"stupors" poems
Saturday's
Why are they so important?
Why do they mean so much?
Last Saturday I was at a bar talking to Canadians at a bachelor party--one of which bought me drinks all night and wanted to makeout with me.
The Saturday before that I went out with some friends I hadn't seen in a long time.
And before that, I went out with my friends to this area that had so many bars filled with people who drank themselves into stupors--kind of like I did the Saturday before that one.
I was dumped. So I drank--a lot I drank. That Saturday was a mess.
But tonight is Saturday and I didn't want to do anything, yet I felt like I should. So I did. I went to a friend's house to drink, but I didn't go out. I felt tipsy, I felt surrounded by friends, but I also felt sad.
He was out. He was happy. And he definitely was probably not sad.
But I was.
It's funny how break ups work--they make you question even the smallest things, like the purpose of Saturday's, ya know?
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 1:28 AM UTC
If bedbugs become pets~ is there a possibility~someone is spending to much time in the sack~and not stepping out into what the Real World~ "Offers Up"~even tho the Bedbugs seem more friendly..... If you Cry over White onions~why cry over the Red one ? ? Turkeys Trot to a dance taught by man~Pretending to be foxes~always close to the tail . A Truly honest man~Would~Not be believed~if it weren't for the Falsehoods that Truly exist ! ! Staples when firmly pressed~Usually hold things together~SO___What makes these staples unworthy of being served up at dinner ? Ever think about yard sticks? ~ and How Come your neighbors don't have any sticking up~ and your the only one that meets the measure. . . POE only hinted at the torment of Modern man~Stories in Stupors don't find the center of the heart~ Unless they are really experienced . . It's sorta like being poured into a Landfill~But like a Good Cork~You can't seem to sink all the way~Your head just bobbing above~and continually being that ready target~as additional waste'PILES AROUND ! ! It's like walking into a familiar room~But as you turn on the light switch~you discover~that you are now the "Stranger"~in a strange place. . Life is like a Trampoline~casting ones thoughts up and down for review~NOT considering that some may be actually measuring the values presented. . *The *Broken heart of a man'who loves the woman who opened that door~ May Never be receptive to repair~NOT ENOUGH PARTS LEFT ! ! As the Lights "Come-On"~ it's like being at the Helm of the 'TITANIC" ~ assured that all others are off safely~__AND~ the Shaking of Life Begins .......
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 4:43 PM UTC
Pulse; life lives here
Clicking it's heels on gum-speckled sidewalks between sirens and
Cigarette butts spouting carbon, Diamonds at the right temperature,
Polluting for the time being
Wasted
In drunken stupors under
Bright lights and the
would-have-been
dreams of a has-been.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
innovation: creation in destruction
matter cannot be created or destroyed,
and neither can art.
unity in paradox
we are
passing thoughts sauntering in the winds of mortality
drunken stupors, with eyes blurred, stumbling in a beautiful world
famished spirits, consuming our own radiance
fools caught up in our fabricated wisdom
skeletal souls reaching for the sun's hand, while being consumed meticulously by the dirt
the reason i write--
to let you climb on my back
and maybe reach further than before;
pain is a part of life,
don't disregard it;
i have hope.
let us be free
in love;
do not search out pain,
do not search out pleasure,
do not search.
let us saunter as friends,
let us lie down and sing,
let us be passionate about beauty.
my hope for all of you
is that you will be the
heart
in this heartless world.
find glory in love.
find art in love.
find peace in love.
be love.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
*I cut myself about a week ago
And was genuinely surprised
To see it scar. Makes me want
To take a line off of the flesh.
Or two. Or three. Or four.
How far until I never come back?
I never have the effort
To finish anything but
Boys who take advantage
Of the stupors I put myself in.*
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
I thought a single line of white dust up your right nostril can numb away the pain
That countless nights of drunken stupors could make me forget
That constantly telling myself I'm just experimenting and not suppressing
Hoping one day I'd forgive him but only finding myself regretting
You see I'm not addicted to the substance
I'm addicted to blame, blaming him for the pain
I'm addicted to the anger, the anger that he triggers when i realize I'm turning into him.
