenced adventure.
returning,
two hours time gone;
returning,
scratch'd and bleeding;
returning,
we lit their paths with
torch burning a primal fire;
sleep,
pass'd out by fire in lounge chair.
been in this spot before,
knew to bring a quilt
and mine was the only one.
startled awake,
fire nothing more than nightlight embers.
raccoon, sitting upright,
stared from his high perch of a picnic table.
apple in paws, nibbling,
he mock'd and monitor'd.
i swiped at it with a stick,
missed. said **** it.
slept in the car that night.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
Smudges of dirt into the hair,
His eyes had black rings
under and around
as he sat on the ground
fully fury bearded face,
like a raccoon.
But he was a man.
The bandage adhesive surrounded
what was a mark in the center
of his forehead, a red welt that
had encountered a hard harsh
reality, a beating and a loss.
The hospital was just around the corner.
But he was homeless.
He had his second place prizes, empty
bottles of liquid to sanitize hands
lifted by his, tortured short
fingers, surprisingly agile,
laughing at his own guile.
The hospital is just around the corner.
And his two litre bottle stash,
under his coat,
behind his back, in the long grass.
He was crouched behind
the chain link fence, smiled
and laughed to himself as
the dog and I walked by,
what could I offer him that
he didn't already have,
he wore A coat,
he had A toque,
he had currency in
the form of half a gallon
of hand sanitizer,
he was happy,
I heard him laugh,
saw a broken tooth,
and cut lip,
his world and my world,
were not far apart even though,
we could only taste the other's
reality.
He is a homeless man and I don't
know his name.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 1:29 AM UTC
Je voulais tout supprimer et puis me pendre
J’ai préféré écrire
J’ai marché dix kilomètres dans un Paris assommé de tristesse
J’ai vu des enfants aux crânes ruisselant de sueur, des vieux puant l’urine flétrie et des amoureux aux manches rétrécies par l’infinie similitude de leurs journées d’hiver
J'ai erré dans le froid glacial d'une banlieue endormie
Failli tomber trois fois
Souri à une gamine en manteau couleur rose bonbon
J'ai pas mangé, ingurgité un litre de vin sur le balcon des enfants morts
J'ai pas parlé, je me suis juste évanouie
J'ai voyagé dans vos souterrains les yeux rivés vers les étoiles
Le lapin suspendu au fil à linge de la cave se vidait de son sang dans la bassine rouge
Tu peux ****** sur moi, je ne dirai rien du tout
Tu peux me fracasser la tête contre ton sale radiateur poussiéreux, je ne dirai rien du tout
Tu peux me cracher dessus, je ne dirai rien du tout
Tu peux tout me dire, je promets je ne dirai rien du tout
Tu peux me frapper encore un peu, encore plus fort, tu peux te venger sur moi, sur la tête de ma sale conne de mère, je te jure, je ne dirai rien tout
Je ne dirai rien du tout
Embrasse-moi et puis après si tu veux, je te laisserai faire tout ce que tu veux
Tu fais quoi, là
Fais quelque chose, fais-moi quelque chose
T'es une jolie fille, intelligente en plus, tu fais juste un peu peur de temps en temps, quand t'écris, tu fais peur
Alors coupe-moi les mains
Je t'en supplie, coupe-moi les mains
Je promets je ne dirai rien, je ne dirai rien du tout
Tu peux ****** sur moi, je ne dirai rien du tout
Tu peux me fracasser la tête contre ton sale radiateur poussiéreux, je ne dirai rien du tout
Tu peux me cracher dessus, je promets je ne dirai rien du tout
Tu peux tout me dire, je promets je ne dirai rien du tout
Tu peux me frapper encore un peu, encore plus fort, tu peux te venger sur moi, sur la tête de ma sale conne de mère, je te jure, je ne dirai rien du tout
Fais- moi mal
Fais- moi très mal
Je ne veux juste pas y aller.
