"pubs" poems
In frames as large as rooms that face all ways
And block the ends of streets with giant loaves,
Screen graves with custard, cover slums with praise
Of motor-oil and cuts of salmon, shine
Perpetually these sharply-pictured groves
Of how life should be. High above the gutter
A silver knife sinks into golden butter,
A glass of milk stands in a meadow, and
Well-balanced families, in fine
Midsummer weather, owe their smiles, their cars,
Even their youth, to that small cube each hand
Stretches towards. These, and the deep armchairs
Aligned to cups at bedtime, radiant bars
(Gas or electric), quarter-profile cats
By slippers on warm mats,
Reflect none of the rained-on streets and squares
They dominate outdoors. Rather, they rise
Serenely to proclaim pure crust, pure foam,
Pure coldness to our live imperfect eyes
That stare beyond this world, where nothing's made
As new or washed quite clean, seeking the home
All such inhabit. There, dark raftered pubs
Are filled with white-clothed ones from tennis-clubs,
And the boy puking his heart out in the Gents
Just missed them, as the pensioner paid
A halfpenny more for Granny Graveclothes' Tea
To taste old age, and dying smokers sense
Walking towards them through some dappled park
As if on water that unfocused she
No match lit up, nor drag ever brought near,
Who now stands newly clear,
Smiling, and recognising, and going dark.
18k
My essay, Changency, is a meme
This meme has been growing inside of me
I've been a carrier
Many of us have been
I'm not a benevolent character though
I've been purposely placing the memetic material on blankets
And leaving the blankets in local trading posts
I call these 'trading posts' bookstores, universities, colleges, schools...coffee shops, pubs, restaurants, etcetera
The beautiful thing is that these memes aren't really on blankets
The memes are encoded on the backs of knowledge, truth, and authenticity
They come from a place of pain
Evolution can be painful (but does it have to be?)
Three dimensions are easy to comprehend
Four, sure just add time
What about spacetime?
And a fifth dimension...I don't really know what that means...but some do and they're watching, listening, waiting, and loving us
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 9:52 PM UTC
After the wind lifts the beggar
From his bed of trash
And blows to the empty pubs
At the road's end
There exists only the silence
Of the world before dawn
And the solitude of trees.
Handel on the set mysteriously
Recalls to me the long
Hot nights of childhood spent
In malarial slums
In the midst of potent shrines
At the edge of great seas.
Dreams of the past sing
With voices of the future.
And now the world is assaulted
With a sweetness it doesn't deserve
Flowers sing with the voices of absent bees
The air swells with the vibrant
Solitude of trees who nightly
Whisper of re-invading the world.
But the night bends the trees
Into my dreams
And the stars fall with their fruits
Into my lonely world-burnt hands.
_______
Source:
http://www.universeofpoetry.org/nigeria.shtml
13.9k
In pubs with bar flies.
Kronenburg, Becks, Carling, Stella Artois and Fosters,
Dancing in our blood,
Utterly inured; we are endured by all:
The solipsism most profound.
And when Johnnie, Jack and Jameson join,
The sentimental and the morbid
Are conjoined.
And ****
In the custody of beer halls,
The shadows that draw, fade,
And calls – e’en Death’s! -- are put on hold!
No time; instead, before the last, another pint.
For in this hallowed inn,
Drinking what’s in the glass,
And espousing the glow within,
Cares regress.
No woes,
Or loaded psyches,
For when the pressure builds,
The best: a jet of yellow bliss,
Relieves the pain,
On Armitage Shanks' porcelain.
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 6:50 PM UTC
I will re-visit
The modern picts,
The viking border people
Comparing *******
And slapping bellies
While giving dheagh shlainte.
They've plundered their last village;
It's been a while since they protected the walls
While sleep sets in.
