"snifters" poems
We met over 40 years ago. Floating buttocky halves
spooned into pastel fruit bowls, even drowned in
Del Monte syrup, love at first taste. Your flesh
a luminous hue, hovering on the border of cream
and August skies; your flavor pure as dreamed pleasure
grazing my waking tongue, a melting sweetness
streaming down my throat; your name, a single syllable
promising delight: pear, barely sound, mere parting of lips,
and hint of breath, apple-green p, the sweetest
diphthong ea, all the air in the world, closed in rounded rr‘d
finality. A perfect word, reducing your rumpled, pinnacled
self, to one gorgeous, Old English syllable: per.
Right now, six of you sit ripening on my windowsill.
A sky-blue towel shields bottoms against further bruising
from the wood even at birth you instinctively flee, hanging
off trees in swelling green-gold tears, yearning for earth,
or growing to maturity in bottled, olive-green light, your dying
breath suffusing aging liqueurs like the oldest I ever drank,
the summer I was 19, a century-old brandy served in snifters
the likes of which this working-class boy had never seen.
I tilted the giant crystal bowl; the fragrant liquid elongated
in mimicry of its remembered self and seeped into my mouth: a pear’s
ghost enveloped in flame lay down to rest on my tongue. We both
were saved, at least for that night. Pear. Look of women I love
but don’t lust after, I want to conjugate you: I pear, you pear,
we pear. Like raspberries, Mozart and love, for me, sufficient proof
of God’s existence. I trust you. Lead me by the tongue to heaven.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 12:19 PM UTC
rescue me oh lard rescue me...from these politicians neglecting me..pretend to be protecting me Fathers of the land selling me to the enemy..culture is men calling themselves ****** and seeking not to make an accomplice associate or friend but offending me, so much hate I'm gone need bout ten of me, relocate to a bunker deep in Tennessee and pass days with 160z brandy snifters, ice cubes and Hennessy smoking home grown steadily rising to cloud nine and a blown dome, so high if i fall I'll die I'll fall and I'll dive into fields of visions that release me to be free of superstitions, no judge no jury sorry officer no court convictions, and I'll still be smoking and wildin out feeding my addictions..aint living life with no restrictions or silent objections i sit back cleverly connecting reflections to bring to light my next projection..born a King by your election, to Adonai's call there is no objection..Missed me with that **** here I'll point a firm direction, faith be your guide your will be your own protection..walk ye in your life in the shadow of Gods grace and mercy eternally enslaved by enchantment, destined to despair as happiness ignorantly given to death by divination.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
Nothing sticks like excrement
not superglue or wet cement
we are tarred and feathered by a concrete
nation, in
bear traps on a reservation
looking for release.
A piece of me would like to be
Oscar Wilde
a precocious child by all accounts
which all amounts to what I meant,
nothing sticks like excrement.
We are as we are and how far did we go
from the plough and the crops?
we went to the Devil and the high street shops.
Now
it's snifters and titfers and don't we look grand
a million miles from a *** and the land.
eat processed
be processed
a name tag in your ear.
'Pussy cat, ***** cat
where have you been?'
I've been watching the dead
being turned into bread
at 'Soylent Green'
Nothing sticks in your throat
like a button from
somebody's coat.
For good or bad I smell
like my dad
and he was a good guy.
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 11:54 AM UTC
The black oak is faded
by the continuous skating of drinks:
mugs, snifters, goblets and pint glasses.
They remain stationary in formation,
anticipating the next pair
of thirsty lips to arrive.
With every drop that pours
in the glass, reality is put to rest.
Existing predicaments
and emotions are directed elsewhere.
A fatigued being sits across from me,
with a physique similar to mine.
He comes at the same time as I.
I see him day-to-day,
like a shadow, from sun to moon.
I’ve never see him depart, but
he’s always in my view.
In his hand, a glass dripping in its sweat.
As he clasps it securely, like a wrench,
he devours his poison
and without a spoken word;
he is detached from this world.
When I catch a glimpse into
his disoriented eyes, I see contempt;
but, a smirk rests delicately on his weary face,
as if he knows who I am, and the reasons why
I pick[ed] up this glass each day,
He knew I couldn’t bear to look
at my own reflection.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 7:03 PM UTC