"malted" poems
I'm making a pub pilgrimage,
A malted Mecca trip;
I'm leaving all I love at home
Crusading with the Picts.
I'll be alone with all my thoughts,
It's what must needs be done,
To keep the demons off.
Publicans meet me on the steps,
On Sundays by the side;
This trip of three thousand miles
May **** should I survive.
My altar's elbow worn,
The finest oaken wood;
I'll climb the stairs on knees,
Hear bells, raise cups of cheer.
There's games of chance,
Some romance,
With songs and several fools;
It has trappings of Canterbury
In pubs all called O'Tooles.
There's Highland mead,
And broken bread,
With harps from inner rooms,
I'll have dispirited spirits
And revel inside tombs.
My cave awaits on my return,
It's dark and hard and cold;
But I know the light's within my sight,
If I move this granite stone.
I'll bring with me a scapula
To make those visions stop,
The relics that I sought,
Those demons of a sot.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 9:16 AM 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
Hashtag:weirddreams
In a dream I looked upon a world like this;
The future was here. It was today. It was now and
the wings on birds had malted, and
the atmosphere was spent.
Spent, because currency had proven
worthless.
Hashtag:firstworldprobs
(piles
on top of
piles of washingtonsjeffersonsandgrants now sat
stagnant, Hashtag:getmoney
devalued over time by the American glutton who had paved our roads with imported plastic,
cheap polymers to build empires quickly, since we were so young with so little history so little culture and so little ritual. Hashtag:omgsoboring.
We played catch-up
by simply investing very little effort,
and paying very little respect,
With expectations of getting really *******
Big). Hashtag:sorrynotsorry
Which didn’t end up working. Hashtag:whoops
And so then we just burned up all that money, quite literally, ignited by the last few drops of oil we could manage to squeeze from Earth’s stones.
And its smoke, smelling faintly of our forefathers’ intentions, turned the turbines for our televisions and deep fryers while we sat and felt ourselves getting smaller and smaller.
Then I woke up, and realized it was only a dream.
Hashtag:
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 12:13 PM UTC
The forest green of the trees
contrasts so greatly
against the soft pastels in the sky;
Did someone paint this neighborhood?
The odors of garlic & parsley
wafting from across the
charcoal street.
Hums of today's news,
all the latest gossip,
ooh'ing and ah'ing;
endless snippets of candlelight chatter.
Occasional dollops of light
peering up from sedans passing by.
Sounds of zooms
blocked out by the steady pulsating
of white earbuds.
Dogs yipping, sometimes a real bark.
Neighbors come and go,
reciprocating cordial hello's.
Street lights slowly coming alive,
for at 8:37, the sun has begun
its transition to slumber.
They always say,
TGIF, thank god it's Friday.
As day slips to nigh',
the crackles and pops of vinyl come alive
behind a slightly rusted window pane.
Tonight's secrets not yet revealed,
a couple strolls by
holding hands,
sipping coffees, decaffeinated.
A man drunk with regret
and a 40 in his belly,
he breathes a clumsy, "Hey."
Malted liquor questions,
their smell & sound, unmistakable gurgling.
Street lights now fully illuminated,
glances exchanged from
passer-byers.
He opens the car door for her,
and into the dusk they drive.
Vehicles come by in even
greater numbers,
and still searches the young man
for $9, a toothbrush, and a shower,
even cold.
Just another night of
just another day,
in just another city,
in just another neighborhood
on just another street.
Silence, loud, ominous silence,
filtering the senses,
the stories,
the magic;
Isn't ordinary extraordinary?
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
Whisky, all on my veins, the
golden liquor, The fine
malted grain spirit, aged in the
oak barrels for years,
The exquisite taste, with an ice,
or two for its anger to calm,
with zests of an orange, with
a lemon peel hooked on the glass,
with the light sip, savouring it
all over the taste buds, But
Its not why the glass is held,
All the times, its not all, Its,
Its about letting go, of which
can't be forgotten, letting go of what,
can't be let gone, most of all,
Burning the affectionate heart,
to debris, never being able to love.....