Always intoxicated on some other ailment. Intoxicated on the lustful idea that we could be the perfect pair
but now all i think is how i wasn't good enough, how K & L are your legacy, and I'm just a girl who you once said you loved, but don't bother to acknowledge.
You see dad, I denied my anger for so long
Said it was all in my head
but now i realize, I forgive you, because the more hate i fuel the more hate i feel
Is it too late?
Apr 18, 2024
Apr 18, 2024 at 12:53 PM UTC
It is not a mirage. This;
it is vital they share the same blue
veins under their pale veil. But they breathe different
airs. To live, is to learn how
to rejoice with paresthesia
causing liquor down your throat
and be in the stupor without feeling
stupid.
Stupors feel better
lucid
and this, this all feels better in sleep.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 2:17 PM UTC
We were all sitting here alone
spiking our breakfast cereal
monochrome and melancholy
unique like bad grammar
we stammer and stumble
through thoughts sepia
and savor each sip
from bourbon laced Special K
our amber memories matching
the luxurious proof that we need
each other like broken toes
need designer moccasins
more or less useless in stupors
suave though still
as captains Morgan and Crunch
sail the high seas of our internal struggle
and pitch with unspoken conversation starters
and serene belief that the storm over head
is just a migraine like any other
meanwhile we sing seaworthy refrains of how
Honey Jack and Cheerios were made for each other
sending our feelings down to Davey Jones' deep
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
*Crushed peanut shells are
scattered all over the floor
Beer bottles smashed,
blood drips from the roof
A body hangs from the rafters
loyal patrons play
a ***** filled game of Russian roulette
**** stains plastered all over the bathroom floor
cockroach's and rats run rampant
raging alcoholics throw fist and set fire to bar stools
Drunker stupors, and stain glass windows rule
people call it martial law but I call it a regular Monday night...*
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 9:19 PM UTC
and just like that you let us go
you let me fall
but i used to think i'd never get back up
but i'm already walking away
and the fact that you're leaving makes me feel like i'm melting and
i'm just scared you'll learn to live without me
don't worry about me here rotting in my own flesh, blood from the mind staining it with angry words thought up in drunken stupors about how great we were. no no don't worry, i'll get better soon, but it's hard to get the stains out
how many different ways do i have to say i needed you does it take
for you to understand
do you even ******* care really? do you? i don't think you do and i just really don't appreciate that.
it's amazing how much you can hate yourself but love someone just
as strongly. i didn't know such things were possible. maybe i love
you enough that it took away all the love i was supposed to have
kept
the things that go bump in the night used to scare me but now it's the fading light behind your eyes
i would be there for you at 3am if you called me enough to wake
me up. you couldn't even take the time to text me back when i was
falling into pieces.
the hardest part wasn't the heartbreak. i got used to that after a while. it was noticing that yours wasn't, which means it never was really fully there in the first place.
you hear a noise outside your window. check, i dare you. he won't
be there.
i'm burning from the inside out and i wonder if you'll be able to see my skin charring from underneath
you poisoned my body more than any drug could have
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 2:24 PM UTC
Ketamine dreams,
induced narcoleptic nightmares,
poles of northern impulses,
and southern stupors.
My equator's equilibrium,
and my catatonic control,
each one in the same,
yet far from reach.
A squeeze of a lime,
its fresh sour scent,
atop three fingers of gin,
match the burn of my cuts,
and i feel once again.
Cocktail straws set aside,
stirring fingers dull discomfort after a lick,
"three more limes please, barkeep",
it's now triple the pain i seek,
tolerance & your fickle itch.
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 10:36 PM UTC
Feel less dread when you think about the complex nights you've had,
stupors you've fallen into,
lovers you've kissed.
Those things are okay,
and everybody does them.
Eat your breakfast on the fire escape, and watch the birds.
Read a little every morning, too
and remember that "morning"
means "before twelve pm."
Breathe a little, darling,
and not just into the mouth
of a stranger.
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 2:35 PM UTC
I have these maps
I have this plan
Bandages and wraps
That's when I ran
From this last fight
This time you broke it
My arm took flight
The skin it split
Drunken stupors
Black and blue
Locked doors
Leaving with morning dew
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 7:39 PM UTC
“To love is to tenderly dig into someone’s mind:
His or her heart and soul to forever find!
