"swilled" poems
When the wood touches
my lips
my whole body trembles--
triplet trebles drip quickly
out....
In my head,
I sound nothing
like the spheres surrounding
the guitar's melancholy,
mellow below comes above
and I WAIL.....
sailing these sounds
swaddling the drumbox beat
to a crescendo
exercising all the ills
I've swilled and spilled--
FILLING
the house
FILLING my self....
radiating away all thoughts
of doubt.
a reminder of the Bird 'Tranes
a reminder of the names
I used to sing......
Silence
seems like such a foreign concept again.
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 8:37 PM UTC
It's the conspiracy to conspire,
Think of how the fist or flies feel,
The most enticing truth,
Astonishingly mouthwatering,
Turns out smoke and mirror,
You see, because behind the window paned,
skeleton of steel and wire,
Underneath there is commerce,
In the webbing of marrow, worldwide underhandedness,
Something is always being sold,
What better way to take power away,
Then having scheduled rebellions,
The greatest put on,
Our system only works under thumbs,
from the backdrop works the crippled puppeteer,
behind his blank, vagrant, expressionless lenses,
Behind the grey skin and swilled organs,
Attached to the oil drum veins,
Beats the very same heart of Moloch!
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 10:20 PM UTC
You make it in your mess-tin by the brazier's rosy gleam;
You watch it cloud, then settle amber clear;
You lift it with your bay'nit, and you sniff the fragrant steam;
The very breath of it is ripe with cheer.
You're awful cold and ***** and a-cursin' of your lot;
You scoff the blushin' 'alf of it, so rich and rippin' 'ot;
It bucks you up like anythink, just seems to touch the spot:
God bless the man that first discovered Tea!
Since I came out to fight in France, which ain't the other day,
I think I've drunk enough to float a barge;
All kinds of fancy foreign dope, from caffy and doo lay,
To *** they serves you out before a charge.
In back rooms of estaminays I've gurgled pints of cham;
I've swilled down mugs of cider till I've felt a bloomin' dam;
But 'struth! they all ain't in it with the vintage of Assam:
God bless the man that first invented Tea!
I think them lazy lumps o' gods wot kips on asphodel
Swigs nectar that's a flavour of Oolong;
I only wish them sons o' guns a-grillin' down in 'ell
Could 'ave their daily ration of Suchong.
Hurrah! I'm off to battle, which is 'ell and 'eaven too;
And if I don't give some poor bloke a sexton's job to do,
To-night, by Fritz's campfire, won't I 'ave a gorgeous brew
(For fightin' mustn't interfere with Tea).
To-night we'll all be tellin' of the Boches that we slew,
As we drink the giddy victory in Tea.
2.2k
Shrove Tuesday. Meet me after school.
She had scented breath. Gordonstone
Said he’d ****** her. There was that
Look in her eyes. Her sister never had
The same way about her. The parents
Both taught at college. The father loved
Mahler and smoked a pipe. The mother
Had a taste for S&M; and listened to
Country and western. Meet me by the
Bandstand and come alone. Bud went
Along alone. The afternoon sun shone
Weakly down. She was standing by the
Pond watching the swans. The parents
Are out tonight she said how about you
And me? Bud said what about you and me?
The parents’ bed we could if you like
She muttered. Bud wondered where her
Parents were going and would they be late.
Ok he said. They walked through the park.
The sun was going down. Her sister was out
With some schmuck at the movies. She took
Bud into the house. He smelt wealth and
Comfort. Want a drink? she asked. Bud sipped
At the father’s scotch. She gulped down the
Mother’s gin. How about you and me going
Upstairs to the parents’ bed? Bud swilled the
Whisky around his mouth. The cheeks burnt.
The tongue almost died. She took his hand
And climbed the stairs. The carpet was soft
And deep. Bud thought of *** most days.
Bud dreamed of *** She undressed. Removed
Each item like some downtown stripper.
Bud once saw his mother’s naked ****
He was off food for a week. Come on in
She said. Bud removed his shirt and pants.
The curtains were flowered. He climbed into
The parent’s bed. Maybe Gordonstone had.
She lay there inviting him in. There was country
And western music coming from the huge hifi.
Bud hoped she didn’t have her mother’s taste
For S&M.; She hummed some country song.
Don’t be long she said. Enjoy she whispered.
There is no tomorrow. You’re a long while dead.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC
a confessional screen
chambered in opaques
the pearly gates would sport
checkers sovereignty with grime
between myself
and the other side of this poem
another acolyte had founted
from our species-widened narthex-maw
the answer to the test
the answer i have tested since
despite the veto of a roshi's sleeve
while adults justify in frowns and threats
commandment-etched
i am a child still
aghast at drawing lines in sand to mark the living
from the soon to die
one i knew who drew such lines
for whom a line was drawn to mark himself as well
not just in votes and homeland hate-speech
you see
he crossed the line
no unadulterated childhood can cross
he shot his own face
or at least his face was shot
when he was found
who can read the final lonely moments of another
when mistakes are easier than ownmost acts ?
bombing bullies politicking death
can sanctify the safe
unpunctuated traps
dividing moods in swallows
pills
swilled with undigested fear
of nozzled death
mercilessly sudden
.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
**Rows of stone houses, all back-to-back
lined by the side of streets cobble set
housewives with shopping, segs in their heels
clopping down ginnels with ringing footsteps.