They raid the pubs,
Raise a glass shield,
Weild a shot glass
Singing shlainte,
The dragon ships have sailed.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
Just in the pubs and clubs
******* our own gear around
Seemingly, always upstairs
For weddings and birthday parties
Sorting out miles of wires
Well-worked practise
But when those amps were turned on
With an audible amplified thud
As switches are flicked
And their lights gaze like tiny red eyes
That's when I am ready
First number and the drums and bass
Connect to create new heartbeats
And now I'm into it
Not the man in the mill anymore
I'm the frontman for the band
And the music soars through me
As the night goes on and grows
The crowd has grown and is dancing
Gaining energy from the music
And feeding it back to us in turn
Now THIS is being alive
And so it was
By Phil Roberts
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 8:31 AM UTC
[1:24 AM, 8/26/2016] +91 77085 85412: (Typing message on whatsapp)
A boy meets girl.. gets her attraction..
thinks to speak.. touch.. make her his better half..!
She says yes..!
Both gets together.. coffee shops.. movies.. parks.. pubs.. clubs.. beaches.. parties.. having a lot of fun.. touches each.. enjoying..
nice love story ryt... !
Stop ther..
did u see any love inbetween themm..
noo i didn't.. i saw two people having fun that isn't love..
then how are we thinking its a love story..
look at this story now..
A boy meets girl.. thinks she's cute..
both speaks after few vague looks.. texts..
looking at their phone contacts thinking to call each..
more texts more calls.. rare meets.. one fine day confirming love..
some day later..
feeling faded out from it..
she reminds him.. he reminds her.. few texts..
he s feeling ****** off of her..
she then speaks someday.. he melts for her voice.. he melts at her images.. he melts when thinking her..!
He s getting confused.. thinking her.. calling her.. messaging her.. ! Hoping everything will b fine.. i see some love in this now
[1:25 AM, 8/26/2016] +91 77085 85412: And he types a crazy crazy big story in the middle of the night for her and she surprises him by being online! *** shes awake**!!
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 3:46 AM UTC
I am the product of lost civilization;
hanging in between circles of modernization ;
who tells
Whether its rising or setting of sun or globalization
The era of bindis
Or glamorization
Of going to Pubs
or piligrimization
Of mothers going to kitty parties
and of socialization
Of works of Picasso's
Or hussainization
Of belief of gods
Or Sensationalization
Of act of democracy
Or just rationalization
Of laws of science
Or limitization
Of acts of defiance
Or patronization
Of loss of love
Or dehumanization
Of views of people
Or individualization
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 1:26 PM UTC
He is a man of the land, travelling
Near and far. To teach those that listen to
The music of rot, that there is another
Way to open them self up with Rock and
Metal hard core.
He will clean them of pop and girls
Aloud, replace it with the solo guitar
And drifts that can go on for hours.
He travels the pubs near and far to
Give those that much needed fix of
Proper music, with a pint they listen
Through the night this man of rock
The pub star.
Long live rock, metal and guitar and this
Man of rock and metal that will keep it
Alive and never give in to pop music or
Bubble pop rather smash it up with his
Awesome guitar....
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC
THE TORTURING VOICES
you see my dad was watching the cricket with us
and i watched it with him, and it was very fun, you see
we saw australia being beaten by the west indies, because
they were so cool, you see, we were the cricket boys
and no robber wanted to rob us, because we were into australia’s favourite sport, cricket
you see i heard a non realistic image of my father saying
brian’s not a mans kid, brian’s not a man’s kid
and i was trying to relax and calmly watch the match
and my family were unrealistically teasing me, mind you they were having fun
and the words they said were different to me as it was for them
brian’s not a mans kid, don’t get kidnapped brian be like us
brian’s not a man’s kid, and watched the cricket, ya know trevor chappell doing an underarm ball
mum called cricket, anything and everything which has everything you hate
well, i don’t believe that, i was feeling like trying to be a mans kid
brian’s not a mans kid, brian’s not a mans kid
and i was getting these awful visions, i wanted these voices to stop
you see people in canberra were doing it too, but they looked like fierce kidnappers
and i said you can’t get me, i am a sports watcher
so i went home and obsessingly watching the cricket and AFL and rugby league, rugby union
you name the sport i watched it, and i fell asleep in front of the sport
you see i have this vision that mens kids watch the sport, mens kids watch the sport
brian’s not a mans kid, **** off ya hooligan away from us