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 2:51 AM UTC
the fast car speeds along the avenue
and she relaxes at the wheel
shell tell you she was born to drive
and with a cigarette grey haze
she leans into the telling
a story of her younger days
a summer back in the world
back in the dust of 1958
when the motorcycles rode on main street
she and her baby sister went to see
and stood back of the five and dime
marvelling at at the wild men
and the chrome machines
thouse were the days when
the future was brighter
and the dream seemed like it could be real
this light comes alive in her eye when she speaks
of thouse days
you can see the years fall away
you can almost taste the malted she drank
and almost see her in her blue dress
there at the five and dime
you can see the light in her eyes
when she is remembering thouse days
the sock hop and the drive thu
she is so much a younger soul than i
filled with all these beautiful memories
and as we drive down the hutchinson river parkway
middle of the night
in the pouring rain
robert gordon on the radio
i think to myself that she's right
she was born to drive
and i was born to be with a girl like her
oldsmobile cutlass 440 was her car
i was her man
.and rockabilly was her music
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 4:28 AM UTC
That amber liquid far from insipid
Like molten honey but drawn from a tap,
Bitter or dark, the choices quite stark,
God's malted ale, nature's true sap.
Vikings grew strong, strengthened their bond,
Giving them courage for mayhem galore,
A beer in their hand, they pillaged the land
Never quite feeling tired or sore.
The Celts used for curing, Egyptians for luring
Their gods from the heavens bribed to partake,
The English just drank as their water so stank,
Beer their solution to gulp for life's sake.
Wine lovers admit that their glass needs
be sipped
While describing aromas of berries and earth,
No such constraint, nor need for restraint
For drinkers of ale are freewheeling from birth.
So let raise a jug or a frothy filled mug
While watching a game and eating junk food,
Nothing is wetter, more luscious and better
Than a cold tasty beer when expertly brewed.
Oct 8, 2021
Oct 8, 2021 at 11:20 AM UTC
I walk a path paved in penciled graffiti,
Where outlined music notes
Amuse my anecdotes,
I walk with break beats in my blood,
With brain waves pounding bass drums,
I got liquid
808 fingertips
And lips
Malted with crossfade grins
To spin surges of synergy
Out of bottled up battles,
Even my baby rattles
Used to shake with rhythm.
Wars
Should pause for music.
The power of harmonic symphony
Just pimping me,
Creeping up through cracked sidewalks,
Wrapping shadows around legs,
Up hips to necks
As it grabs,
Just pimping me,
A dance floor ***** with
Peace in and of mind,
In circles of 32
Note by note,
That lump of emotion
In my throat
Could choke,
With neon freedom.
Maybe it’s a pipe dream,
That we could put down the guns
And rave to the drums,
That even silencers will be silent,
And the smell of gunpowder
Will squander for an hour,
That there will be a day with no death,
A day free of neurotic nail biting mothers
Holding their breath,
That their children will walk our land again,
A day that suicide bombs
Won’t detonate,
That cries of loss and sadness
Won’t resonate,
A day that we won’t decimate,
Our own race,
The human race
Maybe it’s a pipe dream,
But that’s my pipe dream.
I’ve spanned seas to see,
That music brings harmony,
I’ve danced along
An African diplomat named Ife,
Which means love,
A Polish carpenter named Sebastian,
Which means dignity,
A Vietnamese banker named Ly,
Which means Lion,
And collectively,
We,
We're individuals,
Smiling to that same pumping beat,
That,
Breakbeat,
That brain wave pounding bass drum,
That strum laced
With a graceful hum,
Making our race numb,
There was no color,
There was no history
Because my history
Won’t dictate me,
Not that it's non-existent,
Not that I’m resistant
To believe that people hate
Because of the past,
But I understand personalities,
And believe
Everyone deserves a fair shot
At being an individual
Everyone deserves that music,
Everyone deserves to have
That path paved in penciled graffiti,
Where outlined music notes,
Amuse their anecdotes,
Everyone deserves to feel
Breakbeats in their blood,
And brain waves pounding bass drums,
Those liquid
808 fingertips
And lips
Malted with crossfade grins
That spin surges of synergy,
Everyone deserves what we have to offer,
Everyone deserves,
To dance to their own breakbeat
Of peace
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 9:40 PM UTC
*speckled cityscape compulsion
<>
it is 6:40am.
the ending credits roll on a Hannibal horror film
that I’ve seen many times.
