"sours" poems
So it is a controversy. So they say,
Marriage sours if your parents are gay,
The idea of this seems like a self-centered
View, that gay marriage partners aren't
Well to do. Get over it, gays need rights as well,
It's not to decide, as if you were a god,
Whether they will wind up in this place
You call hell. Leave them alone, let their dream be,
You call this a free country where marriage is free?
Or maybe you believe in the idea that all marriage
Should be defined as only for straights, it's per my
Humble opinion that is a favouritism argument
Geared just against gays.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
How this **** fable instructs
And mocks! Here's the parody of that moral mousetrap
Set in the proverbs stitched on samplers
Approving chased girls who get them to a tree
And put on bark's nun-black
Habit which deflects
All amorous arrows. For to sheathe the ****** shape
In a scabbard of wood baffles pursuers,
Whether goat-thighed or god-haloed. Ever since that first Daphne
Switched her incomparable back
For a bay-tree hide, respect's
Twined to her hard limbs like ivy: the puritan lip
Cries: 'Celebrate Syrinx whose demurs
Won her the frog-colored skin, pale pith and watery
Bed of a reed. Look:
Pine-needle armor protects
Pitys from Pan's assault! And though age drop
Their leafy crowns, their fame soars,
Eclipsing Eva, Cleo and Helen of Troy:
For which of those would speak
For a fashion that constricts
White bodies in a wooden girdle, root to top
Unfaced, unformed, the nipple-flowers
Shrouded to suckle darkness? Only they
Who keep cool and holy make
A sanctum to attract
Green virgins, consecrating limb and lip
To chastity's service: like prophets, like preachers,
They descant on the serene and seraphic beauty
Of virgins for virginity's sake.'
Be certain some such pact's
Been struck to keep all glory in the grip
Of ugly spinsters and barren sirs
As you etch on the inner window of your eye
This ****** on her rack:
She, ripe and unplucked, 's
Lain splayed too long in the tortuous boughs: overripe
Now, dour-faced, her fingers
Stiff as twigs, her body woodenly
Askew, she'll ache and wake
Though doomsday bud. Neglect's
Given her lips that lemon-tasting droop:
Untongued, all beauty's bright juice sours.
Tree-twist will ape this gross anatomy
Till irony's bough break.
8.6k
Our first date at Rise
Holding your hand at the Firehouse Theater
Eating bagels you brought back from Montreal
Having lunch at Salata
Going to the Arboretum
The way you peeked out children’s house
Cuddling on the couch
Watching Game of Thrones
When you fell asleep in my arms
Drinking Amaretto Sours
When you would be silly
The sound of your voice
The maraschino cherry stem you tied with your tongue
The Forget Me Not Flower Kit you gave me
Exchanging texts
The sound of incoming WhatsApp messages
Diner at Howard Wangs
You wearing bunny ears during Easter
36-28-41
When you posed for me
Your blues eyes looking up at me
Seeing your smile
Touching your lips
The way you smell
The secrets you would tell
Showing how you care
Hugging me tight
Letting me take care of you
When you cook Arepas
The gluten free Clafouti
The time you had the flu
Wearing Calvin Klein underwater
Your dainty feet
Your goddess like figure
Your cute accent
Typing in the door bell code
Hearing you answer
The emoji of puppy heart kitten
Knowing you are my Bijou
Calling you Minou
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 7:21 PM UTC
I was never one to pick one over the other
They used to function together as well as brothers
As time passes, their relationship sours
One works hard and focuses for hours
The other struggles to relay to the main tower
Dripping with blood is this brother
Dripping with liquid salt in worry is the other
Together they used to form pictures in the clouds
Now one peers through a fog stitched shroud
Teamwork is a thing of the past
The rift between them is filling with fog, fast
They still both serve under the same mast
But one is absorbing as much sun as he still last
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 3:19 AM UTC
Bucket full of coins and lint
From pockets of the passing
He sits there staring silently
His sign board does the asking
Truth be told he only wants
Money for his drink
His sign expresses honestly
What the passers by all think
Why Lie, Need *****
is written on his card
But, to look this man right in the eye
Is really something hard
He doesn't smile, is dressed for warmth
Even though it is quite warm
I don't think it's for the weather
It's for his own internal storm
That rips apart inside his soul
A storm that no one's seen
It knocked him on a wayward course
He lost who he might have been
We'll never know just who he was
We only know him at this hour
For those who pass him here each day
He's known as Whiskey Sour
He sits there with his plastic tub
Watching people on their way
Whiskey Sour thanks them kindly
No matter what they say
A victim of his own devices
Or a victim of all ours
No matter where you walk and look
You will all meet Whiskey Sours.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 3:38 PM UTC
I have a confession to make, I said. I drink to forget all
That my failings and foibles beget. Sobriety
Sends me to most fitful sleep. No rest for he who in his unwaking hours
Mulls over the wine of his life, which he sours
With his own cork of guilt and self-conscience. All mine self-confidence
Derives from Contradictions repressing. Catatonic sleep of great notoriety
Is my limbo, my heaven, perchance my sick death. The
Removal of a blot on the face of this land should solicit, I fear, cornet
Mouthed angels to sound clarion of victory. If I was religious
I should become a flagellant invigilate most excellent
Flayed as the poacher would the pheasant.
