"sambuca" 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
It all started with mixing Tequila and Sambuca last Friday night.
Then I noticed him, busting some classic moves on the dance floor.
Soon we are dancing, grinding, kissing, laughing, dancing, kissing,
he's even drinking out of my half finished cup of water, he's smiling.
"I'm a Royal Marine, not an Army boy!" he corrects. "A Commando."
We both even have the same phone! Coincidence? I don't think so.
Beads of sweat dripping from his hair onto his flawless face and neck,
yet, he smells oh so divine, "it's Gucci Guilty Intense", he explains.
I blurt out, "Hope this won't be a waste of your time, 'cause I'm not
going to sleep with you tonight!" He says, "All right", and smiles.
Mixed signals, cold bed phobia, pure drunkenness combined,
I offer him, "It's late. You can spend the night at mine, I don't mind."
"Just Scott, you won't remember the rest, it's long and complicated",
later he adds, "Good luck trying to find me without my name!"
"I'm Twenty One." "That's so young", I exclaim and he frowns.
He's cocky yet witty, and also very pretty, so I let my dignity drown.
Taking him in my mouth until he explodes like a loaded gun,
my duty to the nation's hunkiest hero was well and truly done.
"I joined two days after my eighteenth birthday", said he with pride.
"My vacation's over. I'm leaving on Sunday to Poole". I sighed.
I spent the entire night insomniac, with my head throbbing to the beat
of his obliviously, peacefuly sleeping exhaling and inhaling speed.
Close enough to feel the heat of his body, yet a million miles away,
him dreaming and I reminiscing, both awaiting the dawn of a new day.
Skipping the "thank you", "goodbye", hug or phone number, he says,
"See you around maybe", holding a rather deceitfully seductive gaze.
"Scott, we're never going to see each other again", I answer bluntly.
Mirroring my sad smile in reply, minus the sadness, he left promptly.
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 3:05 PM UTC
Juego mi vida, cambio mi vida,
de todos modos
la llevo perdida...
Y la juego o la cambio por el más infantil espejismo,
la dono en usufructo, o la regalo...
La juego contra uno o contra todos,
la juego contra el cero o contra el infinito,
la juego en una alcoba, en el ágora, en un garito,
en una encrucijada, en una barricada, en un motín;
la juego definitivamente, desde el principio hasta el fin,
a todo lo ancho y a todo lo hondo
-en la periferia, en el medio,
y en el sub-fondo...-
Juego mi vida, cambio mi vida,
la llevo perdida
sin remedio.
Y la juego, o la cambio por el más infantil espejismo,
la dono en usufructo, o la regalo...:
o la trueco por una sonrisa y cuatro besos:
todo, todo me da lo mismo:
lo eximio y lo rüin, lo trivial, lo perfecto, lo malo...
Todo, todo me da lo mismo:
todo me cabe en el diminuto, hórrido abismo
donde se anudan serpentinos mis sesos.
Cambio mi vida por lámparas viejas
o por los dados con los que se jugó la túnica inconsútil:
-por lo más anodino, por lo más obvio, por lo más fútil:
por los colgajos que se guinda en las orejas
la simiesca mulata,
la terracota rubia;
la pálida morena, la amarilla oriental, o la hiperbórea rubia:
cambio mi vida por una anilla de hojalata
o por la espada de Sigmundo,
o por el mundo
que tenía en los dedos Carlomagno: -para echar a rodar la bola...
Cambio mi vida por la cándida aureola
del idiota o del santo;
la cambio por el collar
que le pintaron al gordo Capeto;
o por la ducha rígida que llovió en la nuca
a Carlos de Inglaterra;
la cambio por un romance, la cambio por un soneto;
por once gatos de Angora,
por una copla, por una saeta,
por un cantar;
por una baraja incompleta;
por una faca, por una pipa, por una sambuca...
o por esa muñeca que llora
como cualquier poeta.
Cambio mi vida -al fiado- por una fábrica de crepúsculos
(con arreboles);
por un gorila de Borneo;
por dos panteras de Sumatra;
por las perlas que se bebió la cetrina Cleopatra-
o por su naricilla que está en algún Museo;
cambio mi vida por lámparas viejas,
o por la escala de Jacob, o por su plato de lentejas...
¡o por dos huequecillos minúsculos
-en las sienes- por donde se me fugue, en grises podres,
la hartura, todo el fastidio, todo el horror que almaceno en mis odres...!
Juego mi vida, cambio mi vida.
De todos modos
la llevo perdida...
1.6k
Jasmine rice and green tea
Sambuca and coffee
Cigarettes and ***
Whiskey and scary movies
Cigars and wine
Lap dances and nature walks
Tattoos and Vanilla lips
Ripped jeans and strawberries
Summer nights and smeared lipstick
Strong arms and weak hearts
Tall legs and short tempers
Cappuccino and thick tummies
Piercings and snow storms
Hot chocolate and fireplaces
Sweat pants and afternoon naps
Early mornings with no where to go
Boys and girls who kiss super slow
Conversations that give you butterflies
Staying in bed all day
Crying for hours
Feeling your collar bones
Watching scars fade away
Skinny dipping
Stretching
Laughing
Falling in love
Or out of hate
With yourself
Or anyone else
And
Ya know
People are always ******* tripping over ****
If all else fails, at least look for that
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
Hey baby, give me your sweet lovin’, hey
A bucket of sugar in my latte
Hey sugar, give me your sweet candy kiss
Your mustachioed lip **** Fizz
Your sweetness hits me high
A baked cheesecake ricotta pie
The more you give, the more I crave
But diabetes? I don’t wanna have
Hey darlin’, your lips are sweet candy
The first hit and I am Ghandi
You always leave me wanting more
But all this lovin’ drops me to the floor
Hey baby, shoot me your jellybeans
Pants bursting their seams
A sip of coke, a swig of soda
Caramel fudge and a Sambuca chaser
Hey sugar, I kinda need a hit
But so much sweetness, my jeans don’t fit
Lets eat our sherbet pops aloud
Dipping dots with amplified sound
Smokin’ high on chocolate cigars
Spill crumbs on coffee stained guitars
My appetite for the sweet stuff grows
Will diabetes take me? Who knows.
Feb 15, 2023
Feb 15, 2023 at 4:51 AM UTC
Each moment to myself,
I find that I am writing.
I am writing nonsense,
a stream of consciousness
to make my squalor appear
as a palace. To enforce beauty
out of a blind state of mind,
as those purple curtains
block out approaching daylight,
but retain the glean of the disco ball.
I talk to makeshift friends over
and over again in my head,
as I walk past the field of irises,
feeling them watch me
under the jittery yellow street-lights.
There are far too many poems
to be thrown out to strangers,
like lonely sambuca kisses
placed beneath the dripping raindrops,
falling from the alleyway stairs.
I know that poetry must be controlled,
to flourish only the best to others.
It is hard to leave words undisclosed,
when you can go weeks without a friend.
This is not a ***** call,
nor a target for pity in privation.
I have a degree in human minds,
I have a ***** and white skin
to get me through interviews,
and a tone of voice to escape all arguments.
Fix me with a stare
and I'll fix you up a drink,
no questions asked. We could be
ice bucket lovers, turning the tide
with pens and straws to mix the cola.
You'll reach out and kiss me on the cheek
to afford me lipstick sensation,
as I stumble without any cause
through this temporal employment;
this hiatus of youth.
One day I shall grow up.
One day, there will be no more poems,
and what is left will be the ghosts
to lay alongside old lighters and photographs.
I will forsake these pointless notebooks,
this obsession with laying experience
into metre, rhyme, and verse.
Soon, I will exchange my pen
for the television remote.
I will flick the channels,
I will smile at my life.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 1:34 PM UTC
Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.
Makes the mind begin to wander.
Sambuca shots make pussycats out of the simplest one.
Swimming round with coffee beans.
Alight.
Alive.
Smell the smallest taste.
Before it even smacks your lips.
Tongue and tonsil tickling.
The morning after the night before.
More pickled than an onion.
(c)Livvi
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 6:40 AM UTC
sad på bremen teater
og brændte sambuca af sammen med en fyr
spurgte efter hans alder
der gik lidt tid fordi han var bange for
at jeg ville synes han var for gammel
39 sagde han så
du er jo ung
var mit svar
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 4:56 PM UTC
Saturday night, I feel the air is getting hot,
gearing up for some pre-drinks,
then heading into Notts.
Round to my mates,
he's already playing Dance Classics by Kisstory,
an insight into British club history in all its glory.
The splendour of The Hacienda,
Fabric sounded magic,
the thrills at Turnmills.
Blasting out Where Love Lives by Alison Limerick,
Too Young To Die by Jamiroquai,
and Sounds of Eden by Shades of Rhythm.
It gets you in the mood,
of course it does, how can it not?
We sit around talking a lot,
then login to Facebook,
see which bars are offering what,
pound-a-pint and half-price shots.
Text around,
who else is in town?
We'll give you a shout once we get to Revolution,
the club solution is Oceania.
Disco floor,
we know the bouncers on the door.
Cut the queue,
annoying for everyone else,
but you would do it too.
Throwin' shapes with my mates all night,
break-dancing, the robot, pop n' lock until two o'clock,
a bunch of geeks,
we're too ****** to care about critiques.
Anyway, we're having a good time,
a bottle of Corona with a wedge of lime,
a few shots of Sambuca,
I'm doing fine.
I'm starving, time to get some food,
ravenous,
it's a whole mood,
into the nearest takeaway,
look at the display,
ten-inch pizza, or just some fries? Maybe both?
I'll go for a Kebab, chicken and salad, with added Mayo,
let's go,
there's a party starting nearby,
people getting high with a constant supply.
It's getting light out,
people are asleep around my feet,
time to leave,
walking back from the city,
this place looks pretty with the morning dew and light layers of fog,
one ******** runner out for a jog.
Later that day, a bit hungover,
I swear I'm never going to drink again,
well, not for a few weeks anyway,
maybe next weekend,
if there's another night-out, I might attend.
Might?
What a load of *****
I'm definitely going and show no signs of slowing down,
that point will come,
but for now, I'm still young,
just go out and have some fun.
May 6, 2020
May 6, 2020 at 6:44 PM UTC