but it’s just an old rerun, familiar deviltry,
slept through it thankfully
the kitchen window gives up a sunrise,
but it’s just an old rerun, familiar deviltry,
a streaking swath of burnt and bright,
so oft described, the color commentary
previously immortalized by better poets
than me, easy found elsewhere.
the speckled cityscape in this pre-awakened urbanity,
it is their moment, these red flashes, all about,
tall buildings chanting “stay away from me”
to you sleepy pilots, looking for a strip to safely land
in a tumbled jungled of obscene density.
still, they highlight against a river of deep, bright oranges,
burning surrounded by the most beauteous array of shades of blue,
compelled against my will to thankful write,
for gifts such as these cannot be so casually dismissed,
cannot be willfully ignored, to do so, denies our genetic commandments.
a hopeless, thankless task to ask of oneself.
the perhaps intrusive. Sunday, maybe the babies
will visit, macaroons, pre-halloween bags of candy bars,
at the ready, pre-opened by small, tall inner children for sensory testing.
Milk Duds, Heath Bars, Whopper malted ***** Hershey white chocolate,
checked by adults for safety and quality control.
all these I see, in realized eyes and whimsical musings,
in perfect silence, for the Sunday city morning
is worshiping the coming day in a church like silence,
where each patron fills in the empty sounds
with hymns of their own making...by moving their lips
in fervent unspokeness
the sky river reflects more modestly in the East River,
for a reflection is always a second best version.
30 minutes later the real and the apparition both,
disappeared, and a palest sheer blue, white streaked sky,
just an old rerun, familiar deviltry.
why is the sun rising
is so worshipped,
for there will never be a full day of
just sunrise colorations,
but the speckled reds still
a true color, still showing,
on perpetual guard duty,
bidding adieu to its
morning lovers,
until tomorrow,
in my city of lips.
sun. oct. 20 2019
Oct 20, 2019
Oct 20, 2019 at 8:21 AM UTC
(To the tune of the 12 Days of Christmas) *
On the first day of Christmas my mommy made me
A batch of my favorite cookies
On the second day of Christmas my mommy made me
Two apple pies
On the third day of Christmas my mommy made me
Three basted turkeys
On the fourth day of Christmas my mommy made me
Four deviled eggs
On the fifth day of Christmas my mommy made me
Five pumpkin pies!!!
On the sixth day of Christmas my mommy made me
Six honey hams
On the seventh day of Christmas my mommy made me
Seven gooey brownies
On the eighth day of Christmas my mommy made me
Eight malted milkshakes
On the ninth day of Christmas my mommy made me
Nine banana muffins
On the tenth day of Christmas my mommy made me
Ten yucky yams
On the eleventh day of Christmas my mommy made me
Eleven pickled peppers
On the twelfth day of Christmas my mommy made me
Twelve ears of corn
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 8:19 PM UTC
The Miss, Misters and Mrs.,
And the St. Joseph's Sisters,
Made me a Bluejay,
Jay- jaying and soaring
Over Wrens and Robins
Below in five rows.
Teeth marks on Ticondarogas,
Initialed pink rubbers,
Toothpicks and fingers
Solved all those problems.
Sister Lucille showed me Sarnia
On the Neilson Wall Map,
With the Malted Milk,
Crispy Crunch bars staring back.
They looked too delicious,
Her reprimand was contritious,
I'm doing time during recess,
Ninety minutes til lunch.
We stood in a crooked line,
Like a snake, to get marked,
With her drawer a crack open
We'd get a peek at her strap.
Black or red, correctively cold;
Sister Roseangela, we'd heard,
Cried, Quid Pro Quo.
We had football baseball,
And hockey dreams,
Volleyball, basketball,
And funeral teams;
Field Days, Holy Days,
Days needed at home;
Teachers were coaches,
With little time to complain;
But the kids back then
Just weren't the same.
There were skirmishes, fouls,
Strike outs and time outs;
We were sliced white bread,
No rye or whole grain.
We'd march double file
Once a week to the Church,
To genuflect and reflect
At the Stations and Cross.
To confess, get redress,
Display penitent remorse,
Though keeping a secret
From the Confessional box,
A comfort and curse.
Their objective succeeded,
The lessons went deep;
Using the three Rs,
The ABCs, 1, 2, 3s,
To impart and ingraine
How to carry one's cross.
I remember by name
The Miss, Misters and Mrs.
