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Andrew T Apr 2016
Washingtonians, this Wednesday afternoon, come to the Starbucks on 1600 K Street to become acquainted with some young, interesting, average income level Asian American guys and gals. Instead of meeting Asian American doctors, lawyers, and consultants, you’ll meet Dr. Dre copycats, alcoholic paralegals, and T-Mobile wireless salespeople.

These guys and gals are looking to meet new friends that include: white, black, Hispanic, or any other race of people, just as long as you aren’t a F.O.B. Because after all, they don’t want to perpetuate the stereotype that Asians only hang out with other Asians. Just kidding, we love our F.O.B brothers and sisters! But **** stereotypes.

If you are a Washingtonian who likes drinking alcohol and smoking marijuana, stop by and make a new Asian American friend who will provide mixers and match you on a blunt. Please, do not ask these guys and gals for college study notes for Math or Bio, because all of them have dropped out of college to pursue their artistic passions, like: writing a novel about having a white group of friends and being the token who reads Tolkien and likes Toking; playing electric guitar in a grunge, punk, post-emo garage band with your black buddies who like Fugazi and bad brains but ******* hate Green day for selling out; and drawing sketches and painting portraits of the half-Asian girl you’re dating on a wide canvass, but really you’re secretly into selfies and taking photos of breakfast on Instagram.

We don’t discriminate against the kind of alcohol you drink, whether it be wine, beer, or liquor—within reason please don’t bring Franzia or Rolling rock, this isn’t college anymore. Yes, we get it, you’re highly considering attending this group because you’re a huge Haruki Murakami fan and you’re wondering two questions: are our Japanese American patrons also huge fans of the author, and do our patrons behave in a similar fashion to Murakami’s characters like Toru Watanabe and Toru Okada?

First, our Japanese American patrons are huge fans of Murakami and they own books like Sputnik Sweetheart and The Windup Bird Chronicle, but they also think the author often is obsessed with Western culture, in a way that possibly, and seriously possibly transforms him into a Brett Easton Ellis derivative based on Ellis’s American ****** and Glamorama.

Second, no these particular patrons do not behave like Murakami’s characters, because they’re real, living, breathing human beings, and not some fantasy figure or made-up person! But enough of the rant, please come though and let’s have conversations about jazz and talking cats.

While we respect Asian American actors like Ken Jeong and Randall Park, we really aren’t interested in having a lengthy dialogue about The Hangover’s Asian **** scene, or how Park was kinda offensively funny in The Interview. Although Park is awesome in Fresh Off The boat! All we really want is to just drink jack and cokes and smoke Marlboro lights and have conversations about the latest trends in indie rock and Hip Hop culture, and whether Citizen Kane was better than Casablanca, or vice versa.

At the meeting, we will have our guest speaker Jeremy Lin’s college roommate George Park answer questions about Lin, as well as a special appearance by Steve Yuen’s ex-girlfriend Marcy Abernathy who will give us an inside scoop to Yuen’s fetishes as well as his quirky habits. We will also be providing free snacks like LSD Pho noodle soup and Marijuana Mochi ice-cream. On a serious note, we’ll be giving out guilt-free Twinkies.

Before you arrive at the Starbucks, you’ll be getting a name tag and a free A.A.A T-shirt that wasn’t made by little children from China; instead, the shirts are made by Ronald Mai, our aspiring fashion designer whose twitter handle is @thatsmyshirtwhiteman! If you’re interested in coming out to the group our first meeting is this Wednesday at 6 p.m.

Leave your apprehension at the door and walk in with a warm smile, as you’re greeted by an expressionless face. And phoreal if your car is messed up and you require a ride, please call A.A.A’s number at (202) 576-2AAA (we know we’re phunny). Hope to see you there, and if you don’t come, you’re a ******* racist! But seriously come out and meet some cool *** people.
Ivan Brooks Sr Aug 2018
There are bloggers and selfie-takers,
Know the difference.
There are noisemakers and peacemakers,
I can show you the evidence.
There are admirers and haters.
Be especially mindful.
There are well-wishers and supporters.
Be very careful
The are naysayers and yeasayers
Always be aware. 
There are brothers and brother's keeper,
Always ready to take care.
There are destroyers and fixers,
Separate them.
There are mixers and blenders,
We need them.
There are writers and publishers,
They need each other.

There are readers and proofreader.
Both read for different reasons.
There are bystanders and onlookers.
Both will be watching.
There are movers and shakers,
One of them has the edge.
There are dreams snatches and vision busters,
Be on the lookout.
There are ghost whisperers and Ghostbusters,
Both have connection to a ghost.
There are buyers and sellers,
Each one benefits.
There are singers and there are dancers.
Everyone provides some entertainment.

