Pils poems on Hello Poetry

Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017

alternative to what's expected, i.e. counter nocturnal musing.

i never noticed it, the subtelty,
   the milimetre's worth of
deviance from
a standard beer...
and there are as many
as one could wish for -
   the cheaper palette riddles,
not something akin
to *hoegaarden
or leffe, or an ale that might
give off a cheaky hint of
   grapefruit...
or the king of stout,
     boor mc guinness...
   iron tooth paddy mc guinness -
if ever a romance, then just about now.
  no, pils beer is subtle in its
deviation from your:
reg. pint eff lager...
    oi! flint-off! (remix, born slippy,
nuxx) -
       shouldn't it be dubbed
lagger... to not say it much bigger,
otherwise posh tosh and...
        sudden realisation:
    a minor point about an added -g-.
never mind...
   pils beer:
        it's as fresh as champagne,
quirky, summery,
        fresh, i'd say even more
carbonated, definitely less heavy
than your regular lager...

...it's only 20 to 5 and already a party...
and to think:
i laughed more, i cried more (
tears of joy, say, the sea waves splashing
  against the coast in Kenya,
voughan william's fantasia on the theme
of thomas tallis)
   by myself...
than with anyone else...
  ah... alas, not a theory akin
to solipsism but the beckoning,
pulverising hive like reality...
         not even confused or dreary
with a movie franchise
    we know everyone is citing...
saying only one truth
is better than attempting to say
too many "wise" observations...
   a simple version of the grander
"quest"...
talk of beer,
    and the accent of snow in the air,
a crow perched on a lamp-post,
the bountiful grey sky above essex...
  and how ***
can never really have the status
of a kiss
    in Cinema Memory...
       nope, this cinema is subtle,
i go to it how often i can,
   all i need is a few static things
and it just comes on with a most
pleasing movie...
   that movie:
a boy and girl meet in a crowded place:
a tool gig in glasgow...
they're giving out water and passing
it into the crowd,
boy gives girl water,
       boy puts his arms around
the girl and pushes the zombie
chant chant brigade aside,
girl breathers, girl drinks,
girl turns around,
   the music fill the otherwise necessary
dialogue...
boy and girl kiss...
     after the gig, girl waits for the boy...
boy sees girl...
     passes her by...
                    that's the zenith...
there's no butcher, no flesh-dough kneading...
   a standard investment in
Cinema Memory...
             nothing to boast about...
the music is still there...
       and a respect for memory,
to give it a cinema status...
     however could brick walls and wintry
shrubs be so entertaining anyway?
    why isn't *** all that memorable
(unless you paid for it with
a *******)?
             it's too mechanical,
there's nothing ethereal about it,
nothing to actually boast about,
    maybe that's why so many
people resort to filming it...
      it's so, so unmemorable...
   don't get me wrong:
          who am i to prescribe any
better release?
           but this is Cinema Memory,
and what's the most frail,
most butterfly like that gives
this cinema its movies...
    well: i say moments that extend
into forever...

...and that subtelty of a pilzner beer,
    light, unlike a Bud (too much
rice extract in that ******)...

...not as heavy as your stndard beer,
definitely more fizzy, tickly fizz.

harini Jul 2018

In the Mood For Love

Kids, like glass, aren't indestructible.

    As much as the boy who smokes stolen cigarettes on empty train tracks,
going through them like cheap candy,
says that he's not broken, he's cracked a long time ago.

    The drug addict who plays with fire as if it's his pet, running fingers along soft orange and reds, burns littering his arm, knows that he's shattered beyond recognition, but he doesn't care.

    The abused boy, curling up into a ball under his bed to avoid the beatings, his face covered in blood, glass from a broken bottle thrown at him studded in his arms. Glass from a broken soul studded in every aspect of himself

     The bad boy, who gets into fights and does graffiti on the walls, says that he isn't glass. That someone who has gone through as much as he did shouldn't be something so fragile. He shatters too one day, when he finds himself corned by 5 men in an alley. He doesn't come back out.

     The insomniac who's plagued by nightmares when he's awake, find that they only get worse when he sleeps. So he takes pills, pils, pills, until the glass gives out, and crumbles into powder.

     The depressed boy, who thinks his existence is a burden, holds an empty wine glass in his shaking hand. As he sinks lower into the bathtub, he lets go of the fragile glass, and it
breaks into a million pieces
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
     The schizophrenic who sees his dead friends in the train tracks, the fireplace, the bed, the empty alleys, the pills he takes, and the glasses of water he washed them down with. He sees his friends in the oceans of their home, in the lights that lit up streets they roamed. He sees them in the 24/7 convenience store they’d hang out at, until the owner kicked them out. He know that they aren't real, that it's just a way he deals with his grief. That his mind has created these ghosts because he refuses to accept his friends are gone, the doctors tell him so anyway. But if his ghosts leave then he's got nothing left. So he holds on to his broken pieces of glass, long after they've left him, the memories cutting into his skin. Because he can't have nothing.

#life #metaphor #wonder #glass #broken

Edward Coles Mar 2014

Michael Fellows

My woman told me that drinking beer increases creativity. Now, I don't know whether that's true or not; but in this case, I'll put my faith in modernity. I'm drinking a can of Holsten Pils (there are other lagers available), and it's safe to say that I've aged a few years, since my uncle was laid out on the table. He drank beer. I remember that clearly. He was the only real person in my family, and for that I held him dearly. We built a bunk-bed for my brothers one summer, and he whistled throughout the day. For that day he was almost a father; for that moment, absence went away.

His death was inevitable, and we knew of its coming for years. It is because of this that I have accepted fate, and an eternity of tears. His muddied grave is a disgrace to his flesh, to the life that he lived, and to the friends he addressed. Now but a rotting Christian symbol, to remember an atheist; now but an unvisited grave, for those he loved dearest. So, I shall drink to my uncle, my makeshift father. For each Christmas he spent, drunk on cheap lager.

c

#death #alcohol #memories #family #randomthoughts

Caleb Kyme Mar 2022

Pills and Pilsner

Pills and Pils
You know the drill
Stone and smoke
Well, you can't see well at home
Friends and family
I got less of
Day and Night
Suicide on my mind

It's never about me
Always blaming it on me
Up, up and away
Like a bird in a cage
I wanna fly to worlds astray

This ain't for us
So I'mma just go
To place of no return
Because everything's gonna be okay
But nothing is always okay

Slit my wrist is all I wanna...

BTW Jun 2021

Imagination

Imagine
17 June 2021

Imagine a life without imagination

Monotone colours of  life relations.

*** only for procreation.

Missing the best sensations.

Dull flags for empty nations,

Cheese and pasta saturation.

Recreation swings not slides,

Only seeks without hides.

Teeter totter,, no mouth wide squatters.

Worse not doing what we naughta.

Imagine not  gives me fright.

Seeking nothing out of sight.

Dreams without Alpine hills,

Movies without monster thrills.

Credit cards, no monthly bill.

No whoopee catch me pils.

Story books of history,

Without what could be.

Imagination should get more credit,

There, glad I said it.

— The End —