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Poetic T Aug 2014
Insanity
                               Is
Leaving
                                                      The
            Latch
Swigging

                                                               ­          Inside
           Your


Minds
                                                         Door.....
brandon nagley Sep 2015
i.

Her chocolate eye's
Wherein creation lies;
A place with gate's
With supernatural fate.

ii.

A dining plate
I won't be late;
Swigging her aura
Thus feeling great.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
Jimmy King Jun 2014
If we were the kind of friends who unironically
raised our glasses in toasts,
I would give one to the generation too comforted by the ease
of a honeybee in the plaintively nonexistent mind
of a tulip

To the generation, or at least its subset
that wrongly feels representative, who stumble drunkenly
or maybe just tiredly out of tents
to **** in the view of their friends, who are still at the fire
because the tent was too cold

To those who did raise their glasses in a toast
on New Year’s Eve at what felt, with the ball drop
not screening in luddite protest, enough like midnight.
Beginning with “dear friends” and a couple laughs;
concluding with “now let’s get ****** up” and
a couple more

To those who proceeded
as directed, clinking their shot-glasses
and swigging them back. If only because
they were not tulips.
Arcassin B Jun 2015
By Arcassin Burnham

With a dose of energy,
Searching for your sick and twisted ways,
But you have nun,
The sweetest angel I've never known,
Don't become a nun,
So instead I'm searching for the real you babe,
That's what make me so a..ttracted to you babe,
If we ever see the sunlight distracted by the rivers gaze,
With a dose of energy,
I hope your into me,
Beautiful eyes,
I could gaze into them all day,
Swigging my way,
Putting your consequences and concerns all behind,
But instead I'm searching for the real you babe,
That's what make me so a..ttracted to you babe,
I could replace all of the bad memories from your head,
With a dose of energy,
Like solvable patterns,
I got the vaccine,
I'm your doctor,
Injecting you with that....
You know the word.
http://arcassin.blogspot.com/2015/06/14-you-babe-energy-roses-mep.html
On the cold solstice
the velvet magnet
of Luna's magic
pulls

quietly urges

whispering
gentle spells
into dreamy ears

compelling
her lover
to rise
quixotically
coaxing
him from
the warm sleep
of winters
first night slumber

she summons
a willing lover
inviting him
to follow
her stark
alluring light
illuminating
the lonely blackness
of a bleak universe

her
seductive powers
transcends distances of
a thousand solstices

her
resounding light
a sure mark
braces any weakness
emboldens desire
guiding the bidden
to unforeseen
destinations

standing
in your presence
my face is flush
reflected by your
resplendent light

my heart
broiled
by your
vexing
radiance

the roiling tide
of a midnight reverie
ebbs
as my
earthen shadow
begins to pass
over your
indelible
whiteness

I witness
my dark countenance
eclipse your light

defiling you
fearing
to forever
mark your
effervescent silver
with the baseness of me

without shame
your smile
allays my fear

you understand
you anticipated
the expression
of my
coy reticence

a sweet chant
sings
unencumbered
reveries
gently
reassures
you've danced
through many
moonlit nights
with eager lovers
only to return again
in virginal whiteness
across the
endless cycles
of time

released
relieved
abandoning
all restraint
now
I
summon you

my blackness
your whiteness
breeds a
sensuous
orange
sweeter
then an
open mango

she rules the sky
a celestial monarch
forcing Mars into
a sheepish retreat
commanding
mighty Orion
to sheave his sword
while
Venus
seethes
with envy

my form
begins to swallow
your lines
and
soft curves

my blackness
disappears
into
inviting cracks

falling into
dark creases
the soft billows
sweet mounds
voluptuous craters
gay playgrounds
for my mouth
mysterious hillocks
eagerly explored
with hands and
limbered fingers

a quixotic Eros
the scent of spice
swells in my head

everything
enveloped
like a
holy ghost
playfully gaming
hide and seek
radiantly moving
through
darkened canopies
of a lush forest

nostrils fill
with
tang of spice
a scent
of Caribe

face buried
in thick tresses
of maddening blackness

becoming unhinged
by eyes speaking
a thousand languages
as lips whisper
joyous whimpers

a silent kiss
of an orange lit night
writhing bodies
splayed together

ravenous tendrils
shape sloping
cloud pillows

quivering lips
unveil smiles of
alabaster pearls

mocha darkness
sambas through
the night

she exhales
her lovers name

Luna bathes
her cinnamon curves
in delicious
mango light
offers generous
dollops
of ******

peeking
baying
drifting
I cast off
onto a sea
of lucid dreams

drinking from
a dark aureole
as the tresses
of her
sweetened nest
moistened my member
in a sacred communion
to a hungry lovers mouth

her dancers legs
slim, supple
unbounded
and open
sweet to taste
smooth
so soft
to touch

the fullness
of our rumba
se los tango
con cha cha cha

light steps
close caress
kinetic commotion
wild laughter
fills the sails
of bold schooners

