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Robin Carretti Jun 2018
She, "City' cafe cat
But we would do
anything
for a cup of coffee right?
Where not the punctual
calendar girls day or night
The territories

(My Heaven's) steep spoon swirls
How it became the show
Guys and Dolls
Coffee of diaries souls
How a fortune of words
can burn a cup
One sip out of you just ****
At least my flavor trip
I did a lot of long walking
Sipping below his sea level
Hialeah slim blend
The firelight is
glowing
 Beloved by brown warm eyes firefly
This one is the long
sip to meet him bewitched

The Spanish fly
always on his cup trim
More Sambuca  Italian coffee
but why is this so long_
mouth stretching
Another long wait
To get the creamy shining
Knight
My light long
way home
Queen bee cream and
sugar delight, not honey
cleverly cupped
international trip money

The charming Knight
Over the coffee feeling
  camelback
She brews her
fulfillment
he massages her skin
On the fortune road
coffee beans "Parliament"
One long sip enjoyment
Brown leaf so Autummy
That long trip something
is falling
Good body flavor his calling
She neighed into
his love fire dim text
The desire long
extension
all wired

I just want — to — hold you — Egyptian

King with her cherries bing
I never heard of that coffee?
Got like jewels shall bling

One big fortune her vocal chord sing
we work harder to be more
golden winning goes to _
__

The winner holding beans
Eyes of fortune Emmy fascination
(Sweet Carolina) honey so much more
blossom into her coffee such luster
bean amazingly guilty hey buster
Feeling so fortunate
how he reads into her expression

The Lord is my shepherd is coming
but hesitancy in her response
Then the next kiss would be with
her coffee embrace could he afford her
Also, her Sophia seduction like
styled camped
Safari how coffee became
the love cure for illnesses
how it healed hearts and asthma

(Her Vows) desireable boiled bows
Buganda Kingdom
I love you in the morning shore

What an obsession fortune beds
of Coffee, fingertips trailed to him
because he couldn't let her go
completely loving coffee and she

He cupped her in his
broad shoulders so he
Let’s be creative and
think of fortune names

Fortune:

Richest self-made millionaires
the rim of my coffee cup

I see a fortune flowing one long
trip faces glowing

Howard Schultz Forbes fortunes from scratch
I guess he saw his beans clearly no eye to patch
So the name like "Starbucks"
Knocking on heavily cup the
woodpecker chucks trip of coffee perks
That billionaire
secrets
is Facebook
Mark Zuckerberg
entrepreneur what a face
nothing more just faces
Will I get an idea the way they do?

Let’s open the (Gate Bill)
micro-soft computer,
French roast bold what was
really told
Hungary England how he
survived the **** Budapest
now he trying to save
other refuges with 500 million

Like her tiny cup of Turkish
heavy sediment Istanbul
Oceans storms her Grecian coffee
Also, her mind was dazzled but rambled
by the intruder
Leaving her all different coffee flavors
Like a fortune of familiar words
One knowing about coffee?
The “Spicy Taco” I felt I was in a
spiritual environment
of the Mecca in the holy city
Stephen when he went to her place
he would try so hard to protect her

Seeing the fortune coming inside the
amber water fountain
She knew his (Grecian Island)
flavors so well
with cardamon meet lovely (Cinnamon)
The coffee so sinfully the game
backgammon and chess

How love came in many Cafes parades
of the New Orlean Carnival
the Turkish armies "Parisian ****"
women and Men
Robes Pierre French revolution
What an evolution world cafes
Long ago far away 1600 Pope Clement
V111 pleasure full cup of Turkish coffee
very popular business thinkers

One golden ticket most expensive coffee
(Starbucks) the trip of a lifetime
(Cafe Nero)
Please bow to (Grace Kelly) coffee
Princess of Morocco how people
are looking more exotic back
in fortunes bed and ***
One long lie what to be said
Doing the Egyptian coffee dance
Exotic love Islands and France
How she Sophia waited for him in
bed nakedly the "Egyptian silky"
love sheets pour the crystal eyes
milky
((Fifty flavor))
shades of coffee her
eyes opened he
saved her with her
special blend
The depth of loving his hands
melted inside of her coffee
He was her love intruder
sending
her all his coffee flavors
For an instant, their eyes
met like the grains
of heat, she was drowning
in his honey brown depths.
One long Coffee trip my way of telling this coffee-lite all over the website story I hope you have time for my fresh many flavors to enhance your love life even if your single may e in a whole bean better or married to a fortune King you know how to get you coffee he serves you hot and boiling mad but at the end of the coffee *** your siling money glad
Steve D'Beard Aug 2013
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
Harsh Nov 2012
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.
This poem is the sole property of me and cannot be copied or used without permission. [Copyright G.H. Rodrigo 24/11/2012]
Morgan Jun 2013
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
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...
He swooshes down the mountain
Carving a series of humongous S letters,
Gracefully, brilliantly,
Gliding down the pure white *****.
Admittedly, the snow is hallucinogenic, an
Alphabet soup & smorgasbord;
A diabolic concoction I find irresistible.
He snaps to a dead halt before me, with
Flair & flourish like an Argentine tango dancer.
He is wearing a bright red Mad Bomber Hat . . .
(Mad Bomber Hat...$39.95  ‎Adwww.llbeanbusiness.com/‎1-855-371- 2754. Outerwear & Fleece-Top Gifts & Incentives - 20% Off Volume Discounts)
Forgive the poet, a simple refusnik, refusing to die in the gutter. Forgive me for making poetry pay, for once. $Ka-ching! $Ka-ching!
One had to have a shitload of
Self-confidence to wear a hat like that, my
Va-jay-jay getting creamy,
His smile fluttering my clitoral funny bone.
Confidence & humor: for me always a
Lethal combination.
Back in Providence they call me a
Rhode Island Pizza Queen; a
Certified cat litter-box for cads & scoundrels.
The Mad Bomber squats:
He is 50% Rhett Butler, 30% Joey Gallo,
& the other 40%, Cosmo Kramer, (duh?)
Adding up to a deadly duo that gets me every time:
Confidence & Humor snags my guinea ***.
First it’s coffee & Sambuca at the Lodge.
Two hours later I blow him in the shower
At The Green Mountain Inn.
The next morning, we say goodbye in the parking lot.
He promises to call me from Boston, but
Of course, I never hear from him again.
That sums up my MO with men,
Explains how I **** up when picking men.
Every time, again & again, like a
Third generation imbecile, deranged & demented,
Doing the same thing over & over, yet
Expecting a different outcome.
Woe is ******* me!
Another neurotic, myopic, ganglia misfire;
A behaviorist might point out there must be some kind of
Reinforcement going on, seeing I keep
Coming back, going back for more,
Like a lab rat still pushing the lever
Long after the food pellets are gone.
Oh yes! Call me Angie the
Out of control downhill racer.
It’s bipolar moguls & roller coasters,
Another Six Flags ski weekend,
A Stowe, Vermont Coney Island of the Mind for
Angelina Delvecchio, shimmy,
Shimmy Cocoa Pops.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
there's actually a laughing gas
epidemic in this little
corner of england...
    it might have died out, but...
there was a time when you
could have picked up these
enigmatic "******" bullet-sized
metal "containers"...
           they were lining the streets,
thrown out of cars,
or whatever...
            i had to ask this drunkard
schizosphernic what they were
when i presented the example to him...
all he said was:
            'laughing gas.'
        apparently there are places
in the world where syringes and ******
are the problem...
  where i'm from... the solution is apparently
laughing gas...
     i am the most loud-mouthed laughing
person around here, so i figured:
   am i really that inspirational?
      i'm still the only person found laughing
around here...
        but i could have told them that:
i once inhaled a balloon containing
   "laughing gas" in a club in edinburgh...
   for some reason i didn't exactly laugh...
                it was placebo...
fake, ******* gave me fake...
                               i was expecting the old
testimony of patients in dentistry...
  like that myth of tying a string around
the tooth that gave you aching pain
and then tying the other end of the string to
a door... and then opening the door
and the tooth being pulled out...
           ****... why not? hades? zeus?
the minotaur?! hercules?!
                o.k., we have achilles and we have
homer... and we also have hesiod, ovid and horace.
   but around here... it's not glasgow,
it's not ****** and syringes that's the problem...
it's these ****** rifle bullet sized canisters of
people inhaling laughing gas...
                 let's just say that history
of what was and isn't, but what really was can
be translated to literally applicable via
   metaphor...  -osis...
                             it was 2016 and these ******-rifle
sized "bullets" were really found on the streets...
like i "said", it's not glasgow...
             then again laughing gas in edinburgh
was placebo... and i too thought that the middle-class
******* from england would prescribe me
something efficient during a night-out;
                         evidently they didn't.
they diluted that **** like they diluted absinthe
to the point that you don't really hallucinate from
the wormwood that's missing in the 21st century
translation...
                            ****... who was it? ginsberg!
yeah, he was on laughing gas once... took it
for recreational purposes...
                        absinthe these days is just shrek *****...
double the strength and not much else...
             drank it a few times... ok... envy sambuca
given the liquid rice... liquorice / lee-co reesh.
                   it's true though, a year apart from
when i'm writing this "article", these streets
were peppered by these ******-rifle-bullet-imitation
canisters...
      and as my sources claimed... laughing gas
canisters...
                     imagine a laughing gas epidemic...
what the hell do you do with it?
            how do you begin treating laughter as
a disease?
             is it like sydenham's chorea?
       or is it some sort of symptom of engaging in
kuru? and then the jack sparrow comic entrance?
  it was, don't know if it is: but i certainly
know it was laughing gas that caused this uproar
in the english county of essex.
A tantalising score of lovers
lined up like shot glasses

down in one
hoping to taste gold liquor

until you realise that each one
is merely bad Sambuca

that your friends are egging you on to drink
before you can finish off the night

and go home
Edward Coles May 2014
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 *******,
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.
This is my 300th poem, according to Hello Poetry. It's been fun.
One Andean Sky Feb 2023
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.
Olivia Kent Jul 2015
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
cecilie hviid Oct 2017
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
Ryan May 2020
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.
A beginner looking for some constructive feedback.
I thought that Sambuca
was a private eye,
thought that I'd read about
him, and
loved everything
that they'd said about him
imagine my disappointment
when I realised that
I'd been duped,
for the fans of Sam ***** and other assorted detectives.

— The End —