you see, i wanted at that stage a hooligan to my dad and i had someone grab me outside a club
and i kicked him saying, get off me ya kidnapper, you won’t get ya hands on me mate
and dad was watching the cricket and enjoyed it, but i got frustrated with all that teasing
i didn’t want to be kidnap victim and i hate being my families or friends little teasie
i battle voices saying how is our little tease doing hey
but i hated when people wanted to bully me, saying your family are like us, your not
i said i like sport and they said, no you don’t, your family does, and your not like your family mate, your like us now man
i told my voices to **** off, and they said, your not like your family, your like us
and this made me into a little 2 year old boy, i hated that voice
i remember i loved watching agro, which was a funny puppet on channel 7, and the mens kids said
don’t watch agro, watch cheezeTV, which was the cartoon show on the other channel
and my voices going crazy saying, you are a crazy person, who is too old for baby agro
and you are not like your family, your still like us, buddy
i screamed out, LEAVE ME ALONE, i am a sports watching mans kid
and dads image said brian’s not a mans kid, brian’s not a mans kid
but it could’ve been greame thrones kidnapper or patrick dunbars kidnapper
i said voices, ‘stop', i wanted to be like my family, they said you are not like your family, your still like us
and i said, they look cool, and you guys look stupid, please leave me alone
there is also a man who wanted me and my brother tied to a pole, but we felt we weren’t immortal, but cool
i went into pubs to dance and watch the sport and i felt like a cool man
brian’s not a mans kid brian’s not a mans kid, stay in there koomarri man, get ****** mate went the little homebody kid
as i was watching the canberra bushrangers baseball team played, yeah totally awesome dude
brian’s not a mans kid, I WISH IT’LL ALL STOP
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
i can no longer understand how now,
this sleeplessness at night,
when the world is waking in other places
so far away from me,
to the ethereal powders of the breeze,
that paints the morning with its poetry,
as the phantom of the love i love,
causes me to awaken with a cry.
It's going to rain, rain, it's going to rain,
those sleek-silver drops will take me back again,
to those cobbled, winding streets,
the raucous, song-filled pubs,
and the green, the green, the red-brick,
granite and oh! the green,
the steaming Earl Grey tea,
of which i love with a yearning need,
waiting, waiting for me,
on that precious island on the sea.
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 4:46 PM UTC
I'm making a pub pilgrimage,
A malted Mecca trip;
I'm leaving all I love at home
Crusading with the Picts.
I'll be alone with all my thoughts,
It's what must needs be done,
To keep the demons off.
Publicans meet me on the steps,
On Sundays by the side;
This trip of three thousand miles
May **** should I survive.
My altar's elbow worn,
The finest oaken wood;
I'll climb the stairs on knees,
Hear bells, raise cups of cheer.
There's games of chance,
Some romance,
With songs and several fools;
It has trappings of Canterbury
In pubs all called O'Tooles.
There's Highland mead,
And broken bread,
With harps from inner rooms,
I'll have dispirited spirits
And revel inside tombs.
My cave awaits on my return,
It's dark and hard and cold;
But I know the light's within my sight,
If I move this granite stone.
I'll bring with me a scapula
To make those visions stop,
The relics that I sought,
Those demons of a sot.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 9:16 AM UTC
The weekends are here,
The time of good cheer,
Everyone will be headed
out to the pubs
to have an ice cold beer,
Some will stay home,
to watch the world series
game, and wonder
who will be the victor
no one will know until the end of the game.
Sunday brings with it,
a day to worship God,
and everyone will go
to Church and listen
to his word,
but when the weekend
is over and Monday
comes again,
a new work week it will
bring with it
for me and for you.
Oct 21, 2011
Oct 21, 2011 at 11:56 AM UTC
grandad he is funny just 90 years old
even in the summer he always says its cold
he likes to tell his stories of how he used to be
how he led his life living wild and free.
nights he used to have drinking in the pubs
dancing with the ladies in the local clubs
days with all his friends and all the fun he had
pulling lots of pranks a proper jack the lad.
now he as grown old not like he used to be
in his mind his younger days he will always see
i love him very much he means the world to me
a grandad in a million that led his life so free
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC
Covent Garden.
Midnight.
Revellers and tourists combined.
The market is heaving.
Last trains are leaving.
An eclectic mix to broaden the mind.
Covent Garden.
2am.
The place is pretty quiet.
Pubs have closed.
Clubs.... God knows.