(Alors sauve-la)
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 6:49 AM UTC
The monsoon cloud swooped low
to **** her
and the night seemed to wear
the darkest cloak
Three miles down south
she had gone to the weekly haat
for half a litre of earth oil
thru mud as thick as her desire
for a small glow in her thatched hut
When she reached the stream
she paused on the brink
and then like an added note
to the music of rain
her swan little frame
glided to the other bank
The wind was shivering
but she was warm in the dream of
one small light in her home
to **** the demon of dark
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 8:41 AM UTC
two litre bottles of wine,
one bottle of port
two high juices
and christmas crackers.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 7:17 AM UTC
YUMMY YUMMY IN MY TATTOOED TUMMY
I like eating very much, call it a passion coz obsession sounds too mad.
Give me a sandwich tuna mayo one sliced tomato on bread times two.
Not enough!
Time for chicken donner on nan with everything on: hot sauce, salad cream with salad, peppers too, Jalapeno style. Add an order for onion barges, samosas and chips in pita bread with mild sauce on.
Yummy yummy in my tattooed tummy!
Half an hour later, an Italian beckons. His pizza looks cool! I say three types of meat, sliced, on top. Extra cheese, deep pan and two types of olives. Munchy time and yes, I enjoy this meal.
Later… What next? English fish and chips with salt and vinegar and a drop of gravy. No mushy peas, I hate them! I’ll take two fish cakes on the side. Traditional English grub down the hatch. Then meat and potato pie on a muffin. Careful not to burn my mouth! Did that before.
Yummy yummy in my tattooed tummy!
Time for some American influence, supersize me! Huge portion of fries, mega big burger and a litre of strawberry milkshake.
I’m multicultural in my diet. Foreign people are cool when it comes to their cuisine. I love Norwegian apple juice, as I need a drink after eating their goats’ cheese on rough white bread.
Yummy yummy in my tattooed tummy!
Chinese crispy duck is desirable, just like egg fried rice and prawn crackers. All available food is welcome, I’ll eat your left over’s on my trip of eating.
Yummy yummy in my tattooed tummy!
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 12:58 PM UTC
Our grandmother sat in the corner, an irish-plaid towel hung over her legs, in a wheel chair, drinking two litre bottles of apple juice and orange juice, the little droplets hanging off her chin, her head tilted back. She said as a little girl, she would always try to get as much vitamin c as possible if she felt herself getting sick. Now she just drowned herself in the stuff. We kept telling her orange juice is not a viable cure for cancer, so she started drinking apple juice too.
She got diagnosed with cancer a few days after our grandfather died. They say couples always pass within a few months of each other. My grandmother hated my grandfather, so her vigorous orange and apple juice guzzling was really an ambition of divorcing his name from her in death; she didn’t care whether she passed or kept on living another hundred years, so long as no one associated her death with his.
As I left I locked up, remembering to leave my key in the door for Rooty (whenever he got home). We could only afford one key, and couldn’t afford a doormat to leave it under.
I told grandma if she just went two days without buying lotto tickets, we could get another key. She says it’s just her luck that one of those days would be the day her ticket goes to someone else. I didn’t see it mattered, she was gonna die any day now anyway. She wants to win so bad I often think if she did win, she’d die right there on the spot, her life’s greatest ambition crossed off the last line of her to-do list, and being too dead to claim it would be forced to forfeit the prize leaving us here alone with one key, a cellar full of juice and still no doormat.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
A litre of hot tears fall from angry eyes..
But never it reduces the fire inside of me....
If the heavy falling rain could fight the forest fire...
Why couldnt my tears do just the same...?
Just because I come out strong,
doesnt mean there is nothing wrong.
Smiling has always been easier to fake...
Rather than to explain the Burn in 0ne's Heart ???
Every tear is a sign of brokeness,
every silence is a sign of loneliness,
I always smile and shed a secret tear...
Wishing it heals my internal scars...
I went in the rain and i walked in the dark...
Who says water helps in putting of fire?
My eyes do not show anymore tears may be..
But in my heart is heavy downpour....
How come the fire is there .. its still there...
Its the fire burning inside of me ... its burning.. burning hot..
I wish each drop of salty tear would erase the flame....
For I promise myself would never to cry again.....
Would it be worth to shed a tear of mine ever again?
Each drop of a tear is precious ...then anything in the world
No one knows its true value for they ‘ve not learnt the pain...
I hide a tear and pretend to smile...