Cast iron lampposts, corporation green
daily were reset by clockwork it seemed
casting more shadow than light which to see
brimstone edged steps, scrubbed 'elbow' clean.
Sweeps on their rounds, in Summer would rush
cleaning the flues with rods and brush
kids in the street, staring in wonder
at soot snowing flurries, from porcupine pots.
Nutty slack in the grate, drawn by the pan
coal smoking stacks, pouring out grime
creels of damp washing, stealing the flame
when years end smog, jaundiced the sky.
A trip to the 'flicks', Saturday morning
'thrupence' for best seats, 'top-a-the-stalls'
rounds of cheers as good-un's were chasing
the bad-un's were boo'd, soon to be caught.
In 'wellies an scruff,' we went to the 'flea-pit'
with 'ha-peth o' cheap spice', soothing the throat
food for thought, all week long
and played them all, the films we saw.
Cowboys and Indians, cap guns held high
annoying the neighbours, 'bye it were grand'
riding the range on imaginary horses
best we ride on, with slap of the hand.
'Play in yer own street', my recallection
and 'geer off mi steps, they've jus-bin-swilled'
yet still we 'mucked out' with die-cast toys
against the 'midden', and on the walls.
No more adventure, making own fun
young-un's today don't know how it's done
cartoon and serial, games of war
we'd launch to the moon, upon the see-saw.**
... ... ...
Apr 12, 2011
Apr 12, 2011 at 12:05 AM UTC
I swilled pupils behind your glass Then sighed into the telephone.
(…)
reflections of me peering out. /Against each felled bough
The sneering nose, /blooms indignity
supports a wire /swelling like vineyards
framing your visions. /over sultry horizons;
Beneath /I float and stare
a satin camisole /at equanimity
connected to me /vanishing in undue time,
below the belly. This was our ship /like my young grapes
taking on /dripped on your bodice
water. /while you drank with no conscience.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 3:02 AM UTC
pouring out my heart
into your glass cup--
emotions ferment over time
soon you runneth over
drowning in a taste once sweet
to the ears,
a heart-healthy concoction of poetry
and lame jokes about "what"
once able to warm your body
now tastes bitter like a rotten cheese
of moldy frowns
stinging like shards of passive aggressive glass
in the back of your throat.
after everything is gone
I feel empty--
alone
like one of those cheap bottle's of tuesday night sauvignon blanc
discarded next to my bed--
swilled in under a half-hour
because taste is irrelevant--
just using it for dizzy forgetfulness
waiting in bed next to me
for the opportunity
to kiss me with puke breath
and wrap my head in tender aching nausea .
Feeling used as I drift off
into a series of hazy dreams
only to be forgotten in the morning.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
A silken drop nectar refined,
Delicious, smooth, it’s taste sublime,
Worshipped and revered in times of old,
Bacchus it’s God, his hand-maidens bold.
The Romans swilled, the Greeks imbibed,
The British drank, the French prescribed.
The Church just called it Christ’s own blood,
Believers flowed as if by flood.
This luscious liquid as fine as honey,
The fountain not of youth but merely money,
Small price to pay for so much fun,
When it can turn a dowdy day to sun.
Clinking glasses moments shared,
The more imbibed the more is bared,
Food important or so they claim,
When as a smokescreen its main aim.
All that said let me be clear
There’s a reason we choose wine not beer,
Wine is healthy, helps the heart,
Beer is fattening and so ****
Aug 27, 2021
Aug 27, 2021 at 11:31 AM UTC
#*Weapons have been developed
to create the damaging effects
of high-energy EMP. These are typically divided into nuclear and non-nuclear devices. Such weapons, both real and fictional, have become known to the public by means of popular culture.*
Wikipedia
One E.M.P. could bring this whole thing down;
finale to steal the technocrats’ crown.
Did God intend for us to live this way
like hell on credit with heaven to pay?
One burst of apocalyptic clarity:
all it would take to reverse the polarity…
one massive electro-magnetic pulse
the data-driven ********* to convulse.
You were dumbed down so they could set you up
to drink from the Nanny-State’s golden cup…
This Babylonian One-World vintage
exacerbates thirst: accursed beverage,
enhancing global madness as it’s drunk;
imbibers cannot gauge how low they’ve sunk.
The dregs are drained, only to be refilled;
the elixir of doom is thusly swilled.
When the chips go down as the system ends
and there’s no cash paid for your dividends,
assurance (like health insurance) falters
as your inhuman condition alters.