Luna's smile
commands
the seas
to heave

un poco loco
ola de feliz
los hablamos
un contrara
la estas
la esta

the lavender sky
of the mornings
twilight
inspire
Meadowlarks
to herald
the emerging day

still
drunkenly swigging
loves nectar
sleep creeps closer

confessing
small regrets
she fell
victim
to passion again

Luna
comes back
to her lover
pets his chest
with delicate fingers

in a voice
as light as air
she sings
a poem
into his ear
of passionate nights
beauteous art
longing to express
heartfelt truths

The mango consumed
Luna's whiteness returns

my shadow recedes
into inconsequential
nothingness

naked
I stood
sadly witnessing
the dark horizon
overtaking
my fleeing lover
swallowing her
in tiny bits
as morning drops
a final veil
over the face
of a now
vanished love

Music Selection
Grant Green, Moon River

jbm
Oakland
1/19/11
Wack Tastic Nov 2012
Coming from the shadows a six armed samurai,
Followed closely by glowstick wielding neon ninji,
Grips of *** swigging pirates swing from the rafters,
Swallowed alive by blacklight monsters,
Gangs of ***** smoking gurus,
Armed to the teeth with translucent didgeridoos,
Monks parade in swirling vestments,
Whilst the shaman trip in lotus testament,
Gods transfixed by blood tear beauty,,
As humanity’s heroes slay bejeweled dragons,
The king with two faces is beheaded,
By his charlatans, harlequins, fools and jesters,
Chaotic, prophetic killers run amok,
The order of lunatics chant as the time is struck,
A battle royale then follows,
As robots and aliens envelope,
Brilliant beams and whirring mechanics,
Clash with steel, rock, bone and sticks,
Screams from the heads of the thieves,
As their brains are devoured by zombies
Zik Malleaux Feb 2014
Lying down,
In a haze,
In a daze
For days and days

Take this pill,
Don't drown,
Head is spinning
Round and round

Throwing shoes
Swigging gin
Win or lose
Again and again

leap of faith
hold your breath
today's the day for
love and death
What bothers you tonight my lady?
A pale look, and your charming
fading.

Hide behind shattered silhouettes,
and the veil of thin moisture,
yet
still passively tempt my mind,
allure my heart.

Oh, my lady,
my lady.
I'm whispering,
calling your name inside me,
as if thus
i could satisfy my greed
to claim you as my own,
to keep everything about you
forever within.
But what is forever to me?

I'm merely a dayfly,
no better, no worse
than any other of my kind.
What can i do
to draw this fair lady's attention,
and maybe even
to win her favor?

She looks upon me,
looks upon this vast land and sea,
since millions of billions years
before the first of us
ever walked this earth.

Our times,
nothing but a peaceful and swift glimpse
in her serene eternity.

In this way you watch me,
in dew and mist and frost and dust
you watch me.
Watch my suffering,
my struggling,
my striving,
and inexplicable madness
in the name
of someone high above me.

Your everlasting peace drives me into lunatic,
i behave like human in daylight,
and animal
under your livid glow.
Your mercy and generous,
both a holy gift,
and a deadly poison.

How can i walk in the darkness,
without you casting sunshine upon my course?
How can i keep my direction,
without you following me through
the garden of forking paths?
Yet upon the soil of this courtesy,
grows the sprout of appreciation,
ejects the trunk of dependence,
spreads the twigs of desire and hunger,
eventually,
the canopy of hatred.

This is how your charming made me
starve, thirst
and blind.
I look up to the atlas of clouds,
my stars are mercury and illusory.
i lost my course,
as every course leads to you.

In what possible way
can i end this story in serenity?
No matter how much i suffer,
how desperately i pray,
you feel not a slight touch.

Of course you should be indifferent.
What enormous harass would be
if you hear my prayers,
days in, days out;
and those of many others alike,
from deep ancient caves to far future dimensions,
generations kneel down
again and again
in front of your amazing grace?

Swigging from your elegance,
an incomparable pleasure,
yet a doomed tragedy.
In such a tragedy i carry on,
without a blink of eyes,
without a second of reflect,
like Icarus towards the sun,
a moth before a camp fire,
heartily breathing in your blazing felicity,
enjoying the pain
from burning.

What is life
without agony?
What is love
without persistence?
Having your shadows ironed in me
is more than satisfaction.

Someone
just enjoy this lifelong pursuing.