My body is trembling my heart is burning... .....
You wouldn't know how it feels...
To have to hide a tear....
Not until you have it in your own eyes for someone so dear..
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
Give me a Coca Cola party number 1
And boot conservos up the ***
All they care is their 4 bedroom house yeah mate yeah
Give me a Coca Cola party
Number 2
As we watch the singer do the boogaloo and then we crack open that bottle and spray it on
Their uncle oh how cool
Give me a Coca Cola party
Number 3
Simon finally puts up the Christmas tree
First he puts the tinsel and then the bells and an angel to go on top ph yeseree
Give me a Coca Cola party
Number 5
After those 5 cokes I feel alive
I jump up and down to every song I heard on the radio
Nice and high
Give me a Coca Cola party
Number 6
The nice Coca Cola will give me
A nice sugar fix
As I slam it down, it goes through my body
Yeah if also rots my teeth
Give me a Coca Cola party number 7
Coke is so bad for you I want to send if to oblivion
But the more I see santa or Sydney swans or the big Coke truck red and white is the key
Give me a Coca Cola party number 8
Instead of roast dinners I prefer Cola lollies on my plate
You see as I ate each one
I sank into a garlic naan
The lollies gave it a sweet taste
Give me a Coca Cola party number 9
I would take my Coke and walk around the party introducing myself saying hi, my name is Brian and I told one man I hate the liberal party
Cause they don't like the poor
Give me a Coca Cola party
Number 10
While doing your tapestry you have your 2 litre Coke near you like your one of the real men
But people say cokes a kids drink and I say to you this
****** oathe I am a cool kid
Give me a Coca Cola party
Number 11
If you keep drinking that stuff
You'll end up in heaven
But not in a good way
You will be with tony Grieg
And Norman may
How cools that
Give me a Coca Cola party
Number 12
Have a few quite cokes with santa and his elves
After Christmas Day
When they load all the presents into the sleigh
Party party party
Give me a Coca Cola party
Number 13
If the Coca Cola party was a kid
He would be finally in his teens
But he will say to his uncle
Have I got the muscle
To enjoy drinking Coke oh yeah
Give me a Coca Cola party
Number 14
Every kid was nice to people
But me mate I was really naughty
So santa gave me no presents
And scounged around my house for money
To buy a nice 2 litre bottle
Of Coke
Give me a Coca Cola party
Number 15
When I go for a run I feel tired
And a bit sweaty
The Coke slows me down mate
Please don't lose your entire
Top row mate stop drinking Coke
Merry Christmas Coke lovers
Past and present
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 7:51 AM UTC
" Du Kannst Mich am Arsch Licken''
'' Kiss my Ass''
the 1 litre cider bottle's out
he takes a swig
then throws his old head back
simulating electric chair death
throws, silence permeates
the wary room
'' Baby....don't....go''
'' Long live Rock n' Roll''
in his thick German accent
before that he asked
*'' Who is Allen Ginsberg-
really, Howl, poetry?''*
someone afterwards says
*'' It's like seeing the ghost
of Bukowski''*
the room doesn't say much
but I feel a warmth
for him, reminding me
of my heart's home:
Berlin. Yes, the Germans
they're like this,
they don't take any ****
their hearts
are made of grit
& their drunks
are different from ours,
yes, they talk
of Nijinsky
& the Ballet Russes
intellectuals
even when they're plastered
*'' You may be my enemy
but with a drink you are my friend''*
he said & echoes of the War
permeated the dark
& faded time back to the present
opening the night
to better things
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 9:58 PM UTC
for i cannot tell a lie
i really do hate being alive
i hate knowing that there's a mere six litres of blood in our bodies
that's three two-litre bottles of soda
three two-litre bottles of soda
is all that keeps me here
and i hate it
i hate knowing that the leafcutter ant can hold up to fifty times its weight in its jaw
and i can't even hold myself up throughout the day
for there is no one weaker than i
no one who has struggled as much as i
and i hate it
i hate knowing
that the people i once knew
and opened myself up to
have blocked me out of their minds
but i can't seem to get them out of mine
i hate that so much
but i'm not filled with hate
i love the moon
the moon is all i have left in life to look up and look forward to
and on the nights where he hides
and i can only see him behind closed eyes
i hope he can still hear me
when i tell him i've been doing just fine
and i'm not lying
i really mean it, i swear
i mean
it's just so hard these days, you know?
wish you were here
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 6:14 PM UTC
I can feel me
******* breaking under gray skies
As I dream of red eyes
And green grass
CPT Slime and Rasta's daft laughs
And the taste of tobacco on your tongue
While I wash up in SlimeyG's kitchen
Good God, if I wasn't there, that infamous week would've been filthy!