The tourists have frozen their riot.
Covent Garden.
4am.
A drunkard stumbles by.
Flood lit shops.
A rickshaw stops.
The backdrop against a reddish
sky.
Covent Garden.
6am.
Blokes lurk down Langley street.
The glint of a blade.
A blur in the shade.
Lava tip of cigarette falls to a strangers feet.
Covent Garden.
8am.
Commuters emerge from underground stations.
Workers prepare.
Visitors beware.
Pick pockets attracted like gravitation.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC
A seventies child
Born in Wales, one of the four
Countries of The UK.
I remember brown as the colour
of the day.
Fabric embossed wallpaper
all the neighbours names, who married who,
who was carrying on, the alcoholic, the beaten wives,
Even, get this the peadophiles (or kiddy fiddlers as was known)
Dai the milk, Mair the bread, the shop of infinite items.
Rugby practice for dad, baking for mam
(Cake and babies) gossip over the garden hedge
Fish on a Friday a Sunday roast, hot sweet tea.
Bubble and squeak, post delivered before you
left for school. Mist on the mountain, dew on the grass.
Welsh valley life, sounds idyllic
but scratch the surface and a darker colour
than brown emerges. Petty squablings leading to
familial feuds, the Williamses don't get on with
the Joneses, and as for the Pritchards, less said the better.
School, local, no not for me. I was sent to a Welsh
School, taught and learnt the language denied to my
Parents by English politics. Cat amongst the pigeons there.
Did I think I was special? Ideas above her station. That's what
the neighbours say.
Well, you all had the option.
Dr Forbes FRCS
Delivered babies buried men and women
Loved by all, especially his lollipop sweets.
I wasn't a child to get ***** or rip wrapping paper
off of gifts, I liked to go under the stairs (like Harry Potter)
and read. I left the dirt for my sister born 4 years later.
Then in 1982 came my brother, tidy my mother describes it.
'74,'78,'82 poor dad to have to wait I say!
More pubs than chapels, more walking than driving
more rain than sun, more music than ever was sung.
The '80's came, and we had strikes, no electric, candles
toast made with a toasting fork over the fire.
No mines, no steel, no jobs.
Picket lines, dole queues, women in work
latchkey kids, Thatcherism, ******* times.
Falklands war, IRA bombs, Royal weddings
Tory rule
But, the fire in the dragon never went out
and Tom Jones still sings his heart out.
Cymru cysglyd gwlad y gân, deffrwch
nawr, dyma'ch tro.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
Every thanksgiving,
My family gets smaller.
Gone to college. Gone traveling. Gone to another woman. Gone to Florida. Gone to prison.
Gone to see the lord.
Funerals are how
I visit the lord. God is drawn to eulogies.
He’s there, a fixture,
almost a cliche,
like a great aunt with a black veil
weeping into a floral
handkerchief.
Today, at this funeral,
a thin layer of snow and ice
has frozen the ground.
Black dress shoes
press ridged footprints into the
snow.
Every funeral I’ve ever
been to has been cold. Dress
clothes and peacoats
aren’t thick enough to keep
me warm during a funeral.
I keep my hands in my pockets and hunch forward,
watching my breath hit the winter wind.
The winter wind is
an evaporated sadness, like god.
During thanksgiving, the gravy boat
on the counter
let off hot, thin steam. While pouring it thick
on my potatoes,
A shadow in the corner of the room caught my eye.
The days after a funeral are
filled with a confused, hopeful mysticism. Every moving shadow,
every unexplained noise
is a visitation.
So I ****** my head towards the corner of the room. Nothing.
Glancing back at the table,
I look at his empty seat, reminded
how much I’m him. I’m quiet, like he was.
I
laugh like he laughed.
My teeth are as bad as his were.
I drink like he did when he was
my age,
days, nights at a time, stumbling home from dark pubs,
watching, with blurred vision,
my whisky breath hit the winter wind,
and evaporate, almost as fast as God.
After the turkey and the pie and the coffee,
I go down to the basement
and I pour myself a stiff
*** and coke.
I drink, in silence, to the gone.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones—
In fact, he’s remarkably fat.
He doesn’t haunt pubs—he has eight or nine clubs,
For he’s the St. James’s Street Cat!