©IvanBrooksPoetry
21/8/2018
This is proof my brain is badly wired.
Sparrow Oct 2012
I once left my heart in the pocket of a saint
blinded by sunset light, drunk from midnight madness,
and falling into the monotony of broken dandelion stems and lost eyelash wishes-
I didn’t think I would need it much longer
The burden of rebirthing beats continuously
stamping out the keys
Of my empty piano chest –
As I held onto the breaths of broken warriors
Sponging the blood off their slashed

double
layered
skin

And praying
they could keep their fight for just

One
More
night

He never noticed the extra beat
added to the twitches of his time-ticking body
deaf from the ringing calls to heroism
only on the odd hours he didn’t have muffled
by the recipes of the women he’d saved
buying out bravery like it could shield his soft tongued love
leaving nothing but the clothes on his back
woven from stardusted bomb shelters
And
left over hopes
selling the silver lining of every breath he took
just to buy the next broken-bar girl a drink

He was a saint after all --

born from the innocent hopes I wish I still had,
tucked in the corners of sun-freckled smiles
and
Mothering seatbealt arms
and
Careless Carnival Food
the kind I know some of my soldiers withered against
writhing their souls from the bodies they had been straight jacketed too
prisoners of war stuck in the memory
of just how many calories a sugared funnel cake could have
did have
will have
add up to the self worth shot out of their chest
from last nights uncontrolled binge
of two apples and a cheerio promise ring

No,
he had never been in the middle of the war
never known the taste of blood
rusting in the rain of covered up skin
drenched in the salt water stings of failure
peeling away the scabs of
addictive adrenaline disadvantages
and mapping the battle plan of tomorrows attack
against an enemy so close
it was breathing the same air your lungs had not finished purifying

No,
his hands had never held the dyeing breaths of a comrade in arms
as they shook from the fears riding up their spine
praying the poison won’t take
praying the stolen bottles didn’t break
and that violent vomiting viguals
might burn just enough of the alcohol mistake
so their blood won’t have to curdle

No,
he had never heard the desperation
of sobbing secretes suddenly swindled
from between the lips of a girl who never wanted to remember
the night that never happened
one year, five months, fourteen days --
and three hours ago
her father had asked her why she never wore skirts anymore
and why she never brought boys over anymore
and why she never left her room anymore
and why her silent cheekbone cry for help never smiled anymore

No.

A saint is never found on the battlefield
never scared by the everlasting burns
of war paint psychiatric wards
and gun powder therapy sessions
sprinkled with the hope against hope moments that maybe
we’ll have a break through --

Like the ****** morning sun rebirthing the beats
of duck taped dreams
and
medicated eyes
and
catatonic lips --

I left my heart in the pocket of a saint
confessing the sins of the hopeless hospital it fueled
between our silent lipped kisses
squeezing out the stories of unnamed soldiers
between our woven fingers
and betraying my fear
in the tremble of my body against his –
I left my heart with him on the one-night-stand whim
that I would grow deaf to the sound
of TAPS played on my piano rib keys
and
blind to the specks of blown dandelion wishes

But I still hear the echoes of them
rattling against the stitching
of his bomb shelter pockets

and I wonder if he’s still searching for me
between the crumpled recites of midnight mass mixers
and
open cathedral whispers

because I still think of him sometimes
absent mindedly pick pocketing saints for smiles
but I’ve only found lint and regret
tucked in the corners of their heroic attempt
to protect the bruised hearts of the saviors
who haven’t quite yet found salvation
soul in torment Sep 2013
in Scotland fair you must beware
the weathered moor at night
For it is said a thing of dread
hunts neath it's pale moon light

It's small and stout and loves to shout
and scare the tiny mice
It kicks the trees to wake the bees
because it is not nice

it runs amok through herd and flock
and makes the chickens fly
Then opens gates and shakes lose slates
and takes pigs from the sty

It up roots crops and spills the hops
and dances in the flour
Though rarely seen its really mean
and turns the fresh milk sour

It squashes flat each butter pat
and mixers wheat with grain
then ups and screams to spoil your dreams
and runs away again

The Haggis see is wild and free
and likes to cause such fun
Breaks traps and snares and frees the hares
and helps them to their run

The hunting hound that sniffs the ground
Will never find his scent
because he sweats sweet Vi-o-lets
to cover where he went

The Heathered moor and rains that pour
wash away his tracks
and he's not scared he is prepared
for haggis run in packs

With teeth and claws and snapping jaws
they are a sight to see
So think before you seek that moor
where they run wild and free
Lynn Hamilton Mar 2017
Gaunlet
Flaws
Flow
Over

Arm
High
Above
Head

Reaching
For
Spirits

To
Ice

Shake

And mix

With a dash of

Fears, tears, laughter and unused years

Sip
Swallow
Gulp
Spit

Throw
Down
Your
Gauntlet
Summer Lee Dec 2014
If god was a real person ,
I'd sue .
For floppy ***** ,
And gaping eye sockets .
Misplaced fat pockets
Stretch marks and paranoid doobs.
For photoshopped pictures
And singles mixers
And never being able to properly chew
My words Before I spit them out
For men that don't ask before they mount
And for all the doubt .
For protesters in front of abortion
Clinics and mimics .
And being more creative without your adoration .
For false salvation .
Ashwin Kumar Mar 2022
I am different
And have always been
Right from the age of four
Whether it be my fascination for trains
And cement mixers, for some reason
Or my peculiar fear of water
Or my obsession with the number of pages in a newspaper
And last but not the least
Playing cricket with myself