:)
For HH.
My guardian angel, my moonlight, my home.
Simon Soane Apr 2016
There are a lot of important things needed to be happy in life,
that stop the dark rising and save the mind from strife,
like hilarious acts and moments we find funny
and as much as it pains me to say a bit of money
so we can do other fun things like go on a night out,
singing the hours away with a beam and a shout,
or a sweet song that glistens around the head,
or an engrossing book to read in bed,
ordering a take away and gorging can give a thrill
or back to back box sets on a Netflix and chill,
and just as crucial as having a top mate to phone
is having a place that one can call home.
Having an abode to go to when employment is done
or a domain to grab some water to quell the heat of the sun,
a space to collapse when infused with inebriation,
when getting tired of tracks, a warm safe station,
a place to get ready when revving to go out in the mix,
yeah, you were all of the above dear Flat Six.
Yeah, I’ll hold my hands up, you've been a ace place in which to live,
okay you were full of damp and the bathroom wall flimsy enough to give,
and when the verdant Eden outside was chopped down it made me mad
but you were only a short walk from my Mum and Dads.
You had plenty of perks,
fab tree out back and close to work,
a 24 hour garage a stone's throw away,
that sold the ***** at night and day,
you were near a cracking paper shop that had had 2 bottles of wine for six quid a go,
suffice to say, el vino did flow.
Your living room was massive enough to play big with a cat
"always a good time here" etched on your welcome mat.
Under your roof was awesome, you engendered joy with ease,
effortlessly making great, just like the cleanest breeze.
Now although you as a building yourself is a important component in amaze
other factors also make a simply brilliant phase,
Like when friends came round for fun and revelry
after we had left the club just after three,
we'd all pick up the ingredients for a ***** do
and jump, and groove with soothing coo,
the ether resplendent with "I love you!"
finely balanced between boom and cautious,
chatting committed, gabbing voracious,
sunk into fun under your light,
the wonder of spun on Saturday night.
Now, it wasn't just at the weekend when friends came to say okay,
there were some sweet gatherings on a Wednesday,
no women, no, just a range age of men,
it could only be mid week Breadren,
we could be having a conversation about how New York seems most tourable
when a voice pipes up, "by the way bel ami my cousin has cancer and it's incurable."
There could only be one guy who brings such depressing roars
the harbinger of gloom known as Two Doors.
He'll bleat on about how his niece has no womb and is totally barren
and next to him lives a kingpin drug baron
"they are shifting units at a furious pace
and ski in more in more wizz than ******* Scarface."
He'll change the subject in the blink of an eye
and go from talking about love to who's going to die,
he doesn't like most women, thinks they are a squawking flock,
he loves men though, yeah, he really likes ****.
A mate can come out and say sobbing he doesn't want to be with a lass
while Iain does think, "Ross, let me in your ***."
His friend could weep and cry with a whimpering cough
while all Iain thinks, Ross, **** me off!
Never mind Grinder, get on my fleshy old man log."
The third guy Martin is off shooting up in the bog.
Yeah, lots of people talked in your four walls
but you provided the space for those stupendous *****,
you were brill in December, springing in May,
really awesome in September, probs cos that's when Louise came to stay.
You held our pre festival clutter with happy behest
and often covered in bottles on Monday, a big glassy mess,
oh you had everything, simply one of the best.
As I’ve said, Flat Six you as the area were great
But a paramount importance in that was housemate.
You see some people can bond and connect in the hub of a club
but when sharing an address each other up the wrong way they can rub,
although they can go to a gig and have the most divine of laughs
when they abide in the same abode they go together like low ceilings and giraffes,
arguments start over the heating not being turned off
or who hasn’t took the bins out or who’s had some of the others food to scoff,
they bleat that “you shouldn’t have gone out for that night on the *****
And then made noise when you got in as you knew I was trying to snooze!”
or “why did you have that night on the coke, you see more of Charlie than an oompa loompa
and have World War 3 over a borrowed jumper.
So yeah, it's sweet when you find a shared space dweller
and who you think is swell and you get on really well,
as when after a day at the office and you perhaps want to chill alone
when they rap on your door to discuss the day you're glad their home,
skating through conversations with the p of pace
raucous at pontificating and waiting in the listen space,
bringing the talk with dazzling natter,
singeing the fork with frazzling chatter
to ensure the words cooked go down warm,
go down a treat, go down a storm,
discussing that wowing tomorrow is pay day thrill
and who was to blame for the initial breakup of Ross and Rachel,
top gabbing, it was brill!
Someone who when the elephant in the room is sniff
you both realise it quick and score in a jiff!
And never entertain the waste that is a tiff,
not for us the sign of a rift
simply super, a kind of bliss,
see I love Joe Flat Six, I love him to bits!
Although, like you  and your constant mould
he wasn't perfect (like everyone), if the truth be told,
you see if you follow all the biblical teachings you've been taught
you'd think he would have thought,
"I can help myself to the dental care and washing hygiene, it don't matter that I haven't bought,
I can use what I deem, Si's not the selfish sort,
he'd give me the last drop of his shower gel if he could,
he defiantly would,
so do unto others as they'd do unto me
and as I’ve got this human cleaning fluid for free
I’ll leave him some plentiful dollops on the side so he can bathe in a Lynx Africa infused sea
and I can leave some mouth polish laid in the shape of a cleansing leaf
so he can keep the fillings to zero in his teeth
then I can take the rest as I’ve been true to my sacred beliefs."
Yeah, that's what he could have done.
Instead he grew horns and committed a Luciferian act
and thought "I'm taking all of that!",
Sartini, you Devilish ****.
Nar, I bet you didn't even think that at all,
you were too busy imagining going out and having a ball,
beautifully bouncing off every wall,
riding the waves of Wet Dreams with total aplomb,
spinning tunes while high fiving Tom,
cool as ice cream and hot to trot
country hopping and swigging spirits by the tot,
at least Shannon seems to have diminished, that ****** robot!
she had more wires than C3PO's thighs
and glazed over R2D2 eyes
fair dos you digged her metallic allure
but did you really want to make love with the Terminator?
Ahh but who cares about a bit of shower gel and your cyborg fawning
it was great singing along as the day was dawning
And obvs I know every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end
But it’s only natural to miss living with one of your best friends.
So far be it from me to encourage your narcissistic gaze
but Joe you can add top housemate to your list of fortes!
So dear Flat Six to summarise
I’ll miss sitting out your back in summer rise
looking through your big tree with my eyes
at the Saturday sun azure blue skies,
I’ll miss that whatever there is to unfold
won’t happen over your threshold,
I’ll miss coming in your space with loads of beer
And chill with tunes while mates appear,
I’ll miss the midnight moving across your floor,
miss my key going in your door,
miss that it’s not your clock telling my time
miss that you’re not mine when I say “who wants to go mine?”
But now you’ll always be more than an address and a collection of bricks
I’ll always love you,
dear Flat Six!
You start out carefully
Pouring into a shot glass,
Then the shot glass is
Sloshing over into the
Coffee mug: it's an
Irish Coffee Mug, "Top of the
Clan McGregor Morning, to you."
By 10 AM you're pouring
Right from the bottle,
Into an assortment of
Jelly-juice glasses:
Mimosas Are Us.
You skip brunch & lunch &
By 1:30 PM you're swigging
Directly from the liter bottle,
Wielded like a meat cleaver
In more ways than one.
DieingEmbers Sep 2012
Suicidal spiral
swigging soda with beta blocker chasers
self destructive thoughts
ricochet
bruising both ego and id
DNA swabs taken from blood stained nails
confirm my guilt
darkness swallows me whole
spitting me out
in pieces
shattered mind rattling
within an aching skull
fists clenched
stomach tight tied in knots
reminding me
always
of my pain


