"swilling" poems
He belches verses of prayer
from the acidity of his gut,
staggering upright
on two toddler feet,
he trails drunkenly
to the fridge,
scarce with only a few dented beers,
a bucketful of ice to feed him,
till the next scroungers pay-check is due.
Cracking open a frozen one,
it hisses a warrior's cry,
loud in the stillness
then dies swiftly,
as he raises the carcass to his split lip
swilling alcoholic entrails
round him gums.
Wincing slightly,
the beer half-empty in his hand,
he twitches a pink eye
in pain
as something rolls
around his jaw,
the made-of-man pinball stage
has begun a game
without him.
Gathering his saliva
into a hard bullet,
he spits the foreign object
onto splintered floorboards,
where his last tooth lands,
a final casualty
of his handsome youth.
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 4:18 PM UTC
the nature of this night
spreads its thin harvest upon my table
a gruel and water porridge feast
with the fanfares of her jaundiced hand
many more lined up with eager grin
for the warmth of paupers kinship
thin blanket wrapped round our shoulders
snow gathers at feet
she captures the moment on paper
the image of all of us gathered like when we were young
the grandiose illustration
with its brilliant colour fanfare with
jugglers and wine swilling laughing men blinded by drink
chorus line of female dancers who wear costumes of the hundred years war
lead the assault on the last bastions of the ignorance of bliss
all descrying that we can ill afford to be sleeping
while empires are built in our namesake
the so daintily shod soldiers whos feminine wiles misunderstood
have taken over the dancehall beneath us
and have taken up song
the grandiose illustration
caught by her pen on sketch pad
has leanings to the Marxist revolutions
and philosophys of the rhetorical
but in the end we join them and
drink the port sing the song
a thousand years of tales to be told
in the eyes of a single girls sweet thoughts
epic landscapes filled with noble men and storybook girls
the grandiose illustration
shows the two of us on the beach
with the sun racing down to touch the high towers of miami
and fill the laughing joys of thouse who toss and
tumble in the breaking waves
the nature of this night
in one small corner of the illustration
a simple window with the shade drawn
that says goodnight
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
red tile roof ...
whitewash balcony in romanesque cemicircle ,
fridge full 'f
1 litro bottles Alhambra cerveza --
clawfoot tub, coldwater (couture)
$1000/week:
(i could live on that)
lucky strike spirals in spanish summer,
bare feet on the railing upturned to sun beaming on pearly albayzin of granada.
afternoon mojitos with a new woman ev'ry week. (reading magazines)
spend
75 drunk nights ( reading , smoking , swilling gin )
&
typewriter whirring out pages (underwood airbus laissez-faire)
flamenco on a record player back in the house
one of those spanish girls slipping off a white dress (which falls like a soft breath of cloud down to the ground and sits there
still as death)
as she gets into the jacuzzi.
&
spend
75 high days throwing change into fountains, hand
up skirt of my carmen-du-jour.
climb drydust hills with guinness tallcans in plastic borsa
drinking dark beauties as golden orb hung in clouds keeps on grinning heatwaves.
(feelin' like maybe perhaps possibly i be free)
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 3:44 PM UTC
God made us brown so we'd be hard
to spot upon his fertile soil,
to hide from the birds...which he made as well...
to cower, dodge, to postpone hell.
But slug does not hide, or flinch back.
His coat? Uncompromising BLACK.
He turns defence into attack.
Oh slug – oh glorious slug.
God gave us shells to weigh us down.
Without them, we would HURTLE round,
so common sense suggests. Who'd beat us,
across a distance of ten metres?
But slug, dear slug, you have the grace
to not rub freedom in our face,
to slow your stride to match our pace.
Oh slug – oh glorious slug.
God made us quiet, thoughtful, wait.
He taught us manners, and restraint.
He taught us not to stay out late,
we're model garden citizens.
But slug, he DEAFENS when he speaks!
He goes out seven nights a week!
Beer-swilling, hard-living, party beast.
Oh slug – oh glorious slug.
I'd sell my soul to be like him.
Vacate my shell, and dye my skin.
I'd go twice weekly to the gym,
if doing so would let me in
to doors in town that say 'slugs only.'
But slug accepts no fake, no phony.