We can feel
The bass ******* it through the sideboard
SlmieyG's lounge walls are shaking hard
And we cackle bare
When Big Gay tumbles grinning downstairs
So I stick the kettle on
Good God, we caned a litre of milk in one round of teas!
I can hear
Those slimey green dawgs singing loud
When we bring Tom's cake out
And his face is a chuffin' picture
At the realisation of the six-layers' topper
So throw him a Clipper
Good God - eighteen, eighteen, EIGHTEEN tokes to clear it!
So, will you?
Can we all get together? We'll feel alright
For just one more warm hazy night
And when we sing these songs
Of freedom, we'll laugh in peace together. So long
To misery, my brothers
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 2:36 PM UTC
They removed the thermostats,
And made us pay for every cup of water we used,
I was standing in the rain,
With a white friend and a Servant.
We marveled at the homemade architecture,
Hopped the rivulets of grime,
And heaved big sighs.
I asked him why there were,
Water tanks with signs that read,
Twenty shillings a litre.
He said,
They sell water here too.
Scottish men protect,
Single malt whiskey,
Welsh women,
The language they speak,
My Palestinian friend once told me,
Water,
Israelis keep.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 1:37 PM UTC
He took a few cups of love, he took one table spoon of patience, three grams of generosity, one litre of kindness, two spoons of laughter and commitment, with a mixture of happiness, added lots of faith and support, stirred it very well wisely. Then he let everybody take a sip...
#And that's how he took your woman...
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 11:07 AM UTC
*because what's actually worth celebrating? well, i always celebrate another bunch of words, another litre of *** and, most obviously: another tomorrow.*
for a long time now i have
seized to celebrate
birthdays...
only this year have
i stopped "celebrating" easter:
coming from a traditionalist
family,
with my great-grandmother
dead for several years
everyone in the family
joked: she said enough prayers
for all of us...
my great-grandfather
took the micky out her in
that lovingly joking way anyway
he used to say:
you and your crows (priests,
that's the slang term for
a priest in poland) -
i can't remember
the last time i celebrated christmas,
or should it be called:
adverts from november through
to january marketing mecca
"holiday"?
but it breaks my heart
with regards to birthdays,
i don't celebrate it -
fair enough up to 25...
but a bit like receiving voting rights,
i think people have the potential
to relinquish their celebration
of something that's cake-worthy
once the teenage years end...
nonetheless...
on the dot,
i receive the phone call
on the day...
my grandparents...
wishing me this that & the other...
and... that's it!
it's actually more painful
to receive that phonecall,
than to receive: no phonecall
with besh wishes and what not.
i grew out the candles,
the balloons...
what is to be celebrated,
may i ask?
as the cliche says:
women lie about their age anyway,
if they found a way to avoid
the celebratory antics -
me? i'm just waiting for my
grandparents to die...
cruel, i know,
but it's much more cruel to receive
a phonecall from them,
"wishing" me a happy birthday...
day like any one...
now, if i remembered squeezing past
the genital skin of my mother...
that would be something...
thankfully, man's faculty of memory
and therefore being conscious
comes much much later,
thank god for that.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 6:11 PM UTC
In the salted corner of the square,
A small glass door opened to watery air;
I glanced down there throughout siesta,
Anxious at the root of a dry tongue
For wine squeezed from the ochre hills
Behind Cambrils, she sold in empty
Water bottles, a Euro for a litre.
I hurried down through the Casa Gallau,
Quickly as my sunburn would allow;
Dove into light as though onto hot sand,
Around cars that sounded like fire fights,
Squinting in the peppered, robust sun
And in - the old woman waiting, “Adeu!”
