"quaff" poems
The likes of you I can't describe,
Yet I love to eat between your thighs.
The melody you spake to me
Unfolds my greatest sovereignty.
I crave to quaff all of your spit,
And swallow every drop of it.
Don't cheat me of your tasty flesh,
Those bare and supple ****** *******
Your eyes that follow my firm gaze,
While we kiss and lick and misbehave.
I need to feel each piece of skin,
Smashing girl and boy parts over and over again.
It's such a treat to eat you whole;
I'm obsessed with eating 19-year-olds.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
Flooded and doomed alone I stand
Helplessly watching my people fall out of my hand
I wish I could quaff down this copious water
And save them all from this clutter
It takes me back to the bloodshed
When innocent Kashmiris time and again bled
For a war that thrived for my land and soil
Helplessly watching it made my heart coil
I wish to break into a million pieces
When I watch these sorrowful bruised faces
But I am the king of the north
I need to stand tall and face the wrath.
But oh Allah, tell me why do my people suffer?
Can you give me the power to buffer?
I, Jammu & Kashmir plead you to glorify us all
We cannot take another fall
I dream of a day full of joy
Where guns are never replicated even as a toy
I dream of freedom from all bad omen
Please bless each animal, child, man and women.
The people of Pakistan and India are welcome on my land
Only with friendly non-armed hands.
You have no rights to claim me
I am the creator’s property, you shouldn't break me.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 2:38 AM UTC
Oh, the great and mighty Dragonfly.
How he moves like no other,
How he fights like no other,
With any shark who would apply.
With any shark who would apply,
That great and mighty Dragonfly
Would turn their angles right around.
Before the ring, he’d beat them down.
From every foe, he’s seen esteem.
Astonished by his skill and poise,
And in the minds of men and boys,
He is the idol, hero, dream.
Those who’ve yet to see him fight
Have also yet to see the light,
That new-age light that’s sparked late flames,
And also snuffed unworthy names.
They say that Mr. Dragonfly
Has piles and piles of letters wrapped.
Letters and letters of envy trapped,
As many as of praise awry.
Contrarily, in his own mind,
He thinks eventually they’ll find
The rumors should be flipped around
And pedestal be taken down.
For when arena lights are off
Away from drunken cheer and quaff
Away from praise aside of scoff
The hero has no golden crown.
He has no talent to be praised,
No superpower to amaze,
But just a body, flesh and bone,
A mirrored face he’s never known.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 8:13 PM UTC
everyday i find myself here
sitting in a bar stool drinking another beer
it's already been half a year
with my memory of each day not always clear
and yet i quaff and i quaff
with no ability to turn it off
then i stumble back into work
telling myself this is only a perk
just a little quirk
to get me through work
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 4:40 PM UTC
I have a fairy by my side
Which says I must not sleep,
When once in pain I loudly cried
It said "You must not weep"
If, full of mirth, I smile and grin,
It says "You must not laugh"
When once I wished to drink some gin
It said "You must not quaff".
When once a meal I wished to taste
It said "You must not bite"
When to the wars I went in haste
It said "You must not fight".
"What may I do?" at length I cried,
Tired of the painful task.
The fairy quietly replied,
And said "You must not ask".
Moral: "You mustn't."
4.1k
Pale and swift the moorings lie:
Roosting on the masts were nye.
Peculiar was the indigo
in the water's moonlit glow.
The ship was ailing through the night
casting wayward, staggered light.
And oceanic tides were bound
to throw the ship into the sound.
But though the water pulled and fought
the Phantom ship could not be caught;
The cargo stayed and sat to mull
well within the sturdy hull.
It was a most peculiar eve,
though the average won't perceive.
The queer and devient, however,
noticed that the sky forever
loomed with great intensity
with clouds as far as eyes could see.
What secrets held this murky water?
Burning mysteries, growing hotter?
I was there, I hope you know
I have a ship, my own, and so:
remembering that eve's deception,
I take my boat in that direction.
Standing now to face the sea,
deciding where and whom to be.
For pale and swift the moorings lie;
Roosting on the masts are nye.
Distinctive be that indigo
in the water's moonlit glow.
Yet ** My schooner dipp and quaff
And with that, I must be off.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 7:17 PM UTC
Fill for me a brimming bowl
And in it let me drown my soul:
But put therein some drug, designed
To Banish Women from my mind:
For I want not the stream inspiring
That fills the mind with--fond desiring,
But I want as deep a draught
As e'er from Lethe's wave was quaff'd;
From my despairing heart to charm
The Image of the fairest form
That e'er my reveling eyes beheld,
That e'er my wandering fancy spell'd.