I am different
And have always been
I can't make small talk to save my life
Social cues are like Greek and Latin to me
I understand sarcasm
As much as Voldemort understands love
I keep fiddling with my things
Pens, papers, clothes, hair etc.
My room is as organised
As a typical bachelor's den is
And the list goes on and on

I am different
And have always been
Earlier, this always used to bother me
And make me feel inferior
Especially when people advised me
To improve my verbal communication skills
And body language
However, I have realised now
That they could not have been more wrong
Because I am autistic
And autism is not something that can be cured
Rather, it has to be managed
And thanks to therapy
I have been managing reasonably well
For the last five years or so
Let me repeat
I am different
And have always been
If you have a problem with that
You are welcome to leave
Poem about my being different because of my Asperger's Syndrome, a form of autism. There is a Harry Potter reference.
Nevermore Aug 2014
To be alone
Is to be complete

They say
No man is an island,
But isn't everyone?

We're all stranded on islands of self-interest
Connected to others
Through flimsy bridges of temporary alliances
Mutual interests and gain

The more connected we are
The more isolated we become
Pictures and blog posts
Nothing more than facades

Anomie is the word of the decade

The individualistic
The self-sufficient
Is reviled
For refusing to play the game
To participate
In the masquerade
To jump through the hoops
Of social niceties

Somehow
To sit and squirm
Through ******* contests and gossip
To flap and flutter
In the howling gales of hysteria and contrived laughter
Is preferred over
Sitting alone
Revelations and epiphanies
Splayed out before oneself
Playing solitaire with one's reflections
In peace

Baby showers and mixers
Celebrated
The impenetrable silence
Of one's hermitage
Eschewed

The people-pleaser
Preferred
Over the lone wolf
The team player
Over the independent agent

I suppose
In an age of open doors
A locked one
Raises a few eyebrows
They'd knock and rattle
Then bang and kick and shout
Before leaving in a huff

Authenticity is now the rarest commodity
Valued over saffron and platinum
So people settle instead
For knockoffs

Alcohol-plied sincerity is better than nothing
A China-made Rolex still looks better --
Flashier, if nothing else --
Than a Timex

No man is an island,
They say,
Smirking
Frowning
Clucking with disapproval
Peering behind perfectly schooled masks
Nary a hair out of place
Looking at me
In all my artless imperfection
Paper, pen, and cigarettes for company

Well
Which of us here
Is truly alone?
Yes, I am aware that I just compared myself to North Korea.
Busbar Dancer Feb 2017
I've never read The Torah, but
I'm reasonably sure
it is a travel guide
for a desert getaway.

I've never dreamed of
red headed priestesses
who can move their hips
like cement mixers.
They probably have sharp teeth and
slender fingers.

I always thought that
the cosmos would bend down
to give me a dap.
It still may.

I'm full of dark and weird judgement.
All for you.
Sometimes the darkness wanes
while the weirdness lingers.
Atomic quatrain explosion. Kaboom. **** it English!
James M Vines Dec 2015
Palm trees sway in the breeze as waves crash on the beach. The sun sets low over the horizon as the boat gently rocks just off of the shore. Paradise to some an escape to others. Cabanas are decked with blinking lights as people dance to the sound of the steel drum and the Mandolin. Coconut drinks are mixed with local spirits to bring good cheer. Dark and White *** are the mixers of choice as fish bake on open coals and ***** boil in a ***. Gifts are exchanged by the light of Tike torches and  bon fires. The moon rises over the ocean and a starry sky is beset like jewels in the night. All is at peace with a tropical Christmas .
Andrew Parker May 2014
Never Have I Ever (Slam Poem)
5/27/2014

Having a best friend makes you think of weird things.

Stuff like:
Getting slapped in the face with a fish is more about smell than texture.
13 nights in a row drinking isn't so bad if you save cash not using mixers.
A stranger hitting on you is a storyline for tomorrow's lunch.
Redecorating my room is just for you, nobody else will see it.
You asked me to go shop with you, are you saying I need new clothes?
Crushing Ritalin in a bathroom, because we stayed up 'til 6am before work.
Pooping is like extra time in the day set aside to call you on the phone.
Why do we play Never Have I Ever when we already know the ever's?
People think we constantly say inside jokes, but we're just telepathic.
I get into shape before you visit town, because you're my best wingman.
If we ever stop being friends, I really hope you don't blackmail me.
Can I designate you to speak at my wedding, babyshower, and funeral?
... or is it too soon to do that?

Losing friends can make you think of weird things, I imagine.

Stuff like:
1. I should stop ordering carne asada fries - I can't finish a whole portion.
2. I keep my curtains closed - I know your car won't randomly be outside.
3. Having lunch alone ***** - I shared a crazy story with the cashier today.
4. I take my poops with the stereo on now - I never could go in silence.
5. My voicemail inbox is full - I can't delete any when your voice pops up.
6. Maybe I should call you.
7. I need to talk to you.
8. I wish I could call you.
9. If only you'd come visit town.
10. Maybe I should go visit the cemetery.
11. I have a new least favorite Never Have I Ever.
12. Never Have I Ever had a best friend die.