I'll love, but I will never be
a slug – oh glorious slug.
Jan 24, 2011
Jan 24, 2011 at 5:12 AM UTC
#
Floating brazier spews electric amber waves
as a setting sun radiates on the ceiling
a shadow of a ship coquettishly sways
while in the center charybdis begins swilling
another message, another missed call
another debt collector and his esurient talk
watch the ship begin to swirl, this scene so banal
amber feathered tawny eyed peacock
continues furtively to scroll her story and shoe shop
crowded room with a panel onstage
reality and fantasy evaporate and fall as a single raindrop
drown in the muck, don't know how to disengage
and to stay in the sway of fantasy.
#
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 9:41 AM UTC
invisible force,
not to reckon with
subtle with power
sway, circulation
flow and erosion
to feel your touch
hear your passing
never truly see you
but in the trees' dance
they are alive and strong
yet never move on their own
you give them a life
that they can never have
you give them the song
the rhythm and beat
to dance to
like a sparkling of their fingers
and the twirl of their hair
you give our world depth,
shape the sand and earth
in ways we can never achieve
forge mountains and
break what we so
pain strikingly *****
you are the might
who moves oceans
the strength who uplifts houses
the delicate touch
of making a dandelion sneeze
the exquisite sweetness
of swilling leaves
we try to harness you
imitate you
adore you
fear you
though we can never
stop you
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 11:35 PM UTC
Oh, my love
how you make me so sad for this longing
for you knows no end.
Oh, I surrender to you
this poor sad and beating heart.
Oh, I abandon the wide world
for one tiny touch of your skin.
Oh, to hold you in a passionate embrace.
Oh, how your life means more to me
than my life.
How my heart is full of longing.
Swilling evermore
bursting with tears.
Oh, how my heart and poor soul
sing a sad song
when you are far away.
please come and mercy find
and let my heart
bleed its sad longing
for a love so impossible.
A form so lovely
like the flowers
that grow in the fields of heaven.
Oh, my heart sorrows,
sorrows beyond words.
Oh, lovely creature
lovely as God's only son
Oh, I willingly give
my life, my soul
from my hearts deep longing.
My heart bleeds a sad longing.
Oh, you are a haunting love song
and oh, such an impossible song
to haunt my poor beating heart.
My soul is so far away from heaven's shore
when you are gone so far from me.
Oh, without you my soul dies
never to be reborn.
Oh, let me come and taste
heaven in your arms
let me touch that bright shore.
My haunting and lovely angel
Oh, I will wait for you
all the days of eternity.
Oh, how they would seem
but a single hour.
Oh, my love for you
fills my bottomless heart.
And oh, how my love for you no angels tongue can tell.
My heart beats its sad longing.
Oh, I cay a lake of tears
for the sad longing
for you in my heart.
Oh, I shall love you
till eternities end.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
well it must be love when
our bodies crash together
caramel pleasure rushing and swilling
hot and sweet bourbon
heavy breaths hold still
my snakecharming lover
when gravity bends
well it must be love when
in dark times we rage and seethe
dragon tongues with words like blades
phantom fists for pounding hearts
we crumble together
my siamese lover
when the world ends
Nov 29, 2021
Nov 29, 2021 at 4:37 PM UTC
it was not so clear, the day. it was hostile and tranquil.
what sort of Day is That ?
I think it sparkles.
But it's gem is mean, beneath carbuncles -
and none shall pass
without wretched disfunction.
without Unpeace swilling the liqueur
of dark sweets.
it was not so clear, the day. but it clarified the manacles.
what sort of Day is that Dark ???
I think it hardens the heart of all kindness....
but it's dream is obscene, and needs the rest of Heaven's Council.
But Love's an ***
that saw the Angel... not the bulletproof glass.
just the the angle of Descent
and the " No Wisdom ".
it hurts Because.
You Live
for no reason at all
and that's the worst
Joy.
Because.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
eighteen fifty industry,
men, women, children scarred,
ovens spewing sparks of death,
soulful welshmen charred.
greed of evolution,
marches on and treads,
upon the hungry townfolk,
that seldom see their beds.
ironmasters morals,
swilling in the smoke,
furnace fire bellows,
valley people choke.
ancestors bore hardship,
in days of horse and cart,
and modelled us to what we are....
welsh, proud, with homely hearts.
