"mixologist" poems
When we met, love Obnubilated me.
I became bananas about you.
I wanted to be luculent.
Just to be Pauciliquent.
I however felt like a blatherskite.
You probably thought I was a glaikit.
Did I sound like a meacock instead?
If so, it’s due to kakorrhaphiophobia.
I might have operose my feelings.
Did it seem like I wanna mamaguy you?
You behaved like a frondeur.
Your callipygian body looked extramundane.
Your hair looked ulitichous.
Did you feel like I lusted your Callipygian shape?
I foresaw a love that won’t flatline.
If it does, it will be eucatastrophe.
Now we’re together, I’m disenthrall from Misogamy.
You’re a deipnosophist and a mixologist.
I’m edcious.
To keep you happy, I share a boffola.
To me, love felt like a Humdudgeon.
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 6:46 PM UTC
the Webster's, the Merriam's,
residents of the Oxford
say not,
an exclamation or a noun,
but an action,
a doing word,
not so much...
as a poet~sorcerer
digressing rules,
is my input
appetizer,
poems, my exported
entrées
all posted to be
dessert
for all the sweet tooth
parts of you
all to
feast on this
process,
when I
hallelujah you...
"Praise the Lord"
the translation literal
but sojourn herewith me
for a few extants,
together, let's
invigorate, expand the
understanding of an ever expansive
definition...
if I ever fall out of love,
with natural words,
can no longer
hallelujah/scribe
to memorialize
why we claim,
we are alive....
hallelujah's
praises
for you all the
master designers'
praiseworthy creations,
an extension of themselves,
they said
in each human
godlike spark
hallelujah installed
there is nothing more
godlike
than being
human,
so when I
hallelujah
I praise each and everyone
it is a mixologist's dream,
some of it a
thank you,
some of it a
your welcome,
all of it a
celebratory exercise,
in appreciation,
of the finery of what we can
be
come
greater
through
the words
of our blood
transfused
Oh!
act out Hallelujah,
write it as if you must
urgent do
Hallelujah,
do it
not just now but,
Selah!
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
There is a strange quality
That infects beautiful people.
Marilyn Monroe is a perfect example-
It is the quality of other-worldliness,
Convincing us
That this idol transcends the mundane
And become something holy,
Untouchable
Wholly untouchable,
Their beauty circling us,
Dreamily,
Slowly.
Tom,
Despite being the most beautiful
Creature most people have ever clapped eyes on,
Does not possess this quality.
In fact,
It is the absence of it
That makes his beauty
All the more unreal.
He is so lodged into the fabric of
Existence that even the colour of his eyes
(Which have been compared to the sky so many times
It has ceased to be a cliché)
Do not look like the sky,
They are the sky,
His pupil a black sun
Stuck in the way.
His furious storm of hair is the
Golden brown of fine malt whiskey,
You can get drunk on every strand,
And you can chart the seas
From the white half-moons
On the fingernails of his hands.
(He flutters behind the bar like a drunken hummingbird,
The gold paint on his face
Turning him into an off-duty statue from Covent Garden.
He turns to address the crowd of customers.)
*“Right – roll up, roll up –
Come see the Brick Lane-ologists favourite mixologist,
I’m a cocktail maker and occasional drug taker,
I can do things with gin that’ll make your head spin…”*
He begins to juggle with three glass bottles,
“I’m your loyal bartender and I take any legal tender…”
he sets the bottles on the bar top with a grin,
“And I’m at your pleasure…for just two quid a measure.”
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
I am in a canyon
It’s grand & I am
What I am
Guilty by
Disassociation:
I can’t tell the
Leaves in the
Trees from the
Faces in the
Concrete
My mind is a
House of mirrors
My faith is a
House of cards
& god the
Dyslexic mixologist
I am arresting my
Happiness for
Enduring life just to
Spite me
Little do I know:
Only I want to hide myself
Mush brained
In the backseat
Fisheye vision
& car crash dreams
Little boxes fly by
Little boxes all the same
Q:
When do I get a
Little box &
Carport &
White fence &
Rolling pin &
Next to kin &
Worship pavement like
Them?
A:
I am already anchored to asphalt so
I’d rather sit here
Watching my thoughts
Trickle through
The membrane &
Stain my perceived
Self-worth
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 1:47 PM UTC
My eyes meet the day
at half past noon,
My morning tea is replaced
by a spiked blue lagoon.
By evening I’m drowning
In a glass of Chardonnay,
While reasoning with my heart
to meet my brain halfway.
As the clock strikes quarter past seven,
The mixologist in me whips up a brandy Manhattan.
I welcome the dawn
With a tequila sunrise,
And sleep off the hangover in multiple cries.
But that’s before I met myself,
And witnessed the most potent form of love.
So I let the bottles burn to ash,
And indulged in a whole lot of self love.
May 21, 2020
May 21, 2020 at 6:15 PM UTC
The human mind
remains bleeding edge,
but no one pays for
attic salt,
the best shall walk away
from the spaghettification
of the school system.
And roman candles
will go unlit.
Where's your résumé, Johnny?
He will hunt-and-peck
to create, lest ever
comprehend, his future
as a basement
mixologist,
'cause no one cares
to drink in education.
And his roman candle
will go unlit.
Classrooms are a thirstland,
an empty canteen,
pre-loved Maggie
—she'll graduate
quite parched,
assuredly vagarious,
modeling merkins
for period piece ****
And her roman candle
will sadly go unlit.
Feb 17, 2020
Feb 17, 2020 at 10:12 AM UTC
There are so many little tiny things.
Have you ever tried to count every pixel
Have you ever sat and counted the fibers in a rug
Have you ever traced the lines in your skin
A speckled masterpiece
Mashed mathematics and marshal law-
You are a magnet of tiny little magnitudes.
A mountain of meticulously managed meadows and malleable materials-
You are a mess from a mixologist,
But a drink so sweet
Seep deeply through every tone of button of shirt and stuffing
Be free
Be pixel sized if need be
Be kingdom
Be kindness
Be a rampart of rest to every microscopic dust particle
Be a tree
A happy tree
-
But don’t be not-
Not is such a word
None
Such a word
Nothing
Such a word
There’s no such thing as not
We always have
We always have had
And we will always
Thankfully.
-
There are so many thankful ways to live and breathe
So many breaths to take
So many contemplations to breath in with every single day
Whether you’re a happy tree
A scratch on marble
A bit of white fur in the rug
A stain
A bundle of skin muscle and bone-
There will always be more than enough to be thankful for
Even when we think about not
Even when we believe in not
Be fruitful
Be multiples not dividends
Be sappy
Be slimy
Be sloppy
Be a particle floating in a vast chasm
Be the sun itself
Be free
Be you.
Jun 1, 2024
Jun 1, 2024 at 11:10 PM UTC