And the landowner would the poacher.
Silence from both. I take a drought from my drink, she a small sip.
She looks at me and I look a way.
Do you want me to pay for this? She asks. Just the tip
Quoth I. Another drought and a sip.
Another.
I break down. I have nothing to believe in,
To believe in foul dogma to wash my soul of sin
I find repugnant. Belief in Progress and people and
The wonder of Nature is akin to praying to the inconstant sand
Castle made by the hand of a passing child.
Belief in my girlfriend! More my love’s greatest failure
To grant her the care and affection she deserves
Due to my sand castle of pride in which I do serve.
And thus do I say, to purge all my lust
There’s only one way, in Self-disgust I trust.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
“Whose heart-strings are a lute;”
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy Stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.
Tottering above
In her highest noon,
The enamoured Moon
Blushes with love,
While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven),
Pauses in Heaven.
And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli’s fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and sings—
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.
But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a duty—
Where Love’s a grow-up God—
Where the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in a star.
Therefore, thou art not wrong,
Israfeli, who despisest
An unimpassioned song;
To thee the laurels belong,
Best bard, because the wisest!
Merrily live and long!
The ecstasies above
With thy burning measures suit—
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervor of thy lute—
Well may the stars be mute!
Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely—flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.
If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky.
3.3k
in between my eyes
my pointed nose
sniffs nothing but you...
alcoholic unpleasant breaths...
Alcoholic visions
sigh across screens
as language blurs
Talking nothing but nonsense
***** vision violently
soaks rough atmosphere,
heads explode, chaotic manners
Alcoholic dreams
travels around the globe
in similar destinations..
the filthy old bars...
The sweetest red wine
soon sours and rot
under an icy glare.
a shot of *****
allows sanity to sharpen
it's dainty claws
feasting on thoughts
How is alcohol good?
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 10:04 AM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, hanging on these little things life grants us is the reason of our survival;]
in his feels
I know I see
the drowned drips of the feet
smiles of the fakes he sweeps
lick the lips and motion the blondes to touch
hearts to brush
always as also so little as much
thinking when he means of the ones and the twos
the whispers and the apples to smell to near
hairs so dark for the safe to fear
maybe then the want would not haste
or not for the come to paste
invisible to the seen to the face
on the yellows they still remain
or blue flowers on the neck I wish the belongs come to make
-------ravenfeels
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 4:56 PM UTC
One shot two shots three shots four
Five shots six shots seven shots floor
Tiny bubbles in my whiskey
makes me happy makes me feel frisky
seven and sevens on the rocks or sours
whiskey has some magical powers
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 2:20 PM UTC
Is it even yours?! That is what she asked you?
But its all okay, right, you told her what was true...
You told them the due date... Yeah it can't be right
Because we only had a select few nights...
But you can't loose your sight...
Look at me... You know who I am
and who cares what they say, I don't give a ****
We both know that this child is ours
so stop listening before this sours.
You want the kids and I to move in with Nan, and You?
I can tell you the truth I don't really want to.
Because I can see what this will do..
But oh well, lets go they will soon know whats true.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 1:47 AM UTC
*We've lived to expressed those wonders
we thought and felt,
in the depths of our emotional journey,
our words sours
in highs and lows.
-
a fine balance
at crucial times
equally stable
in fate and its tales.
-
essence of time
solidify our strength
through choices predicts our
future yet more often
never to the exact extent.
-
our old sheets may fade
and our ink might run dry
we should never
lose ourselves
even the smallest
drop of hope
creates big ripples.
*
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 2:43 AM UTC
Lime green freezer pops
Swigs of senor Jack Daniels
My body gets hot.
-------------------------------
Jacky versus wine
Will fight to the death tonight
Victor gets a home
---------------------------------
Baby-making songs
(The world tastes like raspberry!)
Jazz flute Godzilla
-------------------------------
Little black cell phone
Glows modern techno at night
Rad leaks in my brain.
(I am now a spidercorn!)
---------------------------------
Idiotic cat
Sole bane of my living room
You should've been a dog
--------------------------------
Woman and man-thing
Flame haired goddess of cleavage
Mid-coitus phonecalls.