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 12:57 PM UTC
If, Mother washed her pinny
And father never swore,
If, Jimmy went to the loo
Instead of on the floor,
If, Our Sammy didn't turn up
In his underpants for tea,
If, Our granddad would keep his flies done up
Phoo, that's an awful sight to see,
If, Gran's teeth refused to fall out
When she dropped off to sleep,
If, My sister didn't steal my razor
This beard I wouldn't keep,
If, That copper had only looked the other way
Our Robbie wouldn't be spending time in jail today,
If, Our Lucy had bothered to learn the facts of life
Eight kids wouldn't be here now causing so much strife,
If, We all stopped smoking ****
And swilling beer till we were sick
This family would be smart, very elegant and slick
Heather P Wilson..........http://www.heatherpwilsonpoems.com/
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 5:44 PM UTC
This coffee-stained late night existence, an experiment
in progressive technocracy. An amazing, affluent proverb
of modern disfunction. So many late nights swilling the
mis-brewed staple of societal vampirism. Those forgone,
unsung antithesis of the conscious, diurnal homosapien.
To pretend problems non-existent, to daydream as that lazy
star sleeps, to truly feel sibling to the moon. Mood is the
monster that begat me, these creatures of the ambience of
dark. Nowhere - NOW. I give thanks to have finally hidden
from the beast that can't find me. I am what I decide, a dawn
of infinite potential, and the opportunity to spend an entire
night in preparation....
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 6:03 AM UTC
yeah we're getting drunk at four in the afternoon
we don't have anywhere to drive to.
we have no class
no responsibility
my city's filthy
I live in the art district
nobody else anywhere else in the world can say that
Richmond knows how to lay it down
how to make the children feel invincible
how to make the women feel like super models
and the men like long lost kings
don't like my poems?
that's fine
we flow to a different drum beat
yeah we are a bunch of
PBR swilling hipsters in our non corrective lenses
but we know how humanity dances back and forth
like the flickering of candle light
and I've never felt out of place here
only just as weird as everybody else
we are pathological liars and sociopaths
our apathy is only matched by our endless empathy
My Mum thinks I am a hell of a writer
endless support
but the anonymity never ends
a scroll from God to lead us to death
and the transvestites are polite enough
*boy you smell ****
they blurt out as I walk past in a cloud of old spice
the art school chicks make me feel validated
when I find myself sneaking out of their houses in the morning's yawn
come to Richmond if you want a good time
if you're fake you'll make it
but if you're bitter and jaded
you might pass out of interest
like cartoons to a 15 year old
I could talk **** on this city all night
but truth be told
I love what I hate
and truth withheld
don't tell my English friends
that my heart beats
solely for that
RVA-lution
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 7:55 PM UTC
His wild beard haunts my dreams
As I think about the loss of my father…
As a child it was Black Velvet and Canadian Mist
Once the liver damage was too great, the ******
Now, fifteen years after his death
The “what-if’s” still plague me all the time
If only we could have had more time
By the time he passed we were both shooting ******
Destroying any ‘normal life’ dreams
Living as though we were trapped in a fog or mist
This was the way with me and my father
All the way up until his death
It is a funny thing about death
Especially when relating to a mother or father
Sort of changes the dreams
And alters the meaning of time
A little like how it works with ******
One’s whole life caught in a swilling mist
I looked out the window and was confronted by morning mist
And I felt as though I were still in a dream
A dream in which I still had my father
And we had nothing but more time
No worries of disease or death
Living a life free from ******
But I cannot remember my dad without ******
Only wake sometimes from troubling dreams
Eyes clouded by the subconscious mist
Heart struggling with the passing time
So much has happened since his death
I have become a man without the aid of my father
Thinking back to the wild beard of my father
Dark eyes set deep in my dreams
Shrouded with the cloak of death
Standing stoic in the mist
A slave to the master called ******
A victim to the ruler of us all, time
The time had come to confront my father’s death
I peered through the mist of my memories of loss and ******
And saw my father standing as if in a dream
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC
women swilling white white in glasses;
remember when you took me
out to dinner with your parents?
your father peppered the
salmon to excess and the
sommelier to exhaustion:
what year? where were the
grapes grown? what would you pair
with this? what about with that?
your mother gave me a
knowing glance as he prattled on,
and you shook your head in bemusement.