Care and carry compassionately in storms and in winds
To love is to find an eternal peace in the one that you lovingly abides
Love is to find a familiar ground that two forever binds!
Love is the joy shared by two that in this journey, true rides!
In love are routes rough, in love are ways tough, in love are rails-grids that grinds
Though, in love are determined souls that never part but remains set in strong stands”
A kiss is a stamp of love
To feel your breath warmth in mine
An emboss, an assurance of love
Our staring gaze, the stupors for each other’s sight
Is a language stronger than words-written or verbal
Understood only by two fools honestly hungry for each other
The beauty and peace of your voice
Candidly meaning your saying that you love me alone forever
Is an indelible engrave of our love
Music, a sweet sacred hymn to my soul
Like a piper’s pious pipe, it is a song to my ears
A solemn instrumental, sentimental to my heart
To hear the heart beat of your heart
In the strong embraces of your arms
It’s a stigmata to our love, there to be binding forever!
An umbilical cord strapping us together end-ever
To listen to the whispers of your soul in our feelings and flows
To feel the silences of your heart in our emotions and elations
Is to be entangled in eternal love, to be chained in forever love
You are mine, there is no way I will let you go!
I will fight for you, I will care for you!
I will love you forever and ever for our love is forever
I will love you beyond any Heaven's heights or Earth's extents
Now in its extant and ever even when we are lost extinct
We will watch the earth form and deform together
Nature, magnificently make and despondently delete together forever
Together we will quietly listen to the melodic music of the universe forever
When the sun sad burns, I will be your shade
When storms rage havoc, I will be your shelter
And when the rains pound, I will still be your umbrella
When lightening rudely strikes and thunders raucously scares
I will still be there besides to care, your scares to cure
When snows severely fall, I will be your oven, kiln warmth
When summer and springs sweet sings, I will be your mild melody
And when autumns dull comes, I will be the joy to raise your moistened moods
To who do you owe your heart to? To you I owe my heart
In my heart is my all-my soul, it that outlives me-dust!
Keep compassionate care of my spirit, until I returns-compost!
© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 3:50 AM UTC
Pizza stains stain her rusty old books;
pages dog-eared and smelling like coffee dates and drags of a stale cigarette, she wishes for late night walks and New York subway rides, the green-blue hue of the underground’s lights swirl by like she was casted in an independent movie film filled with drunken stupors and graffiti-filled alleyways.
He walks back to her creaky-old apartment, her college literature class starting at 8:30am tomorrow yet he persists in walking back to her creaky-old apartment, green flannel catches her apartment's door with the broken lock, his beer-induced thoughts infused with the idea of her in his green flannel, laying on a sofa that’s 70% fluff and 20% couch;
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 11:46 AM UTC
Drunken stupors
and wondrously high nights
Staring at sunsets
getting into fights
All because he lost sight
no longer wanting to feel
the emptiness she left
trying to grasp the meaning
of a loveless distress
Endless days
Forgotten nights
He broke beer bottles
and started meaningless fights
all because
the girl he had once loved
left him for his best friend
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 9:20 AM UTC
licking orange juice off fingers
like lizards
like primeval and primal beast
who hunt the roaring raw oily rind
and slaves to the lonely sweet elixir.
the slaves sit ready
trenched in greenish mossy muck
and ****** doorway-banging repetition
among the peachy stupors and the ill-humors
sat the two.
a swing and a time
for circles of hands held and secrets sold
and I have none
and you are mute
but tell me everything
among the biscuits and the stale cookies of the young
among the blood and the bleach and the smoke.
we are fertile and ripe for the picking
we are irresponcible, irresponsible
there is no authority in the world that we would emulate.
they are the young the banged and bruised and trial-tested
they are the heirs to her secrets, they are we, and we are idiots of the first order.
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012 at 10:15 PM UTC
Breeze sighs coyly, ever the temptress
Carressing stalks of intoxicated flowers in contented stupors
Drooling dewdrops, yet virginial to sobriety
Paint on the tiled driveway dresses in dawn
Whiter than white, patches of sky afoot
Wet smell of earth the last reminder of night
7.03 upslope scarce affords a glance
Worlds of wonders skipped in every stride
Morning birds shriek from their green citadels, messengers of war
Heart sighs. There is much cause to surcease.
