"mojito" poems
The American said: let's drink the words.
She was so right.
A loquacious gin & tonic
An acerbic Darwinian daiquiri on ice
A French martini disrupted not stirred
A mojito muddled in abstinence
A Belfast bomber & brimstone
Love on the Rocks with perpetual dissent
*** on the Beach with a dash of chilli & lime
***** scorpion splashed in ironic ascension
Dark *** stifled by the sting of a disturbance
Love scented petals infused with tequila worms
Salubrious shots of Sambuca
Absinthe toasted in lunacy flakes
This is my bar.
Choose your poison wisely
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
Collage of College
Sharpened carrot sticks
Twenty hundred lettuce leaves
We eat this salad
Fall Fails
Summer: The Sequel
Starring Flora S. Fallen
Directed by Son
Sweater Weather
Snow covered beignets
Cider and cocoa rivers
Gingerbread people
Mojito Vice
Muddled leaves of mint
Lime juice and syrup downpour
Ice cube avalanche
A *** and fizzle drizzle
A spri(n)g of mint to garnish
Meat meet Heat
Baritone beer belch
Sweet symphony of pig parts
Oyster orchestra
Beef, chicken composition
The sun sings A Capella
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
there are some things,
that just smell so good:
corn freshly shucked, potatoes roasted in campfire coals, carrots fresh from the ground, then washed and stovetop roasted
basted with butter
and lavender honey.
the nape of my toddlers neck,
that clean fresh hopeful little boy smell.
coffee, straight up, freshly brewed
caramel warming,
passionfruit, strawberries, citrus any type, zested. freshly planed fennel curls, mint crushed for a mojito, roast lamb and rosemary gravy.
the smell of planed wood in the palms of my man's hands as i kiss them. frangipani, coconut tanning oil,
earth newly rained upon. popcorn popping, chocolate melting,
jasmine, orange blossoms,
a grove of pine trees.
warm gingerbread and mulled wine.
salt tang on the morning breeze.
the smell that lingers after the lovin.
garlic and ginger in a hot wok.
salt tang on the evening breeze.
prawns all sea salty and
a crisp cold beer.
sandlewood and citrus aftershave lotion on your smoothed cheek.
nectarines, apricots,
a yellow juicy peach,
freshly bitten.
apple scented shampoo daphne & lilac my nana's smell,
bay *** newspaper print and palmolive soap,
my pop's study.
rose petals crushed.
earl grey tea,
toast just before burning damper and cocky's joy
crisp fresh linen warm from the sun.
so many scents, so many smells...
these are my favourites please feel free to add your's, as long as it's clean
and above board.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 7:10 AM UTC
in silent slumber
slowly awakens
wrapped in a cotton cocoon;
the sweet smells of sleep
seducing the senses
forget the sour notes
those bitter fruits
the disjointed limbs
the ***** that yawn
in the trickle of yesterday
laid to waste
burnt in the unforgiving ash;
a misplaced cigarette
and the wine rediscovered
hiding in the cupboard
which tasted of vinegar
savour the new day
the awakening
the red dawn
revel in the mystery girl
face-palm-plant
the lost chances
the razor sharp wit
lost in the sugar syrup
of many a Mojito;
the things I could've said,
I should've said
fumble
in the blur
another
Sunday morning;
the day after
the night before.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
six slick sardines
swim through silky
ocean blue satin thoughts
chromatea cradled cranium
containing calcified continueums and coral reefs
washing wishes wonderful
on silicon sand chipped island shores
with pious palm pods
placating pontificating
poppinjays...
writing, wriggling,
morning memories...that
meander through a mountainless mind....mine
after too many mojito's on the morrow...
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 7:33 PM UTC
cogito qua sum
because i thought the original cartesian model
was too stuffy,
had too many scientific models
and was riddled with moths,
plus it sounds better:
thought in the capacity of being -
plus there is absolutely no sequencing,
no sequencing of events and then doubting
that they happened, or denying they happened...
(in relation to thinking about them)
with the above stated you can have spatial awareness...
for example?
someone hammering nails has only a certain
capacity for thinking certain things...
someone watching the television has only
a certain capacity for thinking certain things...
as contradictory in strict cartesian terms
as daydreaming: like sitting in a classroom
learning about english grammar and thinking /
imagining (the same thing, both cognitive faculties)
you're on a beach in the maldives sipping a mojito
or that you're riding a roller coaster:
ergo et cetera... id est, multi vacuum prefix
absens locus in metaphora... ego noto ******
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 8:26 AM UTC
Looks like this is the end.
Goodbye to our late night phone calls, because I will never hear your voice again
Goodbye to the long walks in the park, because I will never feel the warmth of your hands
Goodbye to the way you always held me close during a storm, because I will never be in the same room as you
Goodbye to the morning coffee, midday mojito and midnight snacks because there is no one waiting for me at home
Goodbye to all the valentines, teddy bears and gummy flowers, because there will never be someone as thoughtful as you
Goodbye to our silly nicknames, half anniversaries and crazy road trips, because my memory has been severely affected now
Goodbye to all the hugs, kisses, tickling and corny jokes, because it hurts too much to remember
Goodbye to our future plans, and dreams, because everything stopped on August the 19th
Goodbye to all the love, lust and passion, because I will never feel again
Goodbye to the years of laughter, tears, and mayhem because that’s all in the past now
Goodbye to us…
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 1:20 PM UTC
Is it natural to dislike a moth yet like a butterfly?