And St. Joseph's Sisters
Who gave their all,
Each day, and always.
They've gone or retired,
But recalled in tranquility
For the life-lessons I admire.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 12:06 PM UTC
The alarm rings and my dreams are halted
The dawn is breaking in the horizon
As the sun raised in the sky has malted
With the overlapping colors of day
The birds commence their cheery songs
And the trees begin to dance as their branches sway
Thus marks the beginning of a new day
Of things to come and things to do
Whilst the clouds above are whisked away
By the oncoming atmosphere of tomorrow
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 1:16 AM UTC
Inside my head
is like a fish bowl.
There's something swimming around
adventuring
and looking for more
in that one cubic foot of liquid.
Its excreting disgust
and wide eyed
attempting to calculate
the world outside
seven seconds at a time.
There are other things in there
small sharp pebbles of shame
lining the bottom of my existence,
its bedrock.
A fake chest
full of fake treasure
letting out little bubbles of hope
to keep me distracted when ever I try to look out.
All these things seem to be deemed necessary
for one reason
or another
but what if they aren't.
What if I could just dump my fishbowl brain
out onto the counter
and watch my ambition
and courage
do a final death dance
flopping and gasping
in a pool of fake treasure
and little rocks of shame
surrounded by the chilly pool of my memories
on the malted surface of a linoleum counter.
They say the brain
takes fifteen minutes to die.
Could I only experience it
seven seconds
at a time?
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
What's your name? I'm not so sure I should tell you mine you seem like the type of guy I've known in the past. I always fall for someone that everyone says I shouldn't am I really that blind? I like your brown hair, it matches your eyes they're deep and pregnant trying to explode but you prefer to hide all of those lies. Are you capable of changing my mind? You smell like my past, the mix of cheap cologne and the thick smoke of cigarettes battling against each other but neither coming ahead. I hate to be so blunt, or is that what I'm supposed to say I don't want to seem arrogant, your teeth are straight and white your smile might make me forget everything I'm afraid to let go of can I see it one more time? Maybe we should keep it like this, stay lovers and never be friends. Use fake names and plagiarize words we both need to hear because your face tells me your heart is as broken as mine and neither of us want to love each other. Let's get drunk off of generic light beer and turn off all the lights. I just want to taste the stale menthol lingering on your breath trying to escape the malted beverage failing to cleanse your mouth, I need to absorb your kiss to remember a night so long ago, I want to close my eyes and go back in that moment where ignorance was my only friend. I'll pretend to be her if you pretend to be him, because we both deserve this desirable sin.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hey.
What's your name?
I'm not so sure I should tell you mine.
So please don't speak a word of truth.
You seem like the type of guy I've known in the past.
Dangerous and broken,
Tormented and dark.
I always fall for the ones I'm not supposed to.
Am I really that blind?
I like your brown hair,
Or maybe it's more black.
Either way
It matches your eyes
So deep and pregnant trying to explode,
but I can tell you prefer to hide all of those lies.
Are you capable of changing my mind?
You smell like my past,
the mix of cheap cologne and the thick smoke of cigarettes,
battling against each other but neither coming ahead.
I hate to be so blunt, or is that what I'm supposed to say?
I don't want to seem arrogant, but I think I just might.
Your teeth are straight and white, beautiful in a way.
Your smile might make me forget everything I'm afraid to let go of,
Even if it's just for today.
Will you burn me with your happy pain one more time?
Maybe we should keep it like this,
Stay lovers and never be friends.
Use fake names and plagiarize words we both need to hear,
because your face tells me your heart is as broken as mine
and neither of us are capable of loving each other.
Let's get drunk off of this generic light beer,
Turn off all the lights.
I want to taste the stale menthol lingering on your breath
trying to escape the malted beverage failing to cleanse your mouth,
I need to absorb your kiss to remember a night so long ago.
I want to close my eyes and go back in that moment where ignorance was my only friend.
I'll pretend to be her if you pretend to be him,
because we both deserve this desirable sin.