Silent screams within a gaping mouth
eyes hollow
sunken
as funeral dirge
takes me to the bridge

I fall
fail to catch myself in time

Pass the meds

pass the bottle



pass me by.......
Take me to the bridge is a musical term it's also a play of the painting the scream
Jordan Jun 2013
“Happy. Just in my swim shorts, barefooted, wild-haired, in the red fire dark, singing, swigging wine, spitting, jumping, running - that’s the way to live.”
The Year Nov 2011
Burnt back
Swig down
Soar high.
Repeat.
Seek more
Think less
Swig down.
Stumble ,
Yearning,
Panic,
Bliss.
Thinking,
Feeling,
Touching,
Drinking.
Swig Down
Soar High.
S.t.o.p.

Who is this?
When did her reputation proceed her.
Why do I need to be her?
Confidence isn’t found in a drink
I know that so why do I keep finding mine at the bottom of the bottle?
Closed off, shy, not worthy.
I know that’s not who I am, at least when I am swigging.
I am loud, brilliant, ****.
Where is my middle?
Help me find it.
Or one day I will soar to where she can’t catch me.
Creep Feb 2015
I might be trapped in this cupboard,
But my mind and soul wanders on its own.
They don't need legs,
Or wings,
To go anywhere it pleases.

They flew away from me yesterday
To visit you and show you my love,
To take a tour through San Francisco
With its winding slopes,
Where the mountains meet the bay.
They swam over to London,
Go spotting for Banksy artworks,
Skipped down to Russia swigging
Down that ***** halfway there to
Wash away all attachements.

But I guess the ***** wasn't enough
Cause I'm still here.
Idk lol... wanted to write about san fran cause I recently visited and I love it so much... but it turned out to this ^^ heh, well I was daydreaming in class about cali...

Therapy
By all time low
Palaver Feb 2015
Getting old is growing lonely
Passing on the foreboding trophy
Digging the hole for pushing daisies
Singing tunes for avoiding crazy
Stalking memories by retelling stories
Cheating time as reliving glory
Cursing change while swigging brandy
Scaring children wanting candy
Knowing all and seeing phonies
Growing grey is making you stoney
Casting you far
Dropping you coldly
we draw lines in the ever-shifting sands
     'No! That is me, not you!'
     'You idiot, that's ME, this is you!'

and yet the division is far too unclear
for any fool swigging his beer.

as the ever-shifting lines in the sand
tie us all to our meager plots of land,

i - for all that one-letter word is worth -
slip over the boundaries and cross't the hills
make this a test of mind,
not wills,

for in this shattered world, i find,
there is no boundary between me and thine!

only when we all understand
can we end the rivalry and war amongst man -
     so gaze into another's eyes,
     see the common soul you've both disguised
Meghan Doan Apr 2015
hard liquor makes my stomach turn.

opening a bottle of ***** is like taking the lid off of a tupperware container full of liquid charcoal.
I swear it looked like something delicious,
but the way it folds in my stomach,
not at all like how my mother taught me to fold batter in a bowl,
tells me otherwise.

downing a shot in one go is challenging.
this cake ***** doesn’t taste at all like cake,
and fireball has a tendency to taste like actual fire,
and i’m still not sure if that’s actually intentional. maybe ironically.
but a dare’s a dare and spin the shot landed on me
i wasn’t playing, i was really just walking by
no really, someone else can have it, go ahead, spin it again
but the arrow is pointing right at me and now everyone is staring and well,
a dare’s a dare.
isn’t it?