And I hope I never ever will put that finger down.
Yenson Jan 2019
If all is ***** dory
with golden, two or three silvers
and all the pinks

Why are the Weavers worried
Is there not the finest gold thread
from Italy
Silver of Green and the East
Stunning pinks
like elegant flamingos

So why are Weavers panicking
desperate throes
frantic useless moves
flinging all and nothing

Is it that hardness like steel
or the moves of rhythm and timing
or the smooth mahogany sheen
or the stout enduring waves
or the amazing ride

So maybe Gold is not enough
Silver and pink not quite there
Numbers means nothing
just so and so
They all just do not compare

And Weavers are panicking
Weavers are panicking
panicking about what may surpass

Weavers are panicking,
They fear superior quality

If all is at it is
Pray tell us...WHY are weavers panicking!
Jenny Feb 2014
liquid will swirl into the shape of it's cradle as hearts will mold to the minds of their successors. background checks?

tl;dr.

______________

­brave girls have cranberry ***** running through their veins, isn't that right? drink up, buttercup.
what's it if you and i goes on a ride? i got a paintbrush, you've got what needs to be painted. i'll paint you so good you won't even recognize yourself.
-
portraiture is dead and landscape is only dying.
let me
-make you
-in two
-into
a landscape.
you're gonna be sittin' pretty for the rest of your life, 'cause i'm not giving you any other options. open up those ankles - we're out of paint.
-
this prototype calls for one cup of honeydew, one cup of darling- stop - .
if it's on the market, how illegal could it be?
throw 'er in the ***.
the bottom drawer plays labyrinth to movers, shakers, mixers, fixers.
all those faces are too hard to tell apart, if you ask me. ten can-can dancers, please, and make it snappier than jaws on concrete!

no, not like that.
you're spending too much money on lipstick anyways. girls don't need makeup. girls will look pretty no matter what angle i've determined your elbows should be. your short-haired sister doesn't appear to be using this blood.
-
lay her on thick; and make sure you write those scars off as business expenses.
Zachary Jun 2014
Waiting for superman
She's got everything else
Wishes like a paper plane
Throw them like hands dealt
I got all this single frames
Captures more then hell
If penny's were made for wishes
Then dollars would never fail
How desperate are our needs
Pay it forward to tell the tale
Figure how trigger words
Speak bigger towards
Little kids or mini ******
Friends like me who want to be
What is more then what we see
glimer of a Gimp liquor, trying to sniff quicker
then Sneak mixers into the bar so they can
**** they still out there looking for fixers,
taking pills to get stiffers
Sure im the one whos sicker
is this your trick here?
Right hand full of dreams
Had a hand left with ******
sinner is in misery
***** you cant even play elixer
hold my hand why i choke slam all our plans of scam blasphemy is only for man
Raul M Murray Feb 2021
I am so sick that I feel
I am so sick that I hear
I am so sick that I smell
Sick of the patented experience

I am so insane I can read books
I am so insane I can converse
I am so insane I can see
Insane because of pseudoscience

I am mentally ill because of what I hear
I am mentally ill because of what I write
I am mentally ill because of what I see
Mentally ill because of segregation & isolation

I am mad because of audio software
I am mad because of video software
I am mad because of editing software
Mad because of channels & mixers in a studio

We are sane because of witnesses
We are sane because of kindness
We are sane because of love
Sane because of strangers
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
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.
SelinaSharday May 2018
Sweet Men are Like... Rare flowers..those like Jade Vine,

Gibraltar Campion, Franklin Tree, Kokai cookei,  and the

Chocolate Cosmos rare and unique hard to find kind

that will not adapt to the principles and

culture of a insensitive rough society. Equipped with

good values that often seem extinct.

  Decent and unique men are like..cotton candy, strong visual yet rugged look,
sweet sugar treats melts in your mouth., lightly

won't leave you over filled with heaviness and drama.

Some men are like first class planes...takes you flying high and the ride is exquisite,

stimulating personal, makes you dream big..are

accomodating comfortable, treats you with class.

A wanted man is like.. soothing running waters,, able to quench your heated passions,  fulfil

your hungered needs, satisfy your mental thirst, and ruffle your straightened sheets, tackle your

energy and substain a stable environment.

A Good man..is made from the best of fabrics, has quality material,  has stamina, drive and

strength sewn in, wears his smile day and night, because contentment with just one and only one

suits him wisely and justly.

  A good man has been modified to fit his specific woman all her imperfections, and shortcomings

fit his model and he is equipped to handle them.

In a good man the perfect mixers have been stired blended and folded into his batter.

That when baked to right temperatures brings out the best in his Lady,

hides her sour, and covers her blemishes.

making what was less more better, and completing her short commings and she comes out smelling divine.

  A awesome man..In the mist of battles  with his woman is like a  scattered rain storm.

Can come loud hard or soft and lightly..

but afterward washes in sweet healing cleanses they both can

benefit from and still grow.