---------------------------------
Two shots of whiskey
One sibling revelation
Long night of country.
--------------------------------
Blood-baths, hair stylists
****** eye for the dead guy
Joanne: **** the man.
-------------------------------
A nice hairy man
Smirnoffs, beer pong victory.
Did I do a bad?
----------------------------------
I am drunk on you
And on you conversation
More than on the beer.
---------------------------------
Whiskey sours, full.
Half-nude swimming with strangers.
Attraction repressed.
----------------------------
Oh my pretty beer
You so inspire my mind
I can't stop giggling.
-----------------------------
Hank bones on the wall
A sad tale of pretending
Oh no! Demon feet.
Jun 2, 2010
Jun 2, 2010 at 7:13 PM UTC
Its 2 A.M. I'm falling through the door
There you are fast asleep
Angry with me without having to speak
I 'm trying to be clean
Dropped my purse tonight lost half my pills
Good serves you right
Your not pretty when you smell like beer
Lost a high heel again tonight
Covered in bruises don't tell me your sick
You look like a strung out **** star
How many free drinks you get tonight ?
You use to be thin now your turning into a cow
Why the whiskey that sours your breathe?
Smell like smoke look like hell
Go to sleep you little *****
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
Hard squirming in my stomach
overpowers.
Missed a pill by a few
hours.
Hope it doesn't seed,
hope it starts to bleed,
shrivels up and sours.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC
Live music is a sound machine,
On all four corners,
Gilded streets, nearly five in the morning,
Pavement feet meet ****** shoes
Shuffling down the block.
Pigeon claps & high hats,
Cat heads & piano chops,
Whiskey sours evening gowns,
Lemon drops with Father Brown.
The St. Claude Shuffle down the boulevard,
Where shoes straddle electric wires.
Sirens ring & bullets proof,
And the blues sing out of shotgun shacks.
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 8:56 PM UTC
wet. ambition of her silken hair
scatter my moral compass
but after terse words
we set out on the road
her tale carries us for miles
and leads to many thoughts
but I'm easily distracted and distraught
by soapbox celebritys and their
rabid claims to fame
and am left to letting her choose our path
she pens regrets to me and mails them
to the wrong address so ill never know her love for me
has grown cold
I befriend the postman
putting the letters of my words
carefully on his face with a fine line pen
but he keeps whispering that I should be
so sad because love has been rejected
and my heart was returned marked postage due
the description sours when
the ink hits the page
never quite suits the thought
as we trundle along the stony path
the bone rattling pace lends misgivings
find my way home in the song of her heart
find my weary way to her door
turning the door inward
and see the vault of her hearts fortress
reduced to rubble ans she has
now gone
she has fled eastward
wagon laden with tales and trinkets
her blue dress flowing over the side and fluttering in the breeze
wet ambition is no mercy
wet ambition is cold
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 2:25 PM UTC
I'm trading in sleep for long nights of Midori Sours and New Found Glory blasting through the speakers in my room.
I'm trading in time with friends for solitude and The Wonder Years telling me to become a pirate for the **** of it.
I spend more time drinking away the pain and listening to Pop Punk then I do trying to better myself.
I tell myself to get the **** out of bed but then Blink-182 reminds me of you and I go down another beer.
As The Sweller's told me last night "I wish you could see inside my head..." but you don't actually give a **** anymore.
I'm pretty sure if I took the time to get out of bed and go make something of my life again you would come back... but I'm feeling self pity and I'll stick to my Pop Punk Remedies for now.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
9:37PM
2/13/18
13
I think it's my unlucky number.
A number that has only brought me pain, sadness and anger
Before you write this off as everyone has unlucky numbers
What's so different about your case that your trying to present
Let me explain.
You see I've noticed a pattern throughout the months.
it seems that every time the number 13 rolls around.
No matter what the starting number is date wise
Irrelevant is the first number.
But if it ends with 13
Oh no rolls off my tongue so naturally
Because the first time 13 rolled around
It was lucky for a while.
But then just like milk when it sours
It ran it's course.
The pain I was left with hurt me was
deeper than I could write about.
The second time I thought oh it's a coincidence
I was utterly hopelessly wrong.
It seemed like the number 13
was like a wasp stinging
Never stopping until the pain was a numbing type of pain.
One you'd want to escape from
I'm skipping a few 3 and 4ths just to say.
It completely slipped my mind.
On why I have my reasons that I hate 13 date wise
No matter the time
Or the year
It's like a reminder that you don't wanna face.
But this time has got me afraid and scared
That the number 13 will prevail
I'll end up hurting way worse than what happened before
The way the cards are playing out
makes my anxiety go way past the roof or the stars
Because this is how I got hurt the last time around
I was an experiment.