Then back upstairs, but slower now:
To watch TV in Catalan; to face
A frying pan balcony;
to get drunk and think of rain.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 11:52 AM UTC
I am somewhere between the nadir and the zenith with the wind that blows behind me and who will find me now?
or do I bow before the circumstance,or take a chance,step out from the twilight,two steps out to the dark night,slight chance that there just might be ,somewhere other than this place that seems to fit this soul so tightly.
Down there,
the air became pollute,resolution has dissolved into the swamp like stew we once emerged from, crawl and sprawl our signature as if our nature was the hunting man,
neanderthal.
And Cro-Magnon thought he had the lot,he had not and never did.
The times are dreary,weary men walk home from work,exerting pressures on their tired bones and California was a dream they had in famine fare when food was scarce as were the ferry berths.
Up there,
the air gets clearer,smelling sweeter but palisades are built and pirates sell it by the litre to the thirsty,nothing beats a bit of commerce,it could be worse
I don't know how
I think I'll bow to circumstance.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 7:52 AM UTC
He carried a
two litre bottle
of the cheapest cider,
Semi-hidden
under a tattered coat lapel,
So desperately,
That
It looked as if
He was shielding
The heart of lover,
Too heavy to bear.
And he made for the exit
Like
it was salvation.
The cashier just looked on
And thought
To himself, with pity-
How the bad goes
With the bad.
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 6:46 PM UTC
i don't know why,
in a litre, that's 250ml gone,
on the basis that, working from 40%,
i'm figuring, 40% - x = 37.5%,
add the half and then add the 2...
what do you get? 40%.
anyway...
these "hard" spirits
are perfect for mixers...
you get a perfect mix
of, say, *dark *** & pepsi,
to conjure up a sharpshooter known
as blackbeard; and that really is
a name for the most trivial cocktail.
and when i mean "hard", i do mean "hard".
ever drink habsburg absinthe?
that's nearing the 100% mark...
or what one might call:
the 10,000 indicator for: what wasn't
ran, but was drunk;
zeno's paradoxical centimetre or
inches or miles or kilometres come later,
or at least last...
but this is fascinating... % = double negation
given that kant said, 0 = negation...
it's like a denial divided by denial...
i know the symbol suggests more
omicron representation than a zee-ρ;
never mind... it's the perfect fraction...
like a golden ratio, % = the perfect fraction.
the thing is though...
i'm drinking this 37.5% dark ***
and thinking... if this **** was at 40%...
i'd be worrying about not mixing it
properly...
and this is a "hard" spirit after all...
it's not exactly habsburg absinthe,
or a plum extract that's know by the name
of śliwowica, common in the tatra mountains...
which, like habsburg absinthe, is
nearing the ten thousand mark;
but some strange reason 37.5% is the perfect
partner for a mixer... say... *** & pepsi...
whiskey & pepsi... ***** & pepsi...
at 40% you're thinking... posh whiskey,
drank lukewarm... like a brandy / cognac.
37.5% is a ******* mystery to me...
i actually can perfect the sharpshooter concept
with that balance... mingling 40% with a mixer
is... is... just ****** hard...
sharpshooter? excess of spirit and
a little bit of a mixer... a bit like... a shandy...
beer with a head of lemonade?
no? don't know it?
37.5%, and a litre of it?! and enough pepsi?
i call that a friday night... as a party soloist;
oh i did to the laundry wasted today,
almost anything done drunk is fun as ****
you get all autistic, making patterns out
of the clothes and where they should hang
on the washing-line...
red sock, blue sock... no... red sock red sock...
here! blue sock... tartan pattern blue sock...
no... ah! blue sock blue sock.... dangle here!
well... you know... people have their alternative hobbies.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 6:13 PM UTC
the modern miracles of the modern messiah
- feeding the destitute with one chicken
- quenching their first with a litre of Coke
- modern mercies at the homeless shelter
- the young kids with gout and nosebleeds
all the odd numbers at the bingo hall
solar power fuelled anger
buy one get two free as the flies buzz around the discarded fruit out back of the supermarket
angels with ***** faces
angels in Nikes
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 3:26 PM UTC