By then you’ll be ready to wonder why
(although you appear unready to die)
whether Man without God is worth a ****
in the Sovereign Redeemer’s master-plan.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 1:53 PM UTC
Inborn debauchery...sea-swilled communion received...
hung over and over in discipleship.
All's nigh, charged airy pour to date A.D., to tire of
personhood.
Finding the soul's panoramic view insufferable.
Forward motion lugs gluttony--lethargic with figuring.
Hunger's recitative plea has completed the mind's
mockup.
There's twitch and hallucination amongst common
ground--upon which, what was exchanged?
Do tell and do tell...told by the lot cast, as yet to
settle.
Billions cry to sleep--to rise the hardwon face...gaming.
Their sheets serpentine folds retain shadows as light
reinstates its presumption upon them.
Our emergence we day into draws back the flesh as
needle's eye through...we, with such nobility
Kingdoms branch in a single act.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 12:19 AM UTC
The bittersweet last dregs,
Of the Kings last glass of wine,
Reflect small worlds,
And cosmoses;
Only to be seen in those,
Quiet moments,
When the sun is but a dream,
In the canvas of the sky.
When the stars become fond,
Memories of the moon.
The worlds unravel into beings
And beings become sparks of light
As the draught is swilled
And swallowed by
A man who controls fates.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 4:06 PM UTC
I watched as she,
The surf,
Giggled and gagged
Against sand’s constraints,
Playing dead on shore’s lap she lay eager
In wait,
And he, outwitted by deceit’s delight,
Allowed her company.
Then like a child at play,
She crashed and caved,
Swallowed, swilled and spat
him up.
She, Crowned in exultation,
She, Appeased by smug victory,
Arched and moaned and sighed.
She, with a smile that dripped sweet nothings
Left him smooth,
Polished to glint and gleam.
Yet, She, upon returning home,
As most guilty lovers do,
Finally lay still to sound of her lover.
I watched,
as she,
sunk to the cries of the Sun,
uttered soft apology.
Though, that too, like such lies often are,
Was drowned by her beloved’s glare,
And for all she had done,
Blue was burnt scarlet,
as the surf was set ablaze.
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 10:38 AM UTC
#*Sometimes
in the mornin'
dawn awakens
unquiet heart
swaddled
in a dream ―
and
i hear
a whisper
from a voice,
gentle as a burning
candle,
sing to me softly
without words
... a stirring
moment ripples ―
an unholdable dream
fleeting;
lapping
wakeless silence;
... vanishing , . .
swilled
by the daylight
just beyond
closed eyes
awoken
and now
it's only me
again*
words in the wind
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 11:23 AM UTC
I would like to paint the experience
the sun in your eyes
so bright
in contrast of the
green grass
I would like to paint the smell of you
the warm sun
flies whirring
your hand on my waste
would like to paint the feeling when you
kiss my neck
rest your cheek on my shoulder
and move your fingers across my hand
I would like to paint the beautiful image
of your smile
and voice
your face so close to mine
I would like to paint the trees with its long branches
surrounding us
making our view
so beautiful
I wonder what we would see
putting the
sound of laughter
your hand in mine
beside, but outside, the picture
of the green grass
before our eyes
I wonder if you still would be swilled by
how beautiful it all is
I wonder if the sun and warmth would
feel through
knowing this image is what I saw
next to you
I would like to paint these feelings
so I always remembered
and every time in doubt
down or blue
return at this picture
and feel what I felt
when I was
beside you
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 6:22 AM UTC
Haunted by hate of your president,
you froth as you rage like a demon;
setting a dangerous precedent
urged on by the likes of Don Lemon.
Your sinister soul is now evident
and the hatred you spew is obscene.
You have swilled, with the thirst of a malcontent
vicious words from the well of Maxine.
You're possessed now by hate of your president,
while the minions are taken to task;
you dismiss every mob as a non-event—
but we see you behind the dark mask.
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 9:01 AM UTC
Swilled soda at 11pm at night
Wondering why I lie there at 3
Tossing turning
Decisions made far to late
Wrappers
In the trash can
Calories on the waist
Wondering why I ate that last bag of Pretzel M & M;s
Credit card limits reached
Then wondering why I didn’t spend the money on something more constructive
Lyft rides instead of the bus
Sizzling, slices
Each and every morning
Delicious squealing goodness
Whining and wishing
Hours of daydream
Hawkeye, Radar and hot lips on my tv
Because books would take to much time
And probably make me think
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 6:03 PM UTC
Wounds were never
afflicted with
repercussion of syllable lesions..
No quite the opposite,
Unfamiliar tastes on the
tongue, cleansed improper tastes.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 5:07 PM UTC
i can taste it like sand swilled
around my pillar teeth it hides
juuust behind my tongue u c?
do u c? look into my mouth
and taste my 7am breath c
the fact im no warmer than
a hot spring or kettle
im barely a man ach
ing like the fault line
Jan 28, 2025
Jan 28, 2025 at 1:59 AM UTC