It hurt to know I was used.
But I managed to suppress it
Then later on realized my worth and walked away
Now fast forward a couple of months.
And it seems that oh familiar fear has returned.
It never truly left but was suppressed.
The fear is simply being left and lead on.
disregarding my feelings
The reason why I hate 13 is simple
bad memories mixed in with hurting
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 6:29 PM UTC
you have the look they say could ****
well i'm not dead, though sufferin' still.
i have a mind to tell your mother
the way you smile when you're with the other.
she'd say she warned me at the start
not to burp and hold the ****
whatever, no matter, i really don't care
im not even bothered, just gimme some air.
let me rip this old rug up
it stinks of old **** de la pup.
i had a gripe to air today
so I let it out and blew you away.
n'er the mare before the cart
show me your money and then your heart.
gimme a kiss, and make it quick
I can't take pleasure, it gets me sick.
a house that smells of fresh cut flowers
can't numb heartache, but sweetens the sours.
drop kick me out to the farthest field
I'll roll back home when all has healed.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 1:35 PM UTC
or like today, almost any other day like today,
but today i matched up two analogies
with cooking;
i once only stated that doing organic chemistry experiments
were like cooking,
broths of sweets and sours (esters and ammonia compounds
respectively) -
they did seem so at the time and still are,
while smashing vegetables dipped in liquid nitrogen against
the laboratory floor,
but today, almost like any other day like today
i started cooking a chicken makhani (indian butter chicken),
past the stage of frying onions, garlic-ginger paste,
past adding the spices: garam masala ground cumin chilli powder
cayenne pepper salt & pepper,
past the stage of adding butter, milk and crème fraîche,
and chopped tomatoes,
past the stage of then dipping the chicken in to let it poach for
more tenderness than if fried prior (as the recipe suggested),
then... when i noticed the spice colours diluted by the dairy ingredients
i peered into the culinary warlock’s cauldron and uttered
what fiction critics would have said of a bestseller spy novel...
‘mmm... the plot thickens.’
side dish? lemon rice.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 10:20 AM UTC
in the darkest part of my mind,
the dingy loony bus idles.
curiosity has foggied up my gray cells.
leftover bits, orange scented peels,
many questions i've left unanswered,
hide in bleak obscurity.
in the darkest part of my mind,
urges to be the me i’m not,
whisper their desires for freedom,
into the static air,
while lighthearted memories of kisses ago,
crumble under the weight of worry.
in the darkest part of my mind,
I cower in the shadows of intimidation,
over papers due in the morning.
bites and fights drown in an overflow of sweet burning,
with discarded pencils and bottlecaps,
and memories lost in laundry.
in the darkest part of my mind ,
the logical makes no sense.
swirls of confusion, reason,
love and distress,
faded memories seeping through gaping cracks,
hair strands sleeping amid teeth.
in the darkest part of my mind,
chewed and smoked tobacco leaves,
taunt their slaving victims,
as cherry blossoms fall from their branches.
empty words twitter back and forth,
hovering between the breezes.
in the darkest part of my mind,
the heart I adore and adore and love,
sours before I know it.
touches have lost their savour.
words and their meanings duck and hide,
the novel falls open to a new page.
in the darkest part of my mind,
friends laugh their laughs and dance.
mom screams at broken dishes,
dad sings his song his song his… tale,
and I write my soul away.
02.2010
Jul 16, 2011
Jul 16, 2011 at 10:03 PM UTC
The faintly reminder
I spew in disgust, that we
All humans, do smell, have non-
Descriptive individual
Odors, shapes and sizes.
The repetition on formless copies
Upsets me, songs in pop verse
Sing about the neighborhood's
Children, and their inability to out run
A gun.
Smells of my own liquored breath
Remind me still how un-wanting
*** can be.
In the sour drips of yellow
And daffodils,
Not unlike a lemon,
Tart-ish in texture,
The people only
Say hello, out of disarming
Fear.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
you want war, you have world war two spitfire pilots to serve your post-colonial migration; and yes, i'll twitch my eyes; ha ha cuisine scots using ginger.
there's a quintessential
fascination with cabbage
among the mutli-cultural
asians of england being picky
concerning scandinavians
and the slavs...
politico i could say as much
about indian spices.. but they're
granulated i admit,
so there's less stink in the armpits;
or there isn't, given chanel cardamom:
assimilated asians into british
society don’t use raw herrings and cabbage
to joke about other european ethnicities
while waving the st. george
of that great fake curry of suffolk.
*i've been telling the turks about sauerkraut for years
to match up a purposive additive for the lamb kebab;
sours to cut through the lamb fat like the chillies
cutting through.*
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 8:10 PM UTC