Career bachelor Types of men

Some men are like..Hoarders.. they  collect all kinds of women

never letting go of any..got more than they know what to do with..

Many screaming for their time and attention.

Investigators...Some men like to spy and see what this one and that one is doing..

Gamblers..They take big risks, put lots at stake and take foolish chances..Leeches...

They hang on you like your all they have and **** you dry of most of your

resources, clingy, jealous, needy, greedy...selfish inconsiderate leechers.

  Con artist..They give you a great speech about want they want..

how they will give their all and your all they need.

It sounds sweet and genuine but he's lying. Like Flies... buzzing in your ears..

humming annoying, bothersome, pitiful.. pesty, nosey, going

from place to place spreading nasty germs..reading posting,

bragging think they the stuff when they are just a bug a boo fly and a lie.
Some men are like..Toads big stuffed and lazy..just want to hop on you ***** you.

Do you get all they can from you..Big lazy and have lots of

time of his hands to rib bit rib bit get all you have.

And are crap seekers. Always ready  to swollow the energy from you.
Some are Huge liers.. about their past, relationships, friendships, and hardships..

telling lies for sympathy..In the end you'll hate you allowed him to waste your time..

Just my saying by me and my sayings..

Sharday.  

All rights reserved 2013 S.A.M COPYRIGHTS
Men in their varying degrees
Wk kortas Mar 2017
We need more Martians , they nattered at me all the time,
More monsters—people like to be scared,
As if those callow youngsters,
Growing up with two cars in the garage
And three sets at the country club,
Their fraternity mixers at Whittier or Occidental,
Knew the first **** thing about terror.
Still, they wanted me to grind out the harum-scarum hokum
They enjoyed watching two-reelers on Saturday afternoons
While men were doing hard work in Leyte and Manila,
As if the transitory fear of some ghoulish bogeyman
Would last through the thirty-second epics
Featuring some cartoon bear shilling for beer
Or bunnies extolling the virtues of toilet paper.
Let me tell you what fear is, I would say time and again,
It’s a padlocked fence and a smokestack
Which isn’t churning out a **** thing.
It’s the jobs you can’t get because you said something
(And more likely, you didn’t) twenty years ago.
It’s one more envelope from the bank or the phone company
With bold red lettering on the front
That you don’t open because you know what it says
And how it doesn’t matter one bit,
Because you can’t do a ******* thing about it
,
And these promising young men would just look at me
Like I was some poorly made-up extraterrestrial
From one of their Buck ******* Rogers potboilers.

Several of my neighbors here were among the men,
Mostly boys in truth, who marched with the 126th New York,
Taking fire at Petersburg and The Wilderness,
At Spotsylvania and Cold Harbor.
We have spoken about the horrors of war,
The kaleidoscope of confusion and dread,
No direction leading to shelter, no road guiding the way to home.
They have said that, as frightening as the sound of the minie *****,
Zipping overhead like malevolent flies,
And the cannon were, what they found truly awful
Was the manner in which those fields,
So like the ones where they had flushed out quail as children,
Became foreboding nightmare landscapes,
Containing a dark madness
That they never dreamed could have existed.
Rollie Rathburn Feb 2016
“Certain breeds of chicken exhibit a behavior known as brooding.
When no Rooster is present they will diligently incubate eggs incapable of hatching,
forgoing food and water
despite the impossibility of newborn chicks.”

It seemed like you had been waiting for quite some time
like collapsed steam on cold coffee surface.

I watched you there
torn apart in the light
shadow fragments packing your edges
away like foreclosed tenants with an immaculately well maintained yard.

By turns violent and mundane,
open mouth smelling of monsoons
and hot morning skin. On the pillowcase
your fingertips bloomed like incandescent daffodils.

Nights posing as days stray forth
and return, with a casual politeness commonly reserved
for political debate spectatorship
and cocktail mixers.

Not quite grim.
Not fully present.
Standing alone in a gleaming room
begging for a sliver of crawling blackness
to tempt the curve of your hip back into my hand.

If there was time left,
I could have figured it out.

“I understand that you are sad and I am sorry.
I told you this would happen. I am
not having this conversation right now,
so I am sorry for that too.”
Somewhere

Just call me old-fashion because
That is who I am;
Bliss is the one to find me on my
Journey getting past you ,

Somewhere over your rainbows,
Lies still my beating heart,
Which you've thrown away ,

The mixers what is right and what is
Wrong with the love we had ;
What did I do to make you so bad ?

Somewhere under your shadows
You will see me crying over you,
My soul had engraved your name in my
Heart and it has not erased,

Somewhere in your mind,
you had a vision
Of me holding me,
loving me like we once
Did moments like this I do miss ,

Somewhere in this big old world you are
Wishing you never hurt me like you did !
When you see, another rainbow crossing your
Way after a rainy day,
Just know it means I got past you.