In vain! away I cannot chace
The melting softness of that face,
The beaminess of those bright eyes,
That breast--earth's only Paradise.
My sight will never more be blest;
For all I see has lost its zest:
Nor with delight can I explore,
The Classic page, or Muse's lore.
Had she but known how beat my heart,
And with one smile reliev'd its smart
I should have felt a sweet relief,
I should have felt ''the joy of grief.''
Yet as the Tuscan mid the snow
Of Lapland dreams on sweet Arno,
Even so for ever shall she be
The Halo of my Memory.
3.4k
The play is written to be staged in a pub or a large cave like yurt in Cardiff. Its action and dialogue provides characterisation, with sound and lighting being used to establish context. The setting a darkened pub corner that is modelled on The Bunch of Grapes in Pontypridd. There are only 6 characters, five speak in haiku-ed verse with the exception of the Drunk who acts as my 'Greek Chorus'.
- Hand-in-hand she enters to **** her thumb in a corner
- Chocolate ice cream soda demanded from Daddy
- Joking banter ceased slowly as the regulars all begin to quaff their brown pints
“Balll uut eass swept -
Chimrrrrr, Chiirriica,
war is never won”
- Church quiet, the village pub listened lips clamped tears swelling
“ ***** cut swapped with eyes -
Chimerica, Chimerica,
war is never won”
- The cornered hero of two Afghanistan tours is seen regressing into childhood**
The set darkens slowly then after 30 seconds a spotlit conversation in lines and stanzas begins.
Haiku and tanka that inspired the coming play include:
*********** -
thoughts sought, taught and wrought,
testosterones
Fighting aggressive games,
Afghanistan camouflage
Globalism and War -
cloned greedy conspiracy,
that third tower
Titled selfish-self-grandiose,
deliver warring terror
Springs cut Irises -
dripping vital red not purple,
far from my window*
.
Apr 28, 2010
Apr 28, 2010 at 11:11 AM UTC
Deranged rocks, spread in albeit magnetic threads
rattle the sky's mirror with impatience.
Lay her feet on the ground, the young girl did.
The touch of her soft, dampened scarf
kindled the metamorphic calm.
My veritas found its unwanted shrine--
The dreadful peace that let it dine,
upon the well-being of its host nest its swine.
The ****** amalgam in her eyes
led its produce down her wavy brown vines.
They hid her cheeks, and brought down traited drops
of long-withheld tangy crust
towards the lavender ascot.
She grabbed onto her feet,
warm and wrapped with white cotton and wool heat...
she caressed the ornamental fabric,
swerved her fingers along its threaded magic.
Their lacy innocence familiarized her and made her smile,
whence the memory of her veritas triggered in her mouth's isle.
She lay her hopeful eyes on the silver-nitrate clad scarf,
covering the now-calming rocks' quaff.
Of my reflection her face saw only loss,
for her recognition seemed forever trapped in virtuality,
in moss.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 11:39 AM UTC
There is not much more than lunch of your poor soul's gut. That which has hidden your chase,
Be it the same flurry you face, or the chaste, widowed band of loons
Supplicate snail-movements, while wading through the stiff lagoon.
Everything must, while the fissures grow grumpy.
While the dust settles inwards and the cracks fill with stuffing.
The particle stands stiff, while each nursery cries.
A pitter-patter of rain drops lurch the birds forwards towards flight.
Say the gumption to roost was the dork lit and idling,
Each abortion towards space, kept the rocket from flying,
Like the cannonball sneering, or the whistle of men
The trial and tribulations of the miserly pens.
If be swore the moors, concrete beds shuffle the snores.
Unlike any trumpet of nose notes or horns.
How each curious grumbler failed the ewe of his flock.
Lil' crock lodgers counting sleep of each lot.
Who can practice commands, width that makes up a strake
In the morning the weir-men quaff each tea of their tastes.
Then comes to the rind, the hands each guided by eyes.
Stumps the bard of his nightshade in imported glass vials.
Show whomever the pleasure, the happy hell once began
Because under each gambit is the king of a lamb.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:10 AM UTC
Mingle with the genial bowl
The Rose, the ‘flow’ret’ of the Soul,
The Rose and Grape together quaff’d,
How doubly sweet will be the draught!
With Roses crown our jovial brows,
While every cheek with Laughter glows;
While Smiles and Songs, with Wine incite,
To wing our moments with Delight.
Rose by far the fairest birth,
Which Spring and Nature cull from Earth—
Rose whose sweetest perfume given,
Breathes our thoughts from Earth to Heaven.