Mind grips the reins tighter. Perfect Monday weather.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
We were moths racing towards light bulbs-
reaching out every time it got too dark where we were floating.
We were lost masochists
who spent too much time together before learning
that some of our impulses might be better off left
in silent worries, and drunken stupors, and reoccurring dreams.
The pits of our stomachs
and the holes in our hearts
started feeling too empty
so we tried to fill up
by swallowing each other’s
carbon dioxide.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 4:13 AM UTC
Oh sweet perfection, you will always be just out of reach. From my grasp, from my sight, and from my mind. And though this thought begins to settle in my mind, the simple knowing keeps me forever at the mercy of my dwindling hope. So maybe one more night of stringless commitments or drunken stupors may help to mask the relentless pain that stabs at my oversized heart. One that has been shapped by your ever lack of presence in my life. Molded by the hope that my once ignorant mind could actually hold you in hand and in spirit. But like my hope, my ignorance has vanished from my childish mind and i now see not only the error in my ways but the politics that i will forever battle in the hopes to find the next best thing to perfection.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 11:06 PM UTC
losing sight of reality
these drunken stupors
control these minds
and control my futures
he told me once to make mistakes so you learn from them
but I just can't stop living in regret
in regret of the past
in regret of all of the terrible things I have done
bruises all over my body
reminders of the damage that has been done
once such an innocent girl
now everything has overcome
but when people say her name
it is not the innocent girl brought to their attention
no- it is the identity that she has become
they are the labels tied to her
for the future
because of the things she has done
yet nobody will save her
just leave her out of sight
out of mind
she is the one going insane
yet she is the same person/ she still bears the same name
she can change
but she cannot rewrite the past
the past must remain completed and done
*but as he once said
the past does not define you
so stand up once again from the fall
stand up stronger
perhaps the scars will never fade
but the memories of the inflicted pain
can be replaced
then you will be a new person
because of the things you have faced*
come back to reality
and start living
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 9:12 AM UTC
Where to hide,
But in a bottle.
For the night I long, could never
cover me.
Though even in my drunken stupors,
I feel a longer of that touch..
And with it carries a phrase.
Oh how you dared to throw me out
before a sound.
I long for the night,
the cold box of sanity I reach
for in the bottle with your name.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 8:14 PM UTC
Mingling secrets purified our intentions
If only plans stayed in the margins
My stupors play with yours
In our printed world
-cj
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 5:27 PM UTC
simply awake
No music lulls
No quiet snoozes
No counting naps
No stretching tires
My clock taunts me
No comfort lullabies
No breathing relaxes
Pajamas strangle me
No coolness soothes
No meditation stupors
No visualization sleeps
No position tranquilizes
No supplements sedate
No aromatherapy calms
or finger painting slumbers
I am insomnia’s vigilant sentry.
Where, oh where's the sandman?
Dec 16, 2021
Dec 16, 2021 at 9:43 AM UTC
The joys of loving a beautiful singer pale in comparison with the joys of being with a beautiful boy who can twist another's words and create a sort of immense beauty, his inflection casting shadows on your heart that dance and play and set you on fire. You are so lucky to love that boy, because he is that genuine beauty we search so hard for in life. He is beauty in his darkest hours, in his tightest corners, in he drunken stupors. He is the moment when everything goes silent enough to hear your own heartbeat. He is the first drop that hits your head. He is the last drop that ends the storm. He is the breath you take to steady yourself in front of a crowd, the salt you squint out of your eyes after an afternoon swim, the introduction of your favorite book, the smile of a girl just complimented on her necklace, the cake at your father's 50th birthday. He is the beautiful things, all of the beautiful things that don't make a big deal of themselves. How do you possibly love this type of boy? How do you show him all of the beauty he portrays, the artwork he creates just by opening his eyes in the morning? This is all I can do. My words are weak. I am pale in comparison. Us lovers of beauty can only hope we get to experience it for as long as possible. We can only hang on for dear life.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 2:35 AM UTC