Poetic Judy Emery © 1990
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Judy Emery
Saint Audrey Jan 2018
I can hardly get my head straight, and between every single
Tone, I readjust the cases, straitening the lace
Binding up the loose ends, mending every one and
Creating strait spaces, borderline alone

Indulgence over emotion, I don't have my own

Add a fifth, and once again to make six
The circle begins closing in, closer and then too close
How many sides there are, to a pint of gin
Are there more mixers in a little bit of sin?

Its my disparity

Something I choose; suffering disuse
And a lack of caring
-------------------------------------------
I'm just a branch on another tree
Losing the last of my leaves
I feel the wind running through my hair
I swear, it's blowing just for me
--------------------------------------------
I've seen the face of god staring out the ******* monitor
I've seen the wrath of many more, more, **** it
I'm done
I still speak profanely but only on occasion
When I stop to rest, from the rest like I've been vacant
And the break is all I have, before I fade away in chambers

The scent of lavender light permeating my eyes
Draining through the veins and inflaming the day dream spattered
Doesn't matter

The days where hate is the mode of operation
Now, yes. Now, no
Blown out of proportion, maybe so, but I've been alive a while
And I'm still only a couple old
-------------------------------------------
I've been overlooking so many things
In single words, I frame identity
The wind is blowing through my bones
In simple thoughts, and tragedy
--------------------------------------------
And he told me, take a second for yourself now and then
Pen and paper permit magic beyond a mere existential crisis
Might be something to find amid strands of loose light
Find a new light, bright enough to conquer demons, but
Success is still your metric in the meantime

Fine, enough
But, I can fabricate well enough to get
Everything I need from something not enough
****
I even lose myself sometimes

But that's the point I guess
Another time gone by
another moment well defined

I use the same words, same works, same letters
I take the same lessons from the ones bound and fettered
To the cause, of making minds
Fun enough to pass the time
Long enough, oh *******
Its almost...
-----------------------------------------------
If you follow my silver spool
I think I left too soon, if memory serves me
Too true for my own good
And the wind blows through my gilded skin
And I watch the moon rising
kk
Jonny Angel Apr 2015
I remember the crazy times
we'd travel down south
to the outlaw town of Ensenada.
We'd swing by Hussong's
for some golden elixir
& Mezcal mixers.
It was a fun wild-place,
where having your face
rest in your own *****
was allowed at your table.
I mean nobody gave a ****** about such things.
It was truly a place where anything went,
especially drunkenness.
The last time we visited,
some twenty years ago,
we lost two hitchhikers
we had picked up
in Malibu
on the PCH.
Now years later,
I wonder how,
or if
they ever made it back.
Different pictures
Painted now
Colours changing
Day by day
Gallery opening
Then closed shut
Why this paint brush
Why not that
Lines of nonsense
Lines of life
Lines of mind
Blocked in features
Shaded in green
Purple brainwaves
Sprouting out
Shooting at stars
Glistening bright
Sure as blackholes
Through the night
Mixed in mixers
Gaudy blue head
Curdled red spots
Why not you
Spray on graffiti
Lost on trains
Found by a policeman
Without dreams
Softly softly
Turn out the light
Dream a little
Wake up bright
Clive Blake Dec 2017
The muggers,
The rapists,
The murderers,
The paedophiles,
The confidence tricksters -
Pray for them.

The weak,
The naïve,
The young,
The old,
The inadequate mixers -
Prey … for them.
Giano M Hurtado Aug 2016
I have myself a interest in smooth edges, subtle features.
she wore a dress.
I lost my self in monday mixers and beautiful creatures.
I couldnt find my keys.
she loved my work, poets could make the best teachers.


we kissed outside of a bar beside a man much older.
his smoke in her face
beer makes the night warm and her body much colder.
share my desire to die slow.
I couldnt let go of my girlfriend but she still wanted space for me to holder.

my mistake,
I cannot pretend that I am a decent person. luckily none of my friends or lovers are aware I have this account so I assume its all fine.
Cliff Green Oct 2017
Were science to again visit
The topic of race in humans
Like mice, like bugs, like snakes
Findings would first be specious
Then suspicious, then delicious
Finally mundane

Were race to ever visit
Science and its arched eyebrow,
Flasks would boil indignantly
Mixers would cloud the water
Paradigms would wriggle
Then die
A little ditty about race relations and the loss of the most basic realization that we are all of the human race.
Wk kortas Jun 2020
We knew the place better than we knew our homes,
Each scratch and warped spot on the bar,
Each tear and repair in the old-school upholstery
On the ageless stools,
Each story behind the bats, jerseys, boxing gloves
And the other souvenirs whose origin and the stories behind them
(A man of the world, old Pop McLafferty would say of himself,
Though the only time he’d been outside Elk County
Was a desultory two-year hitch
Spent in one of Mother Army’s more decrepit West Texas camps)
All being  of dubious authenticity;
Take those gloves, Pop would say, Got ‘em in Cuba one time.
Belonged to Hemingway, ya know.
He and the old Dodger pitcher, Hugh Casey,
They’d spend all day shooting clay pigeons
And drinking cases of Hatuey Beer 'n go home
And beat the living hell out of each other with those gloves
Until Papa’s missus couldn’t take the splintered wicker no more
,
And though we knew **** well he’d bought the gloves
At the Sally Army thrift store up in Coudersport,
We kept our own counsel,
As we’d bent elbows and spewed ******* there
Since we were old enough to drink
(Earlier, in fact, as we ran with Timmy McLafferty,
Who later inherited the place,
The largesse of death being the only way
He’d ever have the wherewithal to own a bar)
And the place remained a constant
Through all those things we’d failed or had failed us
(Girlfriends, wives, parents, even our spots on the line
Once the Montmorenci shut down.)