a dare’s a dare until liquid charcoal isn’t all you’re spewing,
because word ***** and actual ***** kinda feel the same
at least after six shot of… well i’m not really sure.
that cute guy over there… no the other one. in the hat.
he gave it to me,
said it’ll loosen me up.
I suppose i believed him, half because i wasn’t really listening,
i was looking at his teeth
I wonder if he whitens them.
he must have had braces.

well anyway, i drank it and it kinda tasted like gasoline
but i bet i looked cool swigging from his two six.
probably only until the sixth chug, when the first one hit my eyes
and i couldn’t really see ****** expressions anymore
i guess that’s when i got brave

word ***** and actual ***** kinda feel the same,
especially when you’re not really sure which one is happening
oh, maybe both.
and now he’s holding my hair and i’m biting my tongue
but my stomach is heaving and he looks so good
he definitely had braces. no one is born with teeth that nice
i bet he doesn’t drink red wine
i bet he flosses twice a day.
i should brush my teeth
this doesn’t taste like cake at all.
A throbbing head wondering where you are
with slow thoughts you remember.
It's New years day everything looks bleak
not such a happy new year!
How cold and damp where you have laid
lifting your head nerves frayed!

Glancing about you're in the morning air
several others beside you.
An awful smell of ***** and stale *****
makes your stomach churn!
Rising with pain to your feet on wobbly legs
bottle there with a few dregs.

Swigging that down making you feel worse
focusing his tired blurry eyes.
Trying to rouse those prostrate on the ground
recognising some others no idea.
A girl looked familiar then an awful flash back
he'd proposed not the right tack!

Once a school friend but he didn't really like her
waking them they stood up.
Now noticing it was a fly tip ******* everywhere
not far from the last port of call!
Each still under the influence of all the drink
guiding them to the bus link.

Hoping the girl didn't remember much of last night
as the frost began to bite!
Welcome he thought to another bland year
just wanting another beer!

The Foureyed Poet.
Waking up after to much drink on New Years day. Not where you expected to be! The Foureyed Poet.
redspace Sep 2014
Cracking sunflower seeds between rigid teeth
Swigging beers through pursed lips
Inhaling menthol cigarettes with tired lungs and a tight rib cage
          I'm left not knowing the difference between your exhales and sighs
I could say that times like these will brand my memory forever
Salt and shells will never taste the same
          my teeth are left weak from clenching when you're in pain
Alcohol will never completely flow through
          my inebriation is always accompanied by you
Cigarettes still consume me and nearly smother
          as you're asking to *** one, and I'm lighting one off the other
I could tell you when small talks lead to deep moments littered with empty bags and condensation, that I am the happiest I have ever been.
I could tell you these things when there was us.
Picking and choosing which seeds to take from the same pile, fingers interlaced, losing count of drinks and who gave the last smoke to who...
But here we are and us is lost
          our night ends when there are no more smokes to share
Menthol still burns through most of our air
          our drunkeness calls for sleep and warm clothes
We'll both get sick and keep the other close
          our appetites and muddled minds both soothed and still
Eating and conversation so easily a thrill
My mind is numb from how these moments keep recurring
          I know you're hiding sighs inside of exhaling smoke
Us meant that I could soothe that stammered breathing and those bruised ribs, because us meant you curling into me while you slept through it all
Us meant that it didn't matter how much we'd had to drink, because us meant the other would be there to make it all seem okay
Us meant that we could eat together, and smoke together, and sleep together, and love each other, and kiss, and smile, and laugh, and just be.
Us meant a lot of things, but us isn't what we are anymore.
It's just we.
We're still passing off sunflower seeds and just barely touching hands
We're still drinking from the same beer bottle
We're still sharing cigarettes
We're still catching the other smiling in our direction for no reason at all.
This poem is a mess much like my head and my heart.
Away up the top  in Australia
Simply days drive from anywhere at all~
We were camped on the side of a river bank
Not far from a wet season water fall~
Running outa food to some extent
I assured them we were fine~
That I as camp cook had enough to last us
And tonight as usual we were gonna dine~
We were up there on a top end fishing trip
And Id been up there before~
Where the best fish were only caught
In the land that I adore~
One bloke had a friend with him
Who was a city well fed chum~
And he kept boasting how his wife could cook
As he sat swigging on the last of his ***~
I knew they were going up stream for the day
To fish and do some prospecting up the way~
And I told them tonight a real Irish stew
And he replied that sounds real good ay~
He said no way I can eat that bush tucker
I gotta have whats proper and comes from shops~
I don't eat that out back wild bush Tucker stuff
It ll never pass through my chops~
But Irish stew yes that ll do
It sounds real good ta me~
When we get back from up the track
I ll have my share you wait an see~
So they left in one direction
And I left in the other~
Hoping the thick bushland would act as
To my rifle shots a cover~
I shot a Roo and a Goanna
A Bandicoot and one wild cat~
And then I shot a large parrot
Got a young croc in the water and headed back~
A little ways from the camp
I used a fallen log as a butchers block~
And then I got this big bucket full
Of meaty bits right to the top~
The fire now lit and big cooking *** half full
I went on a wild herb search~
And when down by the river again
I got my self a pool trapped perch~
Added it as well to the stew
With bush herbs and thickened with some flour~
And I can tell in awhile it smelt so good
When they d be due back in about an hour~
Had honey Id robbed from a distant hive
So I made a patty cake or two~
With what flour I had left
Yep .... That ll surely do~
Well when they got back the aroma drifted
And they picked it up down the track~
And couldn't wait to eat the lot
And complimented the cook for the snack~
The city bloke that did all the complaining
About running out of food~
Said he was sorry that he went on a bit
And didn't mean to be at all rude~
He said Id have died if I had to eat bush Tucker
And believe me it is true~
In all my life .. including the wife
Never tasted a better Irish stew~