He’s the Cat we all greet as he walks down the street
In his coat of fastidious black:
No commonplace mousers have such well-cut trousers
Or such an impreccable back.
In the whole of St. James’s the smartest of names is
The name of this Brummell of Cats;
And we’re all of us proud to be nodded or bowed to
By Bustopher Jones in white spats!
His visits are occasional to the Senior Educational
And it is against the rules
For any one Cat to belong both to that
And the Joint Superior Schools.
For a similar reason, when game is in season
He is found, not at Fox’s, but Blimpy’s;
He is frequently seen at the gay Stage and Screen
Which is famous for winkles and shrimps.
In the season of venison he gives his ben’son
To the Pothunter’s succulent bones;
And just before noon’s not a moment too soon
To drop in for a drink at the Drones.
When he’s seen in a hurry there’s probably curry
At the Siamese—or at the Glutton;
If he looks full of gloom then he’s lunched at the Tomb
On cabbage, rice pudding and mutton.
So, much in this way, passes Bustopher’s day-
At one club or another he’s found.
It can be no surprise that under our eyes
He has grown unmistakably round.
He’s a twenty-five pounder, or I am a bounder,
And he’s putting on weight every day:
But he’s so well preserved because he’s observed
All his life a routine, so he’ll say.
Or, to put it in rhyme: “I shall last out my time”
Is the word of this stoutest of Cats.
It must and it shall be Spring in Pall Mall
While Bustopher Jones wears white spats!
3.3k
Dear Seattle,
I hate you
You and your tall buildings made of steel and glass
Your *** ridden streets
And alleyways that smell of **** and *****
You, Seattle, the melting *** of Washington State
With your ****** foreign old men
Who reek of beer and cigarettes
Who think they’ve still got it “going on”
**** you, Seattle
And your passive aggressive ways
**** you and your parks littered with alcoholics and heroin-addicts
Forget your clubs and pubs
Your romantic cowboys
Enlightened hippies
And your dreamy emo kids
Dear Seattle,
I will not miss you
Aug 22, 2010
Aug 22, 2010 at 9:21 PM UTC
Oh I do like to be in the countryside
where the branches bash against the windows of the bus
where the leaves on the boughs of the trees bow so low
that I feel I have to duck.
Where people know me almost better than I know myself
I can gesture to my figure when Brigitte says
"have you eaten?"
and she will reply
"but that means nothing."
Where I can tell Tracy all about my life
and she won't judge,
will look at me with the same quiet smile,
the same laughing acceptance
as she ever has, since the day we met.
Where Cindy and Cathy sit talking about the world
and tell me of their troubles
because they know I'll understand.
Where the sea pounds gently in the distance
whipping the wind sometimes into a frenzy
and molding my hair into a salt-ridden sculpture
on my head.
I don't miss it
when I'm in the city
on the contrary, I love the beat of the sun on the concrete,
the thrash of the trains in the distance,
even the wheezing exhaust fumes
feel like they fit somehow.
But it's nice to be back sometimes
where the trees still grow on the roadsides
where the fields are green even in winter
where the pubs are cozy and quiet
like their clientele.
I went back there today
and I loved it like always
I loved it as ever
I love it still.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 11:07 AM UTC
Those long uneven lines
Standing as patiently
As if they were stretched outside
The Oval or Villa Park,
The crowns of hats, the sun
On moustached archaic faces
Grinning as if it were all
An August Bank Holiday lark;
And the shut shops, the bleached
Established names on the sunblinds,
The farthings and sovereigns,
And dark-clothed children at play
Called after kings and queens,
The tin advertisements
For cocoa and twist, and the pubs
Wide open all day--
And the countryside not caring:
The place names all hazed over
With flowering grasses, and fields
Shadowing Domesday lines
Under wheat's restless silence;
The differently-dressed servants
With tiny rooms in huge houses,
The dust behind limousines;
Never such innocence,
Never before or since,
As changed itself to past
Without a word--the men
Leaving the gardens tidy,
The thousands of marriages,
Lasting a little while longer:
Never such innocence again.
3k
I'm so gangster that I have gold tears
so cheers, grab that beer and **** outta here
New york city clubs, pubs, and big bassy dubs
Throwing my money around like I'm ******* dumb
but I'm not, I'm loaded with a gross so big it's gross
I have strangers waving at me, smiling at me,
don't you see how awesome I be
Nah please you jealous of me
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 2:04 PM UTC
Edinburgh, oh lovely Edinburgh
I visited you during a Scottish storm
But, it did not deter my fascination with your beautiful rich land,
which I had set out to soak up during my short welcoming stay
I saw castles and monuments
galleries and eateries
even little pubs and alleyways
that tickled my fascination
I took midnight strolls into the backstreets
and met lovely people who equally shared gratitude towards your wondrous land
And so, I leave temporarily at least
with a little something to say
"Thanks for the memories, I'll be back indefinitely,
with more love and awe to share than ever before!"
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 1:31 PM UTC
I'm not in a rush to leave this place.
I'm in no hurry, it's not a race.
I'd like to take it real slow.
So many stunning places to go.
I want to travel far and wide.
See much more of the English countryside.
Beautiful beaches that surround us in Cornwall and Devon, remind us we live in our own corner of Heaven.
Mystical places with tales of legends to tell.
So much to do and see, I'll do my best to make it sell.
Tintagel such a mystic place, where legend has it King Arthur had his chair.
He had a roundtable it held many Knights, all ready to defend, always ready for a fight.
In York a Viking museum to tell how they came upon our shores, with longboats, a 60 man crew, paddled with their oars.
Bath has the best Roman baths to be found, laze and spoil yourself in the steam rooms built in Roman surrounds.
In Wales, there's Snowdonia for you to climb, or the less active can take a train ride.
A castle in Caernarfon where Princes are appointed by H M The Queen, the sword on the shoulder duly declares arise HRH Prince of Wales, the crowd are waiting for the new Prince to be seen.
In Scotland there's Edinburgh with a castle tall and round sits atop a very high mound.
The lowlands and the Highlands are a sight of well known beauty, driving around the lochs at night keep your eyes open for a monstrous sight, nessie fact or fiction,
Of course there are the lakes of England too, Windermere the largest draws the biggest crowd. Find a cottage out of sight, snuggle up with a loved one, cuddle tight.
Put on your water skis, hire a boat, sail your wind surfing board, fire up your jet ski any of these activities can be fun and available to be done, daily.
The Cotswolds, for take your breath away beauty, small villages, luscious village greens, cricket playing in the field, Large Houses, Lord of the Manors, old worldly pubs, thatched pubs and rivers waiting to be seen.
There are Dartmoor, Bodmin Moor and Exmoor too, Peak District, Lake District mountain ranges, many a zoo.
I'm not in a rush to leave this place.
I'm in no hurry, it's not a race.
I'd like to take it real slow.
So many stunning places to go.
So much to do, so much to see.
On your doorstep, no need to stray.
Whatever you do, wherever you go, have a happy holiday.
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 12:49 PM UTC
There is no moon tonight
just the cold stars
in the unfeeling sky
yet I cling on to dreams
the gypsy caravan
I stood & gazed at
as a child
in the City museum
is still there
painted, gilded
calling for the carefree road
& in my heart
long before I met you
lived my fascination for your mysterious people
enchanters, fortune-tellers,
some say, child & horse thieves
portrayed thus
in my Mother's Russia
- the wild people of the endless road
the people & whose fiery songs I wanted to follow-
& now, in a far off world, bewitched
by you,
I find out that your dark eyes
are that of a gypsy - Romany
& it's like fate
like D. H Lawrence
' The ****** & the Gypsy'
so why, Northener, do you not love me
like your people, I am also a wanderer
a creature of the road
a castaway with no home
than the one my heart happened to find
if you or fate somehow cast this love spell
upon me
if this was meant to be, you should love me, Gypsy
only that would make sense
take me away
let us go a-wandering
across the land, moors & hills
beautiful boy, sweet poet
do you know I once tread the winter's
frost all the night's way to town
for you, hoping to seal
my love's fate
the dark sky
above me
doesn't know how to lament
lost love
the summer of it's heart
has passed,
drunk long away
in quiet pubs
there is only this poem
poorly written -
my heart bleeding
on my sleeve
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC