72 hours in
I'm giving serious thought to
drinking the Listerine.

The ***** is it's citrus flavored.

I can't even rinse with that toxic concoction, let alone swallow it,

but I'm running out of options.

I finished my other MacGyvers--
the Nyquil was first to go,
followed by a Dimetapp chaser
  (the cherry,
     not a refreshing grape-flavored one)
and a shot of Wal-fed
that induced indigestion.

My kingdom for a belt of whiskey--
maybe a snifter of ***.

You know you're bottoming out
when you wax nostalgic
for drunken days
when soiling yourself was justifiable
due to your general state of disarray.

I'm the **** that adheres to the bottom of the barrel—
******* in the shower with my shoes on,
pants removed as a cautionary measure.

Not that life can get worse;
nothing trumps waking up miserable,
sore,
   jobless,
     alone,
       queasy,
         woozy and
           drooling uncontrollably

and lacking ***** to blame it on.

Harvey Wallbangers In Times Square was
her teaser, a Mai-Tai bang in Taipan, once
or twice her kisses so, sweet he trembled;
as she let him taste her Irish Coffee making
his Rob Roy so, **** hot and bobbing.

It sprang forth with a twang for her Firewater;
engorging the Latted Espresso between her thighs
as Egg Cream threathened to explode,
dipping into her lustful Brandy Alexander;
spillage between her Champagne Cocktail,
cheek to cheek.

She asked me if I wanted a sip of her Coffee Royale;
I said I wouldn't mind being coated in her behind's
libation, drowning ourselves in lust of a throbbing
nightcap; while I slap each cheek in rhythm in a state
of osmosis.

Drinking from her Schnapps; my mind sailed the
sevens seas of her lubricious ocean; riding her Schooner
as waves pushed me within her lagoon with each motion,
slinging Deep Shots; full of emotion, moaning baby! your
Snifter is so, **** wet; swilling your Dom Perignon
and me, just before morn, intoxicated in your elixir
of life; smiling a lopsided smile still tasting your
luscious liquor.

So, we staggered back to bed; laid bulbed
head in inviting peninsula on the shore of
Demon *** Isle and some more I smiled,
absorbing in slurps her coveted Olive Martini,
lapping like a newborn kitten smitten with her
Mint Julep's robust lips; while Lime Rickey
dipped his straw in ebbing shores; sipping
as we eagerly explored, clawing my back.

I in gentlemanly fashion opened all her doors,
as she infiltrated me in every light; mouth
covered in Hot Buttered ***, tasting from
Highballs to every Gimlet of body with skilled
tongue of a bartending artist.

Tasting salt rimmed glasses with hungry tongue
lashes in places so, naughty I flicked out Mickey
Finn; nibbled her in bites of delight front to end,
such a naughty appetite we fed; breathing in heat
like Green Dragon's brew, going down south of
Manhattan's lower eastside; drinking up her **** hide.

She said baby! it's time to ride; Igniting each of her
rooms with Bullshot Cocktails in flaming explosions;
I couldn't get enough being drenched within libations
of her ***** ocean.

Drowning in waves of ardent spirits like a bolt of lightning
poured through us from head to toe we flowed in slow mo';
sweet bon apetits of ecstasy complete, swallowed nice and
neat; spent, bathed in Brandy Smash of a contented bash,
inebriated in slumbered splashes.

wasted in her folded sashes...

We sat cozily on the couch listening to Miles Davis
She, curled up with a glass of Chardonnay, me, a warmed brandy snifter
It seemed an eternity since we made time for each other like this
We enjoyed our home in silence, absent our attention grabbing offspring at Grandma's.

I savored the scent of her lavender infused body snuggled in my arms
Her beautiful brown eyes reflected flickered light
The candles we transplanted from our earlier bath, burned slowly
And "Kind of Blue" transported us as we held each other.

"May I have a sip of your brandy?" she asked coyly with a smile on her face
"Of course," I handed her my glass
"Not from your glass," her smile turned into a mischievous grin
The vanilla and oak from the brandy permeated the air above the gulp I took into my mouth.

My heart rate increased, my eyes closed, and our smiles met pressed together; Heaven is real...
Her lips parted, she pulled the brandy from me along with my tongue that now danced with hers
The fire of the brandy that left my mouth warm, now slid down her neck in one smooth swallow
We took great care in kissing each other, sensuously, passionately, time stood still, for us.

Luxuriating in this kiss, a tear fell from her eye, met only with the tears that fell from mine
As our mind's eye recalled the love we have endured over these adventurous years together
Brandywine never tasted this divine as from the lips of my beautiful lover
Lightheaded, more so from her than from the alcohol, I smiled and held her closer to me.

"I Love you Husband!"
"I Love you more Wife!"

-----ChawzzyScript

Janus is the portal god
who looks ahead and back
He is the god of time and change
who keeps the years on track.

Those years pass faster than before
and I grow still more grey.
at least, I muse, my hair's still there.
That's more than some can say.

Warm the snifter in my hands
before the fireside.
Raise a toast to absent friends
and to years gone by.

Irony..phhht...life is a vacuum
I breathe deeply
gasping for air,cant catch my breath
hearts implode chest pains bring death
headaches whenever I scope in depth
why try when minds eye see's no logical reason "Y"
crooked and broken I embrace the deft in life
struggling to stay alive and escape the scythe
what did you leave but pieces.whats left?
a world of torture,a world of pain
had I known its goal was to drive me insane
deep into the wombs of yesterday I'd burrow
escaping the dept of tax on the two cups I borrowed
life is a journey with no certainty of tomorrow
yet everyone's into gain
heaping upon yourselves sorrows of joy
without heed to how it causes another pain
just when I'm enjoying the sunshine
it always starts to rain
life's a joke
we all get caught in the game
caught in a whirlwind same old new **** over and over again
bleeding reality like a catsup stain
In all this hear what im saying
save me the *******,save me the pain
save me from the storms as I stand in the rain
the ukulele plays,as my hearts caught with strays
all of the lights from all of my days, I squint as I gaze
I see clearly as blacks turn to grays
nights turn to dawn
the band plays on,I yawn
I say to life goodbye,as darkness retreats back to beyond
I drop my empty snifter licking my lips of cognac residue
as the sun climbs the lawn and life starts anew!

.

Janus is the portal god
who looks ahead and back
He is the god of time and change
who keeps the years on track.

Those years pass faster than before
and I grow still more grey.
at least, I muse, my hair's still there.
That's more than some can say.

Warm the snifter in my hands
before the fireside.
Raise a toast to absent friends
and to years gone by.

As Eleven sprints towards its end,
and the fire slowly dies,
forget the tears, recall the joy
for that way wisdom lies.

this debt, this book, this tort,
so overdue, uncivil wrong demanding reconciliation,
that the librarians sent the hoodlums
to remind me of my obligations

there must be unfinished, three or four Gebbie precursors,
lying about awaiting further final definition
unmarshaled me, unable to see them through to completion,
but my hindsight, my guilty plea, aided by an assertive,
rear self-kicking, offers me some motivation immediacy

When I see the Auckland Sky Center in photos,
a hard hatted man with softest heart always,
is on top, doing his native Aussie global
(in place) walkabout, better to see,
the cubature volume of the global poetry underneath his feet,
the poetic underworld, needing a
Gebbie supervisory drilling read down

Enough!

unsatisfactory above this ditty notation for one who
tenders unto me comforting words that
drill down so deeply, keeping,

"the night shall not disrobe you,"

that only a single rhyming word
is satisfactory but yet too,
is insufficient to capture
the audio of innards weeping

surely aware, the nighttime, is when I best my own analytics,
disrobing in a room of black letters on a white background
for all who stumble by moonlight on the bards of "perchance,^"
giving pieces of me to the those who not only read my verses,
but those who ken
that the unspoken spaces in between,
containers of what is not writ,
but only modestly well hid,
is where lies oft the more important script

and he gets that...

where the skills when most needed?
his precision will deserves artistry, not sophistry,
and I am flailing, failing inadequately to pay my overdue

it is early morn in Taranaki,
perhaps he will see this lackey's lacking insufficiency,
before he goes climbing man-made towers
that bear witness
to mens bigger dreams,

perhaps when he returns later tonight,
in a snifter of old malt scotch,
his "last one for the road"
he will see it floating,
and think of me,
this time, happily,
disrobing mine soul's own nighttime,
trusting him to keep all safe,
entrusting it to him,
and to Janet,
my best,
red and black,
sweetest dreams

<>
https://hellopoetry.com/marshal-gebbie/

9/5/17 13:55pm

Desperate times for desperate men
then relaxation time with a cup of tea,a
glass of wine or if it's handy a
snifter or two of the finest brandy but
I have drunk electric soup,scooped it up,
swallowed it down,plugged into the main
and become one of the totally insane.
In the shallow end you defend against the night,
paddle if you will with can,
just call me the rotgut man.

When it's all a state of mind it looks so easy to unwind,
it's not.
The rot sets in as the sun rides out and the twilight shouts my name.

dancing in the smokey veils of frankincense, myrrh & sandalwood, glimmers of sunshine gold, crimson ruby & dazzling silver cascade in curtains around me. my love watches me from afar on a plush violet couch with a snifter of brandy in hand with his brimming ebony eyes sending out admiration. his raven hair glows with the warmth of the fire from the hearthside.

Can we just be **** buddies
instead of lovers?
Perhaps if I just met you;
if we were just two strangers at a bar
open to company
while seeking solitude;
a bad week drowning in snifter after snifter
so, too, inhibitions washed away in a flood of whiskey
until we’re making eye contact
until let me introduce myself
until conversation is more suggestive glances than speaking
until our lips are too preoccupied for conversation
until we’re in a fight with self-control in the back seat of a taxi
until we’ve lost the fight in my bed
until it’s the morning after
until “I don’t want to date but we should do that again.”
Maybe then.
Except I didn’t just meet you at a bar.
Except we are not strangers
but suddenly this bed feels strange to me.

Can we just be **** buddies
instead of lovers?
As if our adventures were just
mundane check-marks on a to-do list;
as if your sunshine-smile isn’t the catalyst
to photosynthesis of happiness in my heart;
as if I didn’t express it at least once daily from the moment
I discovered I loved you 900 days ago;
as if I only cared to expose your flesh and not your dreams;
as if I only love you for the parts you beg me to enter;
as if I could touch you without stacking up plans for our future together
like building blocks, so tall the Berj Khalifa would be jealous;
as if after all we’ve shared, I could settle with being just a stain on your sheets.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I said I’d give you anything but you’ve proven me a liar.

And like Jenga we collapse,
only you made the damning move but I
sleep in our ruins, the loser.

Three years together but still
you’re the lover I never had

On the avenue of the lost where you can buy souls at cost and the man plays the spoons on his hands and his knees, where the trees are stood bare, naked and where the juggler spins plates on three poles there's a cafe I know where the port noses go for a snifter or two of home brew and you met me there.

In the rarity of time that we get
we met
and I knew that you were the one.
With the clickety clack of the spoons at our back
and the smashing of plates in our ears
the years carried on
until the lost had all gone
and we were the only two there,
under the bare tree,
wondering where we
would go on from here.

Whatya looking at me for?
that just makes me
wanna drink more...

..and his day begins with two full tins,
one for breakfast and one that'll last until it's done
then it's off to the shop for a bottle of ***

discounts in the spirits aisle
he'll be awhile as he ghosts
his way through
and at the checkout  
queue
he cannot resist so he takes the risk of one quick snifter.

Shift a year back when the man was on track and no sign yet of what was to be,

one more can and
another for tea
what will be will be
will he?

We were out on a training mission
Up in a Neptune, hunting a sub,
The pilot was Captain Grissom
Taking a nap, aye, that was the rub,
The plane was on auto-pilot
Left in the hands of Lieutenant Free,
While I was down in the nose cone
Keeping a watch, beneath us the sea.

The skies were a starlit wonder
Never a cloud to temper the view,
The Moon, it had barely risen
Casting its light with a purple hue,
We’d dropped right down to a thousand feet
As the sonar checked the bay,
Then Free had said, ‘There’s a flock of birds,
Just a couple of miles away.’

The plotters gave out a chatter
Picking the signals up from the buoys,
The Snifter, it didn’t matter
It was detecting diesel oils,
But up on the pilot’s radar screen
Was a mass of darkened rows,
I heard Free say on the intercom:
‘It’s a swarm of migrant crows.’

We knew we’d better not hit them
They could be ****** into the pods,
And then if they clogged the jets our fate
Would be in the hands of gods,
I peered on out through the perspex cone
It was much too dark to see
A couple of thousand crows out there
With feathers as black as could be.

Free said we should duck beneath them
So he took us down real low,
The shapes had massed on the radar screen
There couldn’t be far to go,
And then I had caught a sight of them
The first of these flying things,
My voice croaked into the intercom,
‘None of these crows have wings.’

They flew on the straight and level
Bunched in groups of two or three,
I knew they were something nasty,
Then I heard Lieutenant Free,
He seemed to choke, he’s a rational bloke
And couldn't believe his eyes,
‘If you can see what they are, tell me,
Don’t give me a bunch of lies.’

But who’d be the first to say it,
I was pensive, down in the cone,
Nothing I’d say would mend it
If I was first to say on my own,
‘It looks like a flight of witches
All in black, and each on a broom,’
The crew back there were in stitches
Thinking that I was a ****** Toon.

The coven dived on an island
Covered in trees, and out in the bay,
I thought that we might collect one
But we gave them the right of way,
‘We’ll tell them, when we get back,’ said Free,
That it was a flight of crows,
Don’t anyone talk about witches, for
It’s best if nobody knows.’

David Lewis Paget

—How are you?
—Gettin' by
—Good
—Yep
She was on her third bourbon as they exchanged texts. The smell of it wafted in her face as she held the snifter up to her nose. The sweet syrupy smell of cheap bourbon. She dangled a cat toy in her free hand while the black and white and tabby thing watched the feather sway back and forth in the air. Head turning with each pass like the cat wall clock they used to have when she was little. The clock's eyes glowed in the dark. And it was really dark at night back then when they lived out in the middle of a farming settlement in western Pennsylvania. The interior of the single-story ranch house was decorated in classic fifties kitsch: braided rag rugs clashing with the Oriental lamps, green leaf wallpapering, and glow-in-the-dark cat wall clocks. She took a sip of the room temp bourbon then set the glass down. The cat had lost interest in the dangling feather cat toy so she set that down as well. She got up and walked down the hall to the bathroom. She peed, washed her hands in the sink, then steeled herself for the obligatory glance in the mirror. What she saw: an image of a woman that didn't immediately plummet her into an abyss of self-loathing. She would settle for that. She reflexively opened the cabinet door: hair clips, tweezers, baby oil, alcohol, cotton swabs, dental floss, Zoloft, Estradiol, acetaminophen, double-edge razor blades, no razor. She closed the door then said to her reflection: "We should get out of here. Dontcha think?" She looked away, then back again, flounced her hair, and said: "Or dontcha?"

The air has turned cold
There is a fire going
I have a snifter of cognac in my hands
The fiery amber liquid does nothing as it touches my lips and glides down my throat
I expected a sense of warmth
A sense of comfort
But I guess cognac pales in comparison to your loving embrace

1966 -AND ALL THAT!

Asks me up for
a snifter...so she does!

"Don't mind if I do!"
I all cocky like.

Knowing I am in
for a bit of the other.

But when I get up
find she's a history buff.

The Battle of  ****** Hastings
runs around her living room

in some  boring Norman
cartoon in full colour.

Whoever did this
wasn't a very good drawer.

She does that trick of
removing her bra from her sleeve.

I love it when a bird does that.
"Glad to get out of that!" she smirks.

It lands on the bird cage.
The parrot goes nuts.

Opening skirmish methinks
in the battle of our wills.

OK I admit I'm a bit like Alfie.
Michael Caine but slightly fatter.

On the couch  - her mini riding up.
Sneak an arm around a shoulder.

Getting bolder - place a palm
upon a fishnet thigh.

But she only wants to talk about
Harold and how he lost the battle.

My libido shattered.
"Hic **** Rex interfectus est!"

That famous feigned retreat
that led to the rout.

Was it feigned or not?
I couldn't give a ..!

And that was one in the eye
for that Harold geezer -  or was it?

The Bayeux Tapestry
tells no lies or does it?

When is a tapestry not a tapestry?
When it's an embroidery.

She tells it as if it was
a close run thing.

"Like this year's FA Cup
when the Owls lose a two goal lead

and the Toffees beat them
3 goals to 2.

"Stand up if you won the war!"
One can imagine the chant.

I understand it when
she puts it like that.

And the geezers on the hillock?
Were they placed there before or

after the famous running away?
Her eyes brim with tears.

And it's this passion of hers
that draws me in.

That and the devil
in the details.

Like the ******* putting on
his chain mail the wrong way.

Or the Papal ring
with the tooth of St. Peter

hidden underneath its stone.
How do they get these things?

Or Haley's Comet streaking
across their skies.

"Isti mirantvr stellam"
she whispers to herself.

One can imagine a commentary on it,
"They think it's all over...well...it is now!"

But she still goes on and on
about it...refuses to let it go.

Finally she gives over
and gives in.

A one night stand.
I admit it.

But a one night stand that's
lasted 30 years now!

On our purple anniversary
I give it to her.

She thrilled
to bits.

Hill and Rumbles's
"The Defence of Wessex:

The Burghal Hidage &
Anglo-Saxon Fortifications."

She brings it to bed.
I do the washing up.

Put out a milk bottle
and the cat.

The cat sneaks
back in again.

I no longer looking like
Michael Caine.

"Isti mirantvr stellam."
I whisper to myself.

Gravity employs its ever constant force to manipulate the course of action all over the earth, pinning us down, bitter peals of laughter erupt like molten ash and lava out of her crusty mouth.  Will she take us for a ride this evening?  Spinning us like cognac in a snifter and then she’ll spit us out on the ***** road, putting us out like cigarette butts.  Her mighty weight is distributed amongst all of our shoulders.  But it seems that some loads are less troublesome than others. May I ask why that is?  Don’t kid yourself though.  Before you go revelling in your glory, be aware that we’ve found ways around you, above you.
Gravity distorts my vision and then leaves me groping around, fighting with perception, fighting with focus, fighting with what’s left of time until I finally collapse, defeated, sprawled almost lifeless on the cold tiled floor while you’re still ripping me apart.  
I’d just say that I give up.  I’ve said it millions of times before, but for some reason I’m still here.  I think apathy has replaced the blood and marrow in my body, freezing my soul except for the hours in which all of the infections and deteriorations scare the ******* **** out of me.  I wish I could blame all of this on gravity but it’s really all my fault.  One day I’ll pull gravity down and hold it there for 18 plus years and its screams for mercy will be swallowed whole.  We’ll see whose vision is distorted then.

From the Oak cask pours the golden remedy,
filling a snifter and like a crystal ball diviner,
the future of this cold evening is evident,
frost flowers already forming out my window.

With the first sip, and the delicious burn
the muscles relax just a bit, and a sigh escapes,
the week's demon releases his grip a bit,
I shall banish him in the hours to come.

Sweet Melody emerges from the bedroom,
she moves like her namesake,
music in motion incarnate,
as she walks by, I steal a kiss and a smile.

The fire crackles and pops across the room,
raging flames there and deep within my core,
she says pour another drink and join me,
as she burrows into blankets in front of the pyre.

The smell of the sweat
as I lift my hat from my head,
the heat and days issues rise
like steam off a pressure cooker.

Snifter of scotch is poured,
the amber a tonic to see,
the smell of peat and seaweed,
the taste of smoke and salt.

******* back
and a quick refill,
begins to dull the edge
sharpened by Monday.

A treat sealed in a wood humidor,
opened up to another delicious smell,
tobacco from Dominica, I clip the end,
a quick dip in my scotch, and hunt the lighter.

A wood match found and lit
the burn invades my mouth,
puff, puff, puff, and exhale the smoke
as it climbs, so does my spirit.

I sit and put my feet up,
enjoying the tastes and smells
of wood smoke, tobacco, earth,
and letting both burns cauterize my soul.

she’s painfully skinny but has ropes in her veins that saddle horses.
a nose like a hawk with two green eyes bathing in gold flecks and ambergris.
she has two hands like most people, but they have grace -
decanted from a snifter of opposable thumbs made of glass
and spun sugar.
steeped in the warbling of her Angelfire, all reckoning with her genius
is an exercise in futility. she is none of the above.
and it’s the very best strange.