This night, then, was no different than most,
The normal rituals being observed,
Most of them at the good Timmy’s expense,
As his positions both behind the bar
And in the cosmic order mandated such,
This particular evening the determination having been made
By unanimous ballot that Timmy had never, in fact, been kissed
(Not as preposterous a notion as one might think,
As he had made the transition from “hefty” to “fat *******”
Quite some time ago.)
He’d taken our potshots with the good-natured stoicism
That were part and parcel of his character and his role,
Until he piped up—C’mon fellas, I was engaged at one point.
We’d responded with any number of speculative notions
As to said fiancée’s deficiencies and possible species,
Until Timmy said, with borderline belligerence,
Look, I’ll show you a picture,
At which point he produced a creased three-by-five snapshot
Of a blonde who looked very much like a 1980’s –issue Ellen Foley,
Thus occasioning speculative comparisons
Between Tommy and Meat Loaf,
With the subsequent rumination
As to what this poor girl would have tasted
Had she stuck her tongue down Tommy’s throat
In Paradise-By-The-Dashboard-Light fashion
(The consensus being Subway BLT, varied flavors of Cheetos,
And three-hour old Tullamore Dew.)
We’d expected, naturally, that Tommy would laugh along with us,
But he slammed a tray of glasses down on the bar with such force
That one or two of the glasses liberated themselves
And shattered noisily.
He’d gazed at us with the pure, holy fury
Which usually proceeds the mother of all riot acts,
But he apparently decided that there were pearls and swine
And there was no sense mixing the two.
Why should I waste any more time on you sonsofbitches,
Buncha ******* can’t see past the bottom of your glasses anyhow
,
And with that he stalked into the back,
Ostensibly to grab mixers or pretzels
Or some **** thing, and we sat still as church mice for a moment,
Until someone looked at the TV, and said ******* Sixers,
All upside and never deliverin’ the goods
,
and we nodded in agreement in the manner of those
Who do not see, hear, or say anything untoward.
Somewhere

Just call me old-fashion because
That is who I am;
Bliss is the one to find me on my
Journey getting past you ,

Somewhere over your rainbows,
Lies still my beating heart,
Which you've thrown away ,

The mixers what is right and what is
Wrong with the love we had ;
What did I do to make you so bad ?

Somewhere under your shadows
You will see me crying over you,
My soul had engraved your name in my
Heart and it has not erased,

Somewhere in your mind,
you had a vision
Of me holding me,
loving me like we once
Did moments like this I do miss,

Somewhere in this big old world you are
Wishing you never hurt me like you did !
When you see, another rainbow crossing your
Way after a rainy day,
Just know it means I got past you.


Poetic Judy Emery © 1990
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery
The Queen Of Darken Dreams
Ana Habib Feb 2018
Black and White

A friend asked me about you today

We were having lunch today together

At Mickeys- lunching on seared tuna, leafy greens, and sparkling wine

Remember that classy little whole in the wall on 59th street
The owner’s words not mine

Something must have been off about me today

Because we almost never talk about you

I told her we are happy together

But she did not buy it

So I have to admit that things are not that great between You and I

Yes you are still attractive smart and charming time has not changed that

Yes I still enjoy coming home to you

But the moment my keys scratches the door lock, a sense of apprehension sets in

It comes home with me and that was never there before

You smile, and ask for a simple kiss but my lips greets the lips of a stranger

Warm and then nothing

You ask about dinner but you are usually to busy to help with the process or give out helpful tips like you always did in the past
Its been like this for the last couple of months

You decide you want to watch a movie together
We pick one out the popcorn is ready but the for the next hour you hide yourself in the sanctuary of your room talking away on the phone only to come back minutes before the ending

We prepare mixers every now and then. I prefer mine with dessert
and you like it with a stack of manila envelopes and your old fountain pen

The clocks read 11:00pm and you make a dash for the bathroom to get ready for bed What happened to cleaning up together?

I climb into bed and you are out cold

Why is our love so black and white?