Rose whom the Deities above,
From Jove to **** dearly love,
When Cytherea’s blooming Boy,
Flies lightly through the dance of Joy,
With him the Graces then combine,
And rosy wreaths their locks entwine.
Then will I sing divinely crown’d,
With dusky leaves my temples bound—
Lyæus! in thy bowers of pleasure,
I’ll wake a wildly thrilling measure.
There will my gentle Girl and I,
Along the mazes sportive fly,
Will bend before thy potent throne—
Rose, Wine, and Beauty, all my own.
2.6k
In Nineva, in melted days of yore,
In a very distant verdant realm
Of a shadowy enchanted Moor,
There rolled a nectar stream.
And whoever ever drunk from it
Whilst the sun rained her golden light,
Craved nevermore to drink nor eat
But perpetually dwelt in delight.
Once, upon her banks strolled a couple
Majestically holding each other's hand.
Golden robbed with plush ribbons purple,
All the way from a very far away land
Where dwelleth many a mandrill,
A realm of many a precious stone
And many a verdant rolling hill,
Though creatures there all but forlorn.
King and queen of Merindrill they were,
On a golden quest for perpetual youth
Akin to the luster of many a fiery star
Whose mystery none knows the truth.
Though the stream galloped in gladness,
Though meadow larks chirped in ecstasy,
A roving wind eerily rustled in sadness
As it danced about aspen leaves all sassy.
All birds of evil omen graced the heaven
Whilst darkling clouds blotted heavens' bed
But unto none did it seem a bad omen.
Dyadic ravens perched upon their head.
"Quaff, quaff, oh quaff not from the river,"
Unto the king quoth the first raven.
"In that river deep thou shalt dwell forever,"
Unto the queen quoth the second raven.
"Quaff, quaff, oh quaff not," they didst spoof
At the ravens whilst as quick as drops of rain
Plummeting from earths' eternal dewy roof,
In such haste, they quaffed again, and again.
And 'tis for that reason that all men know
From the ***** of that sweet rollin' river
Did the fanciful couple now as cold as snow
Ever leave, but there dost live forever.
©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Los Angeles, California, USA.
06/Nov/2018.
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 6:38 PM UTC
Clouds, the clouds diffuse a sad and somewhat somber hue;
Wind, the wind bemoans her loss of reins and calm control;
Crows, the crows flee men of straw, sleeves slapping at the wind;
Grass, the grass defends with blades, impaling truant gusts;
Rain, the rain descends aslant from angry ashen skies;
Stones, the stones repulse the pearls, exploding tears of gloom;
Woods, the woods assuage the angst of misty brooding trees;
Leaves, the leaves desert their branches, dropping one by one;
Fields, the fields imbibe a quaff to quench an arid thirst;
Streams, the streams meander, hushed, to distant vapid shores;
Breeze, the breeze intones a tune, a mourning monody;
Sands, the sands, in chaos, dance across the dappled dunes;
Shades, the shades appear confused, alone in lurid haze;
Mice, the mice discern the dawn, their beady eyes ablaze;
Clouds, the clouds diffuse a sad and somewhat somber hue.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
Some types of blood arrest this mouth.
Yes, some types of lips breathe fire and shout.
Some types of women shuck men of their gain, then some women run hurriedly back to their beaches again.
Some people catch anons between their legs. Others swallow vespers BeSpoke by the lust that they crave. Then envelop Gonzo love on the tip of their quill, if only boiling themselves for five minutes to ensure themselves potable.
I live for the taste of rust. I sit in the second-to-last seat on the back-left side of the bus. And I greet her legs with my aching skin, touch my fingertips to my lips to prove that I’m alive to myself.
If her scent was obeyed by royalty. I’m traversing the world if only once more as I’m praying that she’ll see me. I’m praying for our faces to believe in we. And her taste is the bang that is big from the beginning of time, one twist of the fresh zest of a lime, while the years are turned back into the furnace of time. I’m craving faces and loves I once saw. I need to feel the skin tailored for the female gods. I’m certainly loud and catering forth, I turn up the pre, and force the gain and amp up. If only to be noted again, in a bed with my goddess together we’d spend, every moment together in eternity. Immortality conceived of the beasts we achieve. Trampled by the light and tortured by the sound of ourselves. Please won’t you help me to not be forgotten myself? I’m pursing my lips and shaking my hands, I’m jumping off rooftops and eating mouthfuls of sand. Is our hero here or has she she run? Help me find Britni West, my one true love. She’s in California last I had a taste. It’s only everyone else that I lay chaste. With her I’m on top of the world, I’d quaff her spit and champion her skin. There is nothing nor no one that could come between. She’s the only one that is for me, and I’m the only he she’s told me.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 6:53 AM UTC
A poet!—He hath put his heart to school,
Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff
Which art hath lodged within his hand—must laugh
By precept only, and shed tears by rule.
Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff,
And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool,
In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool
Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph.
How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold?
Because the lovely little flower is free
Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold;
And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree
Comes not by casting in a formal mould,
But from its own divine vitality.
1.7k
When I hear you express an affection so warm,
Ne’er think, my belov’d, that I do not believe;
For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm,
And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive.
Yet still, this fond ***** regrets, while adoring,
That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear,
That Age will come on, when Remembrance, deploring,
Contemplates the scenes of her youth, with a tear;
That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining
Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze,
When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining,
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease.
Tis this, my belov’d, which spreads gloom o’er my features,
Though I ne’er shall presume to arraign the decree
Which God has proclaim’d as the fate of his creatures,
In the death which one day will deprive you of me.
Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion,
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade;
He worships each look with such faithful devotion,
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade.
But as death, my belov’d, soon or late shall o’ertake us,
And our ******* which alive with such sympathy glow,
Will sleep in the grave, till the blast shall awake us,
When calling the dead, in Earth’s ***** laid low.
Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure,
Which from passion, like ours, must unceasingly flow;
Let us pass round the cup of Love’s bliss in full measure,
And quaff the contents as our nectar below.
1.7k
imagine velvet walls, pianist and violins, moonlight dancing with the chandelier
above; a grand affair.
everyone suited, of course. just alike, shaking hands,
“sir,”
“as you were.”
injection-forced smiles while shadows eclipse their heads, dimming the hanging
diamond lights as they speak in tongues.
laughter echos from cathedral ceilings, spirals down into deaf cellars and
oh, there will be cocktails that night and concoctions that night,
easy, put me to sleep and then wake me back up!
you’ll thank the waitress, politely, generously offering ten per cent gratuity, five
per cent pity ‘cause she isn’t all that pretty…
mirrors noticeably around every corner, catching glances each passing time.
adjust:
bow-tie (check)
cuff links (check)
slight quaff, unwrinkle, tuck-in your shirt. now,
back to businesss!
and dance akin to swaying scare-crow, in some flawless type of wind where steps
match up mechanically, symmetrically; photographer, and pose.
now your face is on the news
and it’s nothing new to you,
the sun could be your spotlight...
so it’s really too bad that the sun can't reach;
that those clouds suspended above you,
well you’re not sure how to rid them or even, really, how to want the warmth.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 2:10 AM UTC
A subcutaneous doubt musters and you itch
The shore line depression is here without hitch
A sea of harps instigating an emotive atrophy
You discharge and you dive with certain alacrity
There is a boat afloat out in the briny of spite
Oar-less and holey amid the bark and the fight
You plunge and you quaff as you leave quiet behind
A clamber and a climb and inside you will find
Ruckus and roar as you rock with each crash
Thunder and hail as the waves tempestuously lash
Gladden with the grim elation preserves you
Mirthful and drugged whilst the wet pours through
To the most aphotic of waters that drags you deep
The boat now just wood unto rocks in a heap
Too eager to leap and now too weak to swim
A stoical sink under madness to dim
The seashore despair was a lie to itself
The still and the shielded brimming with wealth
Never attempt to weather a storm
Of a storm as endless as that of that storm
A wish that you stayed a want that you listened
You’d still be where her green eyes glistened
Where love and the good is now once tendered
Most is best left as how it’s remembered.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
Start not—nor deem my spirit fled:
In me behold the only skull,
From which, unlike a living head,
Whatever flows is never dull.
I lived, I loved, I quaff’d, like thee:
I died: let earth my bones resign;
Fill up—thou canst not injure me;
The worm hath fouler lips than thine.
Better to hold the sparkling grape,
Than nurse the earth-worm’s slimy brood;
And circle in the goblet’s shape
The drink of Gods, than reptile’s food.
Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,
In aid of others’ let me shine;
And when, alas! our brains are gone,
What nobler substitute than wine?
Quaff while thou canst: another race,
When thou and thine, like me, are sped,
May rescue thee from earth’s embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead.
Why not? since through life’s little day
Our heads such sad effects produce;
Redeem’d from worms and wasting clay,
This chance is theirs, to be of use.