Sep 17, 2010
Sep 17, 2010 at 12:11 AM UTC
breakbendfeelmoan
they don't tell you about this in high school health class
textbooks stay closed and only experiences
lead lasting impression, much to disdain
of old foagies and superintendants
reachgrasppullarch
closet floors, bedsheets left with
roses blooming and a garden
of memories, fond or not
clampcloseopenbreath
once in a lifetime, twice in a nighttime
human turn to alien, alien back to human
breathe and breathe and breathe
holdclenchreachgasp
your soul, my soul, whose soul
was left in the morning light,
while i've got the proof on my
leftover laundry
is that bourbon,
or a double malted scotch
i smell on my pillowcase?
leave your stain as you found it
you won't have to worry about washing away.
Feb 5, 2011
Feb 5, 2011 at 8:45 PM UTC
Boy is my *** fat
ten pancakes for breakfast, washed down with malted shake
by the end of first class, I was searching for some cake
wasn't paying attention, tripped over old black cat
had a hard time getting up, cause my *** is so fat
kids are staring at me, Walking through the halls
rumbeling thunder, stuff falling off the walls
a large dose of poundage, with my backwards baseball hat
trying to look so cool, but boy is my *** fat
saw Sally Sumter, on my way to advanced math 2
said I had an algorithm, I'd like to run by you
wanted to stick around a while, you know like maybe chat,
she said I really like you, but boy is your *** fat
tried to skip gym class, said I had no ****
did not know the numbers, to my combination lock
coach said that's no reason, I ain't buying that
one thing i will say though, boy is your *** fat
its the story of my life, all people pokin fun
ask me how much I weigh, do you way a ton
want to tell them **** off, but they'd throw me on the mat
not very agile, cause my *** is so **** fat
Gomer Lepoet
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 1:28 PM UTC
as he sat soft beside me.
“Sure,” I said, with ill feeling.
My instinct was not to cross my friend,
I had too few left.
I nodded to the Ape behind the bar and he obliged
with one lemon & ginger and one green tea.
He knows his regulars well
and we know we’d need to wait til later for anything stronger.
“Look,” he said, and I turned to see
a gap and I counted the two teeth that were missing -
no, not missing - he opened his hand
and there they were, both accounted for,
safe and secure in his grey leathery palm.
“Look,” he repeated, (a little slurred this time)
and turned his fist so I could see
the missing skin and the bruises
that gave testimony to his amateur status.
His ****** grin and wet laughter
shook the silverback back into action
and we got a plate of malted milks.
Like I say, he knows his regulars well
and he’d listened when I told him
where he could get a regular supply,
direct from Staffordshire, in the UK.
“Lo-ok,” he said (more hesitant this time)
and lifted his shirt a little to reveal the knife wound,
replete with knife, buried to the hilt.
“Loo-,“ he started to say, as he slid off the bar stool
taking his tea with him, the porcelain shattering on the stone floor.
I winced – the cups had been a gift
to the Ape from my mother.
‘Why should the chimps get all the best crockery?’ she’d explained.
“I’ll pay for the breakage,” I said
and the Ape nodded his furrowed brow
as he swung round to grab the dustpan and mop.
I drank my tea,
counting off the friends that remained.
Mar 2, 2024
Mar 2, 2024 at 1:25 PM UTC
The Day Lady Died
It is 12:20 in New York a Friday
three days after Bastille day, yes
it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine
because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton
at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner
and I don’t know the people who will feed me
I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun
and have a hamburger and a malted and buy
an ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poets
in Ghana are doing these days
I go on to the bank
and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard)
doesn’t even look up my balance for once in her life
and in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlaine
for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do
think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or
Brendan Behan’s new play or Le Balcon or Les Nègres
of Genet, but I don’t, I stick with Verlaine
after practically going to sleep with quandariness
and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANE
Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and
then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue
and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and
casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton
of Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with her face on it
and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of
leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT
while she whispered a song along the keyboard
to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC
I’ve lead this nation through its greatest
Civil unrest,
Like the last hand left clapping at
Curtain call,
I stand tall, a little too tall, stove pipe
Black hat,
Huzzahs and here here’s, I’ve had
My share,
And my critics would rather load
Their revolver,
Than blow buckshot with their brains
And tongue,
Which is why I’m stuck inside my own mind,
Comatose, near death, and all I can think of is my
Little boy.
White walls, white women, and **** in my
Bed pan,
Through my shattered cranium, I can still see
And think,
Slack jawed and glaze eyed, this isn’t right on
My son’s
21st birthday, who will be there
To buy
His first beer, or cool glass of
*** punch,
Mary Todd abstains from the savage
Fire water,
So Edward, knobby kneed now, please tell
Me who?