Terrence Michael Sutton
copyright ( 1970 )  .....2018
I smile and wait for the Autumn,
for the long breaths and deep pauses of Summer to fade

I sit on the porch swigging spirits, but the ghosts are within me and not
without

I swallow pills,
one blue, two white
two round, one flat

pills to stop my heart from racing
pills to stop the twitching
pills to **** the memories that lurk, like dark men in alley ways

he was not dark
it was not an alley way

there was no long grass to lick
my body, no rough wall to bruise my back

no, it was not outside at all

laying in a darkened migraine room, wrapped in a filthy sleeping bag

whilst strangers laugh in kitchens, smoking *** and drinking beer

but I still know the weight of a man leaving a bleeding, stinging, ****

and the frantic showering off of evidence

I will be asked if it was slinky and if my lips were scarlet

I will cry into the pillows I wish he'd smothered me with

every Summer, I will sit
and shake with memories

as if the very sun were to rub salt into my wounds

I will count out pills, swallowing them with lukewarm water

and I will wait

wait, wait, wait

for Autumn
John H Dillinger Nov 2019
I miss Marseille,
today,
though I can still see her,
I know I'll soon be on my way.

The dusty rock,
the hills embrace her,
the wisps of mist,
I miss Marseille,

her way, an understanding that:
if you can't, you don't pay -
prix libre they say -
associations of the worlds strays.

I miss Marseille
and hearing what she has to say,
on walls, from squats,
saying what's often neglected, forgot.

She's frank and clear
and has time for every kind of queer,
I long for her to lead me astray,
to change; I miss Marseille.

Always. The Sun,
the passage of the days,
anticipation at reaching ever corner,
a confluence of culture, Marseille the forum.

Tunis, Algiers; I can smell
the North of Africa,
hear the sails of all the boats
that traffic her,

I see them line the shores
of every bay
that twist and turn along Marseille,
Swigging from my bottle of beaujolais.

****, I miss it.
Just the thought, I can barely resist it,
I could pack it all up and leave today,
For Le Plein, Cours Julien, For alive Marseille

It belongs to all it's people, to us
and if you try to take it
watch the fuss,
the fury and the disorey,

****, I ******* Love Marseille.
Everyone's on the cusp of Love & Hate,
either knocking on or burning down the gate,
all indulging in their collective fates.

Now, a Picon beer with a slow sunset,
please know, I have not one regret,
just lessons from my passions
and ideas from everyday chic/schlague fashion

I will miss your elevator kisses,
your smile in the stormclouds,
the lightning,
so exciting and frightning.

I loved it when you hated something:
The tourists, Men suffocating the street.
I loved seeing how you could eat,
you will always be an inspiration

So, it will be fine, okay?
So long, Marseille,
with your West facing bay,
you are forever blue in my memory, never grey

But, I will miss you, Marseille,
and that's okay.
For a cosmonaut..

It's a tail of growth and passion, a love affair with a city and a special person

I will always miss Marseille, that's a special feeling that doen't happen with many spaces, it's something to cherish..
stop trying?? what do you mean by that you old, dead *******, scoundrel!
whats your aim? where were you living when you wrote those ****** words!
what are you trying to pull? what cruel sick joke? What little passe last toot did you think you had in your gut? !
what kind of full bodied lack of thought thumb up nose remark! you’re wrong, or you’re too right!! graying hair, you ugly man, you elegant, beautiful man! !
stop haunting me! stop advocating your poison! Trechourous fuckerrry!
Troll of urban america, swigging down your swank, your swag, your style! Bahh! you don’t know a domesticated pet from an animal, you do not know of institution! You make your little assumption and laugh!
inhale and **** and like ice cream Ironically! Why would you see and then subject me? !
hahah I’m laughing really hard about it! That’s what you leave me with? trechoruous truth, mock your fellow poets, mark vonnegut, shut up you dead man! !
You would like an ironic joke, wouldn’t you old fellow! are you closer to god now? !
Triumph in your misery, and make a little makeshift idol out of it, and hold it up to the stink of the barlight, that pale chicken soup of sun seeping into your existence, and ******* out into a trough and lyrically blessing the underworld with new tounges. !
!
whatever man, !
I hope he's laughing, wherever he is.... cheers to you friend
Taliesin Dec 2018
See them go..
A million suicidal shamblers, staring out
Hatred and beauty and dilated eyes
And long hair punks waiting for a revolution that will save them. United in disunity, calmed by deaths and shocked by wonders of medicine
Cool and collected, lost and dyslexic
They wonder at the halogen lights and stare at extinguished candles
Catching at the edge of their sight a whiff of angel-smoke
How many were cast out and how many ran
To this mecca, this eden, this dying heaven
Filled with the dead? Who knows
They are the ones who wander in daylight through the city square
Swigging red wine and chanting obscene hymns
Naked millennial drag kings of all they survey
living in art deco flats, old factories and empty rooms
they lie awake and listening to the shunting streets outside
and the symphony of buskers on the corner.
They love each other in wild ******
Dancing to rhythms stolen from slave songs
Screaming, bellies full of claret
And brassic basic dysphoric cravings they writhe and fall
And hum against each others’ bodies
Drawing knives along each others’ veins
And hope,
Frozen,
Waiting for the revolution.