1.6k
The muse inquires,
knowing that a question such as this is
cannon fodder, an off-the-shoulder-blouse tease,
just a hint of cleavage, a whiff of parfume,
something to make poet sneeze,
ejecting an answering essay
without a clue where to go, but,
now the fifth gear engaged,
compulsion full,
immédiatement, en ce moment, laisser's aller!
and he knows exactly what to say
what if poet possessed a special character,
to define the sadness that reflects that
summer has had its memory card wiped,
and even though today,
will be a Saturday of
jeans shorts, a halter top, sort of day,
the chill of dreaded winter is not coming,
already present and accounted for,
enchanté, déjanté,
has already encased his heart in ice so thick,
that even if poet drank a Joni case
of his fav summer quaff,
un provence rose,
his seasonal loss cannot be overcome,
the summer man~king is dead
all that in but a single character, a precise capture,
a labor and time saving device, but
a character with no character
for the labor would be love lost
yet you swear by your succinct emojis,
their immaculate efficient composition,
and I would not trade one accidental,
just-slipped-out I love you
even for ten thousand disheartening heart symbols
would you prefer
|£%!<#
instead of:
*I love you so much it is
driving me batshit crazy!*
I'm stuck with my troop of twenty six
and their multiple endless quilted rearrangements
call me old and out of fashion,
to your question,
this poem is my ask and answered at 5:13am
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 5:30 AM UTC
*A mother whose mothers' been denounced
blacklist foreseen upon kismet and luck
how the nag strikes bards' such as self
Slosh, quaff, toss off this elapsed bête noire
Repair, reconstruct it wanes with healing
No more sip from the ***
Resort to daft calls toward the sky
Resort to daft kneeling
I am this staunch daughter, a passerby*
Jun 15, 2011
Jun 15, 2011 at 3:12 AM UTC
I have a fairy by my side
Which says I must not sleep,
When once in pain I loudly cried
It said "You must not weep"
If, full of mirth, I smile and grin,
It says "You must not laugh"
When once I wished to drink some gin
It said "You must not quaff".
When once a meal I wished to taste
It said "You must not bite"
When to the wars I went in haste
It said "You must not fight".
"What may I do?" at length I cried,
Tired of the painful task.
The fairy quietly replied,
And said "You must not ask".
Moral: "You mustn't."
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 6:14 AM UTC
You are the lighthouse
on the shore of my heart,
Spreading your rays
into the walls of my art.
Rising up, streaming down,
crashing into your arm.
Mesmerized by your smile,
lost in your charm.
As the long day ends
and I ring the kaleidoscope reef,
You provide me the best relief.
You are the comfort to
my storm-tossed soul,
Just like the rim to my kohl.
Your long, stretched, warm
arms invite me into you,
The only thing that has
been pulling me through.
The happiness you get
when you make me smile,
Oh boy, I still want to stare
at your face for a long while.
The days when your so shining
bright light goes a bit off,
My heart will be your
penultimate quaff.
You are the lighthouse
on the shore of my heart,
Spreading your rays,
into the walls of my art.
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 5:13 AM UTC
the pinnacle of childhood
comes with the symphony of adolescence.
the realization that life is evanescent,
the breaking of cyclical routine,
catalyzing the bittersweet epiphany
of long-awaited nirvana.
no longer blithe and naïve,
quaff from the chalice of clemency
until intoxicated with the notion
of no longer being in limbo.
the mendacious oblivion of childhood evaporates,
lifting the veil of soporific innocence,
all traces of puerility gone.
come,
enter the province of adulthood,
and live as a free soul,
no longer required to conform
to the standards of ascetics.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 1:04 PM UTC
Darkness it creeps and hides,
every crack and crevasse,
born to the naked eye,
in the world of sand we're Catcher while they're Rye.
Open up your mind,
that third dimensional eye,
for it unlocked the truth,
it leaves few behind,
you gotta catch up if you plan to survive.
In this world so feeble and faint,
harsh and cold,
darkness creeps upon the paranoid and old,
it reaches out and grabs your hand,
for we are all just grains left in the sand.
Its anger is a scythe,
cuts deep into your soul like any double edged knife,
I am the reaper,
I am new life.
Darkness its stench,
dead and foul,
Hades slithering on the prowl,
there is a time here and now.
Life is found rejoicing in the light,
for I kiss the hand of death and say goodnight,
for you I bid goodbye,
for I am god,
I am Rye.
I drink my quaff and stumble away,
for I am the reaper,
dead and grey,
free your soul,
I hope and pray
that darkness will never creep your way.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC