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Desmond the poet Apr 2018
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.
Using rare and probably used words to express how I felt when I met my wife for the 1st.
Brandon Jul 2013
The man opposite the table of us ordered a dry sack rather ****** and loudly. Derek leaned back in his chair so that he was balancing on the back two wooden legs and shouted over to the man “I’ve got you’re dry sack right here" while grabbing at his crotch with his one free hand. His other of course being occupied with his seventh whiskey sour. By this point he had been ordering more whiskey than sour and his thirst was still far from quenched.

Next to him, Julie Ann laughed in her quiet way at the disgusted look on the mans face that Derek had insulted. She enjoyed Derek’s lack of restraint when he was drinking and the comments he would haphazardly say. Especially if it were directed towards the upper class. A class at one time she longed to be a part of but had since changed her mind. She flirted with the stem of her martini conjuring up boyish childhood fantasies to any man that was aware enough in his drunken haze to focus his eyes upon the stemware. Her seduction grew all the wilder the more her intoxication spread thruout the room. Julie Ann used her charm and looks as much as possible. She knew she would not always be the way she was and decided to live as hard as possible before her time; whether death, disease, or age; happened.

Her most recent fling, Franklin, sat beside her enamored as the rest of the men (and admittingly some women.) He nursed his death in the afternoon drink, one he felt the need to strictly remind that the mixologist behind the bar used absinthe and not Pernod, and watched Julie Ann’s animated movements. He made no illusions about his courtship with Julie Ann and was often quite boastful about it. Franklin was a hard person to like for moments longer than a few minutes and even less likable when the alcohol ran out. He would talk about his future with Julie Ann while she quietly rolled her eyes and never approached the subject of a future.

Nothing ever lasted long with Julie Ann except for cocktail hour.

I ordered my usual gin and tonic and watched the crowded restaurant in its busyness. Waiters were scurrying from table to table replacing drinks and bringing out large orders of food from the kitchen for the tables that could afford luxuries like eating. They swerved and dodged each other like an artful ballet or a war without casualties.

The man that ordered the dry sack quickly drank his aperitif and, upon further heckling from Derek, decided to skip dinner and leave. He paid his bill at the table and left a fifty cent tip for the waiter. He grabbed his jacket and wife by the arm and made his way towards the exit via a route that included our table. As he approached one could see the nerve swell inside him and as he neared even closer his mouth began to open before Derek opened his and said that if he dared to even utter a sound Derek would have him lying flat out on his back with his eyes rolled in the back of his head and his wife would be around back learning what a real man felt like.

The man stopped for a minute in his tracks and thought about his options. His wife eyed Derek with lust and was secretly hoping that her husband would open his mouth and say something but he never did. He squeezed her arm even harder, shook his head towards Derek, and walked out of the restaurant. A loud, raucous laugh exploded from our table.

Julie Ann was smiling a devilish grin and we all inquired as to what mischievous deed she was thinking. She took her left hand out from beneath the table and produced a wallet and opened it up to reveal the license of Mr dry sack. His name was Richard which we all agreed fitting.

While he was preoccupied with Derek, Julie Ann had reached around and pick pocketed him, stealing his wallet and the eight 100 dollar bills that he kept inside.

I asked for one of the bills and she handed it to me. I folded it into a paper airplane and set it into flight, landing on Richards table as the waiter had returned to clean it off. He unfolded the bill and looked around before stuffing it into the inside pocket of his uniform.

Julie Ann ordered another round of drinks and we drank and laughed and talked and danced and drank until 400$ of our newfound cash was spent.

After paying our tab we stumbled out into the cool night air and each went out into our own directions with promises to meet up again the following night and drink away the other 300$.
Unedited.
ogdiddynash Mar 2015
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!
A Mareship Sep 2013
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.”
Sal Lake Feb 2013
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
mocha Nov 2019
and in the dark, by my lonesome
i'll put together a thousand soundscapes
of the adventures we've been on

the strumming of a lone guitar among the hushed whispers
of survivors long-gone, and tales long-forgotten
a woman's voice, clear cut and chilled
singing a mournful ballad for all to hear.

the endless creaking, crackling of rust
water dripping and stirred up dust
dragging pipes, chains and more;
falling asleep on the catwalk's floor.

i made a selection, just for you,
of teenagers running and laughing
snow kicked up, fire crackling
perhaps you're alongside them, cackling
those soundscapes I made back in the day were actually strangely good.
pragya santani May 2020
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.
Carlo C Gomez Feb 2020
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.
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.
Jennifer McCurry Jul 2020
Eve's daughter in apron and wide skirt Hides apple bottom            
And her most delicious dish              
              
Bow tied behind slim waist              
Waits primly for her sweet meats              
And man              
              
Greets him              
Drink in hand              
An expert mixologist              
              
Creates the perfect coctail              
For her perfect ****              
              
2 parts Grand Marnier              
2 parts Ginger beer              
Splash of lime juice              
Garnish with:              
Very secret ingredient              
Sugar n salt rim stuck by oooey gooey vaginal slick              
              
Classy Dark 'n stormy              
And her mood              
              
🐍 Little does Eve's child know, her ***** duties are being watched and glasses are being raised, celebrating her desires and place in the world. A nightly gathering of would be saints and angels fallen in with sin raise their glasses and cheer "Salute!". Her *** inspired recipe's collected and kept dear in their hearts and hard ons. An **** like feast of delicacies are ravished,  savoring each bite, flavour like no other foods on Earth or in the heaven's. Key ingredient, the succulent female juices coaxed by fruits and the fruits of man.
It’s either I’m a bad bartender or you are bad customers- I refuse to believe it is the former.

I’ve spent years learning how to flair; I’ve juggled bottles, flipped liquors and done magic tricks to wow you but all you care about are your cocktails.

So I’m done pouring into cups I never get to drink from— done serving tables I never get to eat from.

I’m done being a mixologist for people that prove they don’t want to mix with me, which is to say, I refuse to be the friend that always calls; the friend that always splits himself thin for “friends” that would never do the same for me.

So the next time you come to my bar to drink, don’t expect to see me at the counter— don’t expect to see me in your life.

-Buumba Munene-

— The End —