That will save them.
please, please take me home
swigging ***** from the bottle
on abandoned streets

grabbing me by the wrist
and flaunting my deepest
darkest secret to strangers
dressed in black

maybe I should have locked
the door, as you placed the first
touch on my frozen body

I don’t move, as you take my
innocence, inch by inch
with grotesque hands

please, please take me home
away from this house you’ve
bought me to with ulterior motives

I wake up a different girl
seeing the world through
a grey veil, all has turned to
dust and ashes and

I just want to go home
Meaghan Cassie May 2014
<<<
Press the button with the arrows facing left.
Play it again, and again, until you run out of breath,
cause you're singing so loud as you're swigging your drink,
and you're crying so hard you can't hear yourself think.

You're loosing yourself more than you'd like to admit.
Press the button again, cause you're cigarette's lit,
and think harder about all your worries and troubles,
while the frustration inside of you builds up and doubles.

Now your face is in your hands and you're shaking.
Feeling sick about telling the world you were faking,
you're out of options, and you haven't a clue,
as you think to yourself, "what the hell do I do?!"

Go ahead, press that backwards button again.
Dry your eyes off as you count down from ten,
and breath deeper to steady your heartbeat,
but continue to think as the same song repeats,

Over, and over, and over again.
Sarah Bregman May 2014
I used to hear her in the night, screaming from her nightmares, wandering around downstairs, watching TV with her mixed drink(s) on one side and her orange salt rock lamp on the other. That salt rock lamp was supposed to give off “good energy”, but I wasn’t really sure how much of that was true considering the circumstances. A salt rock lamp can’t free you. Neither could medication. She used to tell me; survival, is just getting through the day. I listened. I tried to save her myself, but alcohol is more powerful than I am. It’s more powerful than anything I could have said to her. It was a year from last semester, when my best friend started spiraling out of control. I had lived with her for the past three years, this is my fourth. We became instant friends when we both saw each other at UVM. She always seemed so happy on the outside, but I soon started to see the hollowness inside of her. She had gone through so much in her life, and I thought of her as strong. I still do. But for her it wasn’t that easy to call herself strong and just let it all go, she didn’t know how to handle it, until alcohol became her way. I never understood why she did the things she did that year. Did you know she drank a whole handle of Rasberry Smirnoff in two days? It was sickening. I didn’t know what to do, because at a certain point I couldn’t even look at her. I know that sounds harsh, and maybe I shouldn’t have left her alone in the apartment to be swigging even more of yet another flavored handle of *****. I just couldn’t talk to her without hurting her feelings. She is really sensitive, like an open wound and everything hurts her. I wasn’t trying to, but she was so uncovered and vulnerable. Everything I said either went one ear and out the other, or stung her like salt in a deep cut. It got hard to live with sometimes. I love her so much yet I was uselessly sitting there watching her drown in her invasive misery, destroying herself and leaving me to watch her ashes build up more and more in front of me. She isolated herself on purpose, lost a lot of friends for a while. I tried but I couldn’t stop her, no one could. She was so far gone, like I lost my best friend whom I couldn’t recognize anymore, and I missed her. It became a routine, coming home to her drunk and sometimes crying hysterically on the floor or on the couch, or in her room, whether there was even a reason or not. She fell apart. I told her my thoughts, gave her my advice, but if words helped everyone all the time, no one would feel the pain that you sometimes have to feel. I wanted to tell her it was okay, but then I didn’t know how to anymore. All I could do was shove my phone in her face already calling a school therapist for her. At first, she looked at me with a blank stare. With tears dripping down her cheek, I knew she didn’t want the help, but she knew she needed it. She didn’t deny it. To my surprise, she didn’t fight it. She took the phone, made an appointment, and started her journey to recovering.
Mark Armstrong Feb 2018
Too old for a visa, too young for the farm
Too straight for the army, too gay for the guards
If you’ve got no calling, no fella, no wife
Have a bunk in the hall at Cape Christ

Walk a dowry down the aisle on a leash and a promise
Hand on holster handing over the hostage
On a dotted line date with a beard-slash-bride
And need a Roman ransom? Think Christ

If you’re sick of the same ***** giving you grief
Don’t lower yourself, turn the other cheek
And if he breaks your jaw, then my advice?
Don’t come running to me, blame Christ