I always thought it was all about color.
Chris Rhymez Feb 2019
Fresh in tuxedo
And am fly like an eagle
My touch down needs no Heathrow
Fresh to death and the spot is packed with people
I can't wait to mingle
Having a good time is my motto
Mommy pick your bottle
It's all on me because am blowing money like a dude who just won the lotto
See my boys in the back sipping Jack
Others in Gin girl it's a real life movie
And the grip is shooting the scene
No directors saying cut, but you still see it on the screen
See all these girls in fly jeans
All doing their thing
And we drinking all kinds of liquor
Pouring different kinds of mixers
Life of the party
Don't wait until you're forty
Let's have a good time not to forget to get naughty
Shawty ,tell your friends we are having an after party
Till six in the morning
And am talking a lot of soaking
So let's get it cracking
Because time is flying.
Jill Oct 18
She awkward steps back kitchen-side
This pan-lapsed food-fond alchemist
To where her latent joys reside
In flavour-labours sanctified
    Through boils, in bakes, on roasting
Her last cooked dinner, holiday
Before her dear one took their leave
Too painful kitchen-time replay
So, pots and mixers stored away
    Lost joy of home-heart toasting

Now humming with slight body quake
Full fear of fast descent in tears
Yet realising the heady ache
Was no impending weep-long lake
    But simple mess frustration
In truth the galley, clean enough
But who put all her tools away?
No soldier knife line, shining tough
No pin for shortcrust, brush for puff
    No decorating station

Crisp tuts for every tool misplaced
With tiny sighing shoulder arch
Utensils that could not be traced
Like grieving that could not be faced
    Rough substitute located
While losing whisk, sieve, spoon, and knife
With larger pieces from her past
In working through small kitchen strife
She found her hiding zest for life
    In crusty pastry braided
    Joy-cooking reinstated
©2024

BLT Webster’s Word of the Day challenge (zest) date 18th October 2024. Zest refers to an enjoyably exciting quality, or to keen enjoyment itself. In culinary use, zest refers to small pieces of the peel of a lemon, lime, orange, or other citrus fruit used as flavoring.
Laura Jul 2022
waving hips with you to Machine Girl,
drinking terrible mixers of orange juice,
and whatever ***** my friend left last,
sometimes i let my head rest too long.
kissing my sunburn from Sunny Side beach,
trading my iPhone over tasteful r&b,
chasing memories of being loved,
tonight, you kiss me like i am.
your friends are all way cooler than me,
i’m awkward, preppy, sitting in my flaws
with excessive layers of honestly,
but still they never want me,
how can an onion put back on her layers?
Norbert Tasev Sep 2021
Leeches and gnats are already spitting ***-licking, hazelnut-brained skulls! Everyone is constantly found easy on the buzzing pharmacy scales and everyone is fleeing from the insured liability! Hardworking mixers can do it - they can hardly catch submissive mice as their voices! Competing with assorted slang passwords, they scold the moles that are churning out of culture! Today, only the maid's ladder can be walked in this pathetic compromise! Voluntarily further annoying spatial relationship; death jumps without stretched net!
 
Jacquud's Dream Life Advance as a Leading Motif: New-Rich Eastern Europeanized, tohonya Way! Persistent gunpowder smell, unnecessary aggression raging around me! My conscious, cowardly cowardice puts me to the test, and because I know: the flames of the intellect are fading in brain-sized brains that are already inherited with eternal obsessions! In a lukewarm, homely environment, webs of intentional forgetfulness can also enter that way! - Invited small-death, gracious killer moments are played by a suicide candidate trying as a dog!
 
Moments into the Darkness of Doom in my dreams! The long-awaited sentinel-strass is always wrong! Anyone can cross the living paths! For there is always a crooked barrier of oblique intent; "You have to prosper at all costs!" - Compliance and step - by - step turbocharged everyone! Every exotically seductive Smile of the Universe, flirtatious gaze, is degraded to a projected sensory disappointment! And they still want to feed a deliberately waiting for a roast pigeon like a well-fed child “some”! I can resist your wish - even out of morality! In green-molded, jerky manners, chivalrous politeness can be in vain
Norbert Tasev May 2021
Leeches and gnats are already spitting ***-licking, hazelnut-brained skulls! Everyone is constantly found easy on the buzzing pharmacy scales and everyone is fleeing from the insured liability! Hardworking mixers can do it - they can hardly catch submissive mice as their voices! Competing with assorted slang passwords, they scold the moles that are churning out of culture! Today, only the maid's ladder can be walked in this pathetic compromise! Voluntarily further annoying spatial relationship; death jumps without stretched net!
 
Jacquud's Dream Life Advance as a Leading Motif: New-Rich Eastern Europeanized, tohonya Way! Persistent gunpowder smell, unnecessary aggression raging around me! My conscious, cowardly cowardice puts me to the test, and because I know: the flames of the intellect are fading in brain-sized brains that are already inherited with eternal obsessions! In a lukewarm, homely environment, webs of intentional forgetfulness can also enter that way! - Invited small-death, gracious killer moments are played by a suicide candidate trying as a dog!
 
Moments into the Darkness of Doom in my dreams! The long-awaited sentinel-strass is always wrong! Anyone can cross the living paths! For there is always a crooked barrier of oblique intent; "You have to prosper at all costs!" - Compliance and step - by - step turbocharged everyone! Every exotically seductive Smile of the Universe, flirtatious gaze, is degraded to a projected sensory disappointment! And they still want to feed a deliberately waiting for a roast pigeon like a well-fed child “some”! I can resist your wish - even out of morality! In green-molded, jerky manners, chivalrous politeness can be in vain.

— The End —