To share a malted Schlitz, or fine Pabst
Blue ribbon,
To teach you the proper way a man sips
The foam,
How to crush the julep leaf before crushing
It in,
Your table will be full of well wishers and
Whiskey drinkers,
Your belly will be full of well whiskey and
Sour mash,
Your woman, how beautiful she will be,
Glossy eyed,
Your brothers, yes, your companions will
Be there,
Alas your dear ol’ Dad will not be present for
The speech,
As I have addressed so many
Times before,
But you can tell the story, of fore score and seven
Beers ago,
Your father lay vegetated, weak, tired
Of dying,
With the thoughts of honey hops and
Bitter barley,
The sweet wheat, and your transformation
Into manhood,
You’ll be as lonesome and lost as the
****** Confederacy,
Child, know that your father can not tell
A lie,
That on that day, I will be tapping
A barrel,
In the land beyond the sky, stirring the foam,
Humming happy birthday.
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 12:44 AM UTC
Black and white consumed my integrity.
Would snack on my conscious prosperity.
Feeding off of the guilt that was trying to be hidden.
Playing awful games that ended in self inflicted corruption..
Being open minded has only been an advantage.
Self loathing and hatred fill my 40oz of malted sorrows.
Let it flow down the misguided gutter called my life..
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC
As I lay sedated upon my La-Z-Boy recliner,
cup of whiskey from my good friend John in my hand.
I slowly start to fade off........
and then I hear it.
A mothers six string crying in the distance.
I perk up my ears to make sure I'm not delusional or dreaming,
.....and again it wails.
Then as if touched by purple rain myself, the magic grows louder.
Suddenly a harp is being hummed and I swear I hear a saxophone singing the blues.
I look out my window and it's as if the top hats and tom-tom's are banging through the crowd.
Faintly, I hear that joyous cry.
Now it may just be me,
but there must be some kind of way outta here is parallel to having a dream.
I listen longer and I hear my sugar pie sing and my honey bunch smiles,
and for a minute I forget all about why this malted bevy was placed in my hand,
and I escape to a far away place.
To a place where Rapunzel lets down her hair for me and ******* and whiskey flow free,
but then as if struck by a sixteen ton truck,
I am snapped back into that place I was trying to forget.
And again I hang my head and cry,
because now,
it's just another day,
where I heard,
the music,
die.
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
I think I must be dead and my body moulders, rests
imperfectly in a carved wooden tomb. Secreted
beneath the malted mud, a restless corpse twitches,
mind set on deceiving; images of alien fingertips
skimming supple skin.
Truly, I have never been more content, as my pieces
decay and dismember and chest rises with bloated gas
breathing such sure imitation against
bleached white weaving whale bones as
the machinations, these movements of worms
whisper, vibrating your words within each unseeing ear,
surely, yes, no heart beats now to hear them.
You love me, say my worthy companions, and oh
do I love you too, most magnificent apparition, sweet
spectacular spectre, conception of minds greatest trick.
I must slumber eternal.
I must lie beneath shaded trees where the birdsong and
shafted sunlight and sweet taste of dewed grass lends
life to decimated, deceased thought of what was once
concious, forcing disbelieving perception, fabricating
a phantom, forging the incredible wonder of you.
I think I must be dead, for I think I drew you up
inside my head.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 11:11 AM UTC
Seeking redemption in the shadows.
Flaunting forgiveness under street lights grown from a concrete jungle.
Fall on my knees muttering to deaf ears.
Searching for a kind soul to listen and share.
A comforting piece of mind while letting my insanity go ramped.
I took back self created anguish holding onto a 40oz of malted sorrows.
Slowly pouring into the misguided gutter that flows along life.
Suppressed only in limitations put forth by another chewing on my heart.
Feeding my empty soul bites
of love.
Echo's back in regurgitated hate only followed in silence.
Cold sweats and vivid dreams take over the mind.
As Illusions of a fix breaks my inhibitions.
Numbs my caged demons.
Into the depths I sink only to gasp for another life bettering breath.
I just want to go back.
Back to a time of innocence and the honest laughter..
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 3:16 AM UTC