Give the devil on your shoulder a little nibble
Every now and again to keep things civil
And before the tread’s worn off your conscience, right...
Draw a cross in the air and call Christ

What do you sell the man who’s seen it all?
Ketamine, bath salts, Adam and Paul
If sir needle and pipes says he needs a new vice
Pull the spiritual card and play Christ

When you’ve just reconciled yourself with death
And they want a labrat for the time you’ve left
When the doctors too fond of his own **** voice
**** the medicine man, choose Christ

Have you been leading death on a wild goose chase?
Trying to buy some time to clean your slate?
Call a priest around, he’ll set things right
When you’re ready to croak it, plead Christ

The Word rattles in the chests of the last clergymen
Who drop dead like the devil overheard-ye-and
The women look willing while the men look bored
But they couldn’t trust women with the Word of the Lord

Unless the Eucharist feels like chiselling a nick
Off the philosophers stone and swigging it quick-ly
Down with a bottle of B
Then I guess it’s not for me
Vincent JFA Mar 2017
Something of another realm
appeared before me some nights
on a small break to Brooklyn;
he was crooning by the bar
some love songs dragged out
of a wormhole in the cosmos,
and he saved my mind.
and the funny thing about
finding Heaven, is that you never
really do, until one day you catch it
swigging a beer from the corner of your eye,
and the lights in the bar
start to look warmer than they did
when you first walked in.
I wrote this about meeting the lead singer of a band at the Rough Trade in Brooklyn. While we were talking about his music over e-mail a few months prior, he gave me free tickets for the show as a thanks for supporting their music.

My cousin drove out to Brooklyn with me, and when we got there an hour later, we had just found out it was a 21+ show, so he couldn't get in the stage area. My cousin had told me to go see the band, and that he could wait in the car, since he was exhausted from work anyway. So after I went in the stage area, I ordered a beer at the bar, and from the corner of my eye, recognized the lead singer. I was so clumsy talking to him, since I find him attractive and it was my first time meeting a musician, but he was so great and made me feel comfortable with being honest about how much I love his music. His presence was just really sweet and relaxing to be around. He and his bandmates were so kind, genuine and thoughtful. When I told him about my cousin, he felt bad and gave me a copy of their vinyl to give to him, which was heartwarming to me.

Tu'er Shen, also known as The Rabbit God or The Leveret Spirit, is the Chinese deity that safeguards homosexual affections. His name stuck out to me when I was reflecting on the night I met the singer, and the band's music overall; how mercurial and ethereal it is, while being so simple, mellow and tender. That feeling meeting him, watching him sing, there was a comforting air about it all; it was one of those few times in my life where I had a strong fondness for an acquaintance I just met, where it was a nice feeling to just bask in, even if I didn't do anything about it. I just felt somewhere safe and sweet in all the music, all the while feeling this sense of being in touch with my Higher Self, experiencing a higher place right where I was existing for a moment in time.
Away up the top out in the back blocks
Simply days drive from anywhere at all~
We were camped on the side of a river bank
Not far from a wet season come water fall~
We were running out of food to some extent
I assured them all we were just fine~
That I as camp cook had enough to last us
And tonight as usual we were all going to dine~
We were way up there on a top end fishing trip
And I'd been up there a good few times before~
Where the best fish were only ever caught
In a land that I came to adore~
One bloke there had a friend with him
Who was a real city well fed chum~
And he kept boasting how his wife could cook
As he sat swigging on the last of his ***~
I knew they were going up stream for the day
To fish and do some prospecting up the way~
And I told them tonight a real Irish stew
And he replied that sounds real good mate ay~
He said no way I could eat that bush tucker
I got to have whats proper and comes from shops~
I don't eat that out back wild bush Tucker stuff
It'll never ever get pass or through my chops~
But an Irish stew yes that'll sure do
And it sounds real good to me~
When we get back from up the track
I'll have my share of that you wait an see~
So they eventually left in one direction
And I eventually left in the other~
Hoping the thick bushland would act as
To my rifle shots a cover~
I shot a Roo and a Goanna later on
A Bandicoot and soon one wild cat~
And then I shot a large wild parrot
Got a young croc in the water and headed back~
A little ways from the camp where we were
I used a fallen log as a butchers block~
And then I got this big bucket full
Of meaty bits right to the top~
The fire now lit and big cooking *** half full
I then went on a wild herb search~
And when I got down by the river again
I got my self a pool trapped perch~
Added it as well to the Irish stew
With bush herbs and thickened with some flour~
And I can tell in awhile it smelt so good
And they'd be due back in about an hour~
I had honey I'd robbed from a distant hive
So I made a patty cake or two~
With what flour I had left at the time
Yep .... That'll surely do~
Well when they got back the aroma drifted
And they picked it up coming down the track~
And couldn't wait to eat the whole lot
And complimented the cook then for the snack~
The city bloke that did all the complaining
About running out of food~
Said he was sorry that he went on a bit
And didn't mean to be at all rude~
He said I'd have died if I had to eat bush Tucker
And believe me it is true~
In all my life .. including the wife
Never tasted a better Irish stew~

Terrence Michael Sutton
copyright 1970  .. now 2018

— The End —