"taverns" poems
The chestnut casts his flambeaux, and the flowers
Stream from the hawthorn on the wind away,
The doors clap to, the pane is blind with showers.
Pass me the can, lad; there's an end of May.
There's one spoilt spring to scant our mortal lot,
One season ruined of your little store.
May will be fine next year as like as not:
But ay, but then we shall be twenty-four.
We for a certainty are not the first
Have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled
Their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed
Whatever brute and blackguard made the world.
It is in truth iniquity on high
To cheat our sentenced souls of aught they crave,
And mar the merriment as you and I
Fare on our long fool's-errand to the grave.
Iniquity it is; but pass the can.
My lad, no pair of kings our mothers bore;
Our only portion is the estate of man:
We want the moon, but we shall get no more.
If here to-day the cloud of thunder lours
To-morrow it will hie on far behests;
The flesh will grieve on other bones than ours
Soon, and the soul will mourn in other *******
The troubles of our proud and angry dust
Are from eternity, and shall not fail.
Bear them we can, and if we can we must.
Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.
8.8k
The sun glides into taverns and
lights the tables where
there is no city or country
Only the walk and talk beside
breaking hours
Moths in steam
Vistas of power plants
you cannot clasp to your heart
The streets and the fields will stretch your hands
You want to taste gently outside the whip of sirens
Like a deer
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 9:22 AM UTC
All hail the Lizard King,
whose esoteric words crawl like sirens
over hungry rocks
baring teeth to the hypnotized sailor
steering his ship into the jagged maw.
All hail the Lizard King,
perched upon his Dionysian throne,
ambrosial ecstasies fill his cup
while jongleurs dance to psychedelic chansons.
At his feet
prey the nubile maidens of yore
flower-eyed and pearly-teethed.
His eyes, mighty azure pools of madness
within which Byzantine kings were murdered--
blood darts through the mysterious waters
into the hysterical white void.
Alexander the Great
sits poised like a statue
where his libido crouches like a panther
'til the aural adonis
leaps from his confines
an amorous figure of tantalizing flesh and blood
with supple lips pouting, naked muscles taut,
mad eyes gleaming.
All hail the Lizard King,
from lush lips poetic decrees
sing forth into the endless night
penetrating taverns and bedrooms and radios
and stadiums.
The electric shaman leaps from his throne
to cast his wicked incantation,
a spark from his eyes shoots to the pyre
where a lustful blue flame erupts from
the bones of the prophets.
HIs voice soothing, haunting,
the sonic alchemist
sings his siren song into the cataclysm
where we are cast in abeyance--
We follow him,
but is he only leading us deeper
into the darkness,
or does he truly see the light?
The endless night.
All hail the Lizard King.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 10:06 PM UTC
In Rome on the Campo di Fiori
Baskets of olives and lemons,
Cobbles spattered with wine
And the wreckage of flowers.
Vendors cover the trestles
With rose-pink fish;
Armfuls of dark grapes
Heaped on peach-down.
On this same square
They burned Giordano Bruno.
Henchmen kindled the pyre
Close-pressed by the mob.
Before the flames had died
The taverns were full again,
Baskets of olives and lemons
Again on the vendors' shoulders.
I thought of the Campo dei Fiori
In Warsaw by the sky-carousel
One clear spring evening
To the strains of a carnival tune.
The bright melody drowned
The salvos from the ghetto wall,
And couples were flying
High in the cloudless sky.
At times wind from the burning
Would driff dark kites along
And riders on the carousel
Caught petals in midair.
That same hot wind
Blew open the skirts of the girls
And the crowds were laughing
On that beautiful Warsaw Sunday.
Someone will read as moral
That the people of Rome or Warsaw
Haggle, laugh, make love
As they pass by martyrs' pyres.
Someone else will read
Of the passing of things human,
Of the oblivion
Born before the flames have died.
But that day I thought only
Of the loneliness of the dying,
Of how, when Giordano
Climbed to his burning
There were no words
In any human tongue
To be left for mankind,
Mankind who live on.
Already they were back at their wine
Or peddled their white starfish,
Baskets of olives and lemons
They had shouldered to the fair,
And he already distanced
As if centuries had passed
While they paused just a moment
For his flying in the fire.
Those dying here, the lonely
Forgotten by the world,
Our tongue becomes for them
The language of an ancient planet.
Until, when all is legend
And many years have passed,
On a great Campo dci Fiori
Rage will kindle at a poet's word.
3.6k
I have friends with whom I share,
great poetry and verse.
And friends I visit taverns with,
to drink with and to curse.
And friends with who I share a passion,
for music and for art.
And also those, just like me,
kindred spirits of the heart.
Some, I will call, when I am down,
and weary from lifes' run.
Some, I long to just gift a smile,
before every day is done.
Some, who seem to need my presence ,
to heal such a simple pain,
Some whose smiles touch my soul,
and shelter me from rain.
Some who like the same wine as me,
some coffee and some books.
Some who care little of possessions,
some who are all into looks.
There are some with whom I share a movie,
some I respect their great advice.
There are some who are simply pure genius,
and others; .... not quite so wise.
From professions, they all do differ,
no occupation is the same.
Most of them have no mutual liking,
but two...they share a name.
No. Each friend, has naught the others',
unique fortune, skills, or fame.
But I endear each to their own,
and treasure them all - the same.
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 12:30 PM UTC
Mountainous caverns
And cavernous depths
Plague and pillage taverns
Bridle beleaguered breaths
Forward the hour
And hoist the scattered skies
Time not to cower
Behind blatant lies
Prepare for the downfall
As the mountain gives way
Gruesome, thunderous brawl
Is my death in this day
If an avalanche is hell
Then I am surely home
Brokenly beaten and well:
Where chaos freely roams
Forget not our rise
For we are not our sins
But saints in the skies
Banefully, ****** kin
I am a vagabond in hell
And a vagabond: I am free
As heaven rings a final knell
While the mountains collapse for me
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 5:20 AM UTC
My coat is black
like the nights