Mojito flavoured beer helps the spring birds sing
I'm sat yet floating in the last rays of spring sunshine
Remembering when I was yours and you were mine.
Memories gratify, whilst faults grate
Did you love me or the butterfly within?
I hear my scoff at this thought, I'm more moth you see
Butterflies capitalise on their pretty lies.
You fell for the pretty lies
You fell for the pretty wings
You fell for the notoriety being with a butterfly brings
You fell for the purposes of the accident report
So, I guess I dislike myself, since I am more moth
I froth at this revelation, come late this spring sun
Applesauce faults gloss over the fact that I the moth
Will morph into butterfly come summer.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 2:47 PM UTC
Everybody arrested
in Brooklyn
since they built the courthouse
ends up in
'The Tombs."
These days if
you require medical attention
when they cuff
you in Brooklyn,
unless there is some sort of 911 style citywide emergency,
you end up in Woodlawn hospital,
a medical institution no one
would ever choose for themselves
let alone a loved one.
First,
it is filthy,
on at least three levels,
and I don't mean three stories of building,
it is much bigger than that.
I mean three levels of hypothetical cleanliness.
Three levels of dust, muck, grime, and microscopic disease.
Second,
there is the track record.
A few years back a big fat mentally ill woman,
died of Jesus knows,
right in the waiting room.
High security.
You can watch the video of the staff stepping around her corpse
on YouTube.
I spent thursday night at Woodlawn,
handcuffed to a bed rail.
It wasn't my first time ...
A songwriter Brooklynite friend, who I am sure wishes to remain unnamed, noted this morning, with Agape' love:
"Hipsters are people just like any other minority class.
You may not like them.
You may not want to eat in the same restaurant,
Or drink from the same fountain,
but you have to respect them."
There is a reason folks like his songs to the point of stealing from them.
He has a way of distilling the truth of the matter and pressing send while I'm still working on my second of 10 paragraphs.
I couldn't help but respond"
"I don't care if you are the King Of Shiam.
You can't close my computer (especially when I am uploading said songwriter's video),
move it,
and steal my seat when I go for a cigarette
without getting a reaction from me.
I don't care if you are the ******* Sultan of Swing
or President Obama's mama,
you are going to hear about what an ******* move that is."
But I shouldn't have broken that window.
At the very least it would have saved me some stitches.
It is rather unpleasant getting stitches on one writ while the other is cuffed.
"Just a pinch" when they inject the local right into your gaping wound.
"Just a pinch."
Yeah right.
Maybe if the pinching is done by an angry pregnant wolvererine.
And I definitely shouldn't have gone next door,
ordered another mojito,
and thrown that against the door as well.
I like mojito's
wasting them in such a manner
is a filthy sort of sacrilege.
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 4:03 AM UTC
I lay on my bed drifting
In poetic play of everyday life
Poetry everywhere;
In a friendly crease that I want to keep on my sheet
The window pane that showcases the crimson setting sun
The familiar chill in the air
Neighborly chatter
Tinkering of the cans
A careful and delicate feline walk
The slurp of the mojito
The clinking of the ice cubes
The brush strokes on a portrait
The loops of smoke blown through
The very edge of a cigarette bud
Glinting in the firelight
Virtue, to see beauty in the mundane
Fascinating how
How we all see everything
And yet we see it differently
Jan 5, 2023
Jan 5, 2023 at 6:46 AM UTC
Same serpent
New skin
She hisses
A fantasy
As she slithers in
My vulnerability
A weakness
An opportunity to
Sell a dream
The bitter
Sheathed in sweetness
I swallowed the lie
And it tasted delicious
Like fresh mint
Crushed
Into a summer mojito
Cool and crisp
Now where do we go?
How about
Lake houses
And concerts
Front porches
And desserts
Then you can
Take me to the beach
Choke me in sand
Call me a king
While twisting me into
A pawn whose silver
You leach
No longer a friend
But a means to an
End
You held my grief
In the palm
Of your hand
Then squeezed it
Like a lime
What an unholy
Crime
The scales have tipped
Your ruse has been revealed
The well is poisoned
Your wine congealed
You are nothing
But a chapter
In my story
Watch as I
Flame your pages
In resplendent
Glory
And
Dermot sang of
A raven and a dove
But in your version
Of a kingdom
Both don’t fly free
Remember me,
Oh viper
The blackbird
With a cigarette lighter
Because
You’ve been flinted
Deleted
And I’m newly
Minted
Recoil from my shine
As the truth
Burns your eyes
I bid you goodnight
And I bid you goodbye
My memory of you
Like your ego
Will wither and fade
Along with
The skin you’ve shed
In the lonely bed
You’ve made
Sep 22, 2022
Sep 22, 2022 at 12:21 AM UTC