I wonder what
looks she gave
you while I was distracted.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
Sgt. Jack came back
from overseas
and he didn’t give one.
He’d sit outside his backdoor
for hours popping caps,
swilling cheap beer,
smoking Camels
with his rifle at the ready nearby,
a forty-five in his belt.
He’d yell at his dog constantly,
expecting it to respond
in a friendly manner,
but the rocks
he had thrown at it
over time
had spooked it
into a submissive role.
He never said much,
just stared,
stared with wild blood-shot eyes
that darted to and fro into space.
He’d nervously look at the horizon
as if something was always about to happen.
His favorite line was,
“Lock and loaded, let’s move.”
And when a car would backfire,
he’d scream, “Incoming!”
His wife left him for his best friend,
his kids never came back around,
and his dog died without him moving a muscle.
The ****** thing decomposed
right out in the middle of his backyard.
I guess he was used to
the sweet smell of death.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
Never have I seen the moon turn off its light at night,
Never has it leaped into my room to chat with me or for a moment of unserious trite.
Always faithful to shine,
As similar to that of a slick wine.
Running down a stranger's throat,
Swilling as he sips and slurps - those eyes of his like that of a sneaky goat.
Never have I seen the moon turn off its light at night.
Jahmenmuze..
Dec 27, 2018
Dec 27, 2018 at 12:55 PM UTC
the line between madness and genius is a pattern noticed a hair's breadth
too far from the crossing lines vibrating in our eyes
like cats raised vertically can't see horizons
i wasn't born to see this.
the contempt i coddle for my indulgence is missing from your cat eyes
but my what big teeth you have grandmother
better to taste generations with your elf-nose and cat smirk
that shoot starlight into mad minds.
sometimes i think i met lancelot in the wrong order
and that you're the proof that chaos makes art
and random patterns are madness made genius by attention
so forgive me for my suspicions.
how does the nervous insomniac love without reservation or doubt
chasing the sun through the tropic of aries
swilling words around in your mouth and in your teeth to soften ones
that i was born to believe.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 5:05 AM UTC
So you like to drink in the bars,
Or swill moonshine from old pickle jars;
You could be far worse off than you are,
You know you coulda been a dork.
A dork's a mammalian who digs in his nose,
His *** passes gas as he goes;
He has greasy hair and picks at his wart,
He plays with his ***** burbs and snorts.
So if you like to spit, pick and hork,
You're on your way to be a dork.
Or would you rather drink in the bars,
And swill moonshine from old pickle jars;
You could be far worse off than you are,
You know you coulda been a nerd.
Nerds are mammalians in Bermuda shorts,
Sandals with knee-high socks;
He's awkward and clumsy and out of step,
If we turn East, the nerd turns West.
If you don't want treatment like a ****
Then stop acting like a nerd.
Or would you rather drink in the bars,
Swilling moonshine from old pickle jars;
You could be far worse off than you are,
You don't wanna be a goof.
A goof's a mammalian kiddie diddler,
A rat, a punk, a toothless skinner;
He's in jail to keep us safe,
But in protective custody for his own sake.
So if you don't heed the law and you're a ****
You'll do well when you're a goof.
Some solid guys aren't behind bars,
We play ukes, guitars and cards;
We're on stools in our local bars,
Seeing ourselves as Avatars,
While getting pickled in our jars.
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 1:11 PM UTC
Knife crunching through
skin? No, it slips down
like a gulp in the throat,
a breath before pushing
in. My moon-eyes stare
at the shock of the victim's
as their belly is hollowed,
blood swilling in the sink
as fingers reach in the cut
to polish the insides clean.
I wonder why that look of
panic? There is a pink lining
stitched in by spinal threads,
the tenderness under a coat
proving you were only dressed
in a glazed metallic shimmer
to impress the eye. The head
must go, and the dressage off
so I can go soak your flesh
in a much tastier puddle.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
What is in you is what makes me up.
I am made up of your love if you go away I'll die.
How can l live without you if you are my breath,
How can l see without you if you are my sight,
as awkward as swilling castrol oil is life,
because its you who makes me whole.
You are my robustness,
Its more than a burden to bear life without you,
You are my contentment,,
It will be like driving a mountain to grin without you,
I can be a hero to myself
if it happens that l live without you,
because it will be as difficult as a Greek puzzle for me.
You are the half that can make me whole.
You are the hour that makes my day.
I am made of you
You are my whole life
You are my strength,my happiness, my everything
A single day without your love l will be dead
because its you who makes me up.........
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 3:41 AM UTC
Fredrich Kunath is running out of
World, but I’m resting from work
For a while, so I find my way to
St. James’ Square and ravel up a
Pinch of tobacco, hands trembling.
Behind me, work goes on, and builders
Grapple with drills: the sounds fall
Down from rooftops on all fours.
The sun is in mid-morning, and I
Leave the London Library (of which
I am a benign member) to walk
Around. I pass the Ritz, and the
Underground, and a tourist stops
Me and asks in broken English
Where the Palace is. His family stands
Behind him, bleary eyed and puzzled;
I point him away, and he walks away,
Brown hand pushing his cap out of
His eyes. The crowds are cold-blooded
Today, walking in the sunlight keeping
Pathways congested for a while.
At 11:55, I give up searching for
Nothing, and settle down at a little bench
In Green Park. It’s a quiet space, where
London keeps its cars away, keeps the
Shadows of its buildings at bay.
It’s misty in the park today, and
Around me, people clutch their cameras
Taking pictures. I’m in one of those
Moods again; the ones where I get
In my car and drive around, wasting
Petrol on late night drop-ins to the
Mark Eaton Crematorium, to visit
Slate plaques. Will I run out of
World, like him? I stub my cigarette
And leave, swilling out of the park
And walking back to the Library.
They have some famous dead members:
George Eliot, Virginia Woolf, amongst
Others.
Running out of world seems fantastical
To me: I rather think he ran out of
Time.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
I remember as a little girl
On a visit to an aunt’s friends house
I was sitting reading a story book
As quiet as a mouse
I asked to be pardoned
To go to the loo
They were all playing dominoes
So I knew what I must do
I opened up the door
And placed my foot on the first stair
Then I heard someone in a low voice say
“Are you sure that she's all there”?
I felt a tear run down my cheek
I was doing what I ought
Only speaking when I was spoken to
That's what I was taught
When I’d done what I had to do
I went back down the stairs
The domino game was finished
And there were four empty chairs
They were all in the kitchen
Drinking cups of tea
My aunt she turned to me and smiled
And handed a cup to me
She noticed my tear-stained face
And stroked it with her hand
I told her what I’d overheard
She said I was too young to understand
I was insecure throughout my childhood
Never felt like I fitted in
Undernourished because I wouldn't eat
Now I’d just be classed as thin
From the age of five
My time at school was fleeting
Feigning illness to avoid the bullies
And escape another beating
I remember cowering
In the corner of the school yard
Cigarette butts stubbed out on my arms
Left painful, sore and charred
Name-calling and violence
Made me feel inferior
Set upon by bullies
Who thought they were superior
When I became a teenager
Things they got much worse
The bullies were now older
Younger ones they would coerce
To taunt me and lie in wait
And leave me in a battered state
When i got my first job
The bullying it went on
Because my face didn't fit
I was put upon
Got lumbered with the ***** jobs
That no-one else would do
Like swilling down the filthy yard
And scrubbing the outside loo
One afternoon, the manageress
Secretly asked me whether
I would do ****** favours for a delivery man
And I reached the end of my tether
I got my coat and quit the job
Never looking back
I later heard that the manageress
Was found out and got the sack
Now that I am older
No-ones victim will I be
I stand my ground, nobody’s fool
And i am happy being me
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 4:42 PM UTC
guggle buggle
the skirts and muggles
meager or muddle
like 2 tones
a twilight
almost sweetly
a sweating majesty(it broke trebleing uncorked femurs
briskly pattering the swilling silt
the siltish swill
)by a massive
the very sea was outward and upward and forever and ever and ever & E,V'eR;
!
'
"
.
'
"
.
,
'
.
,
.
'
,
.
Mar 3, 2011
Mar 3, 2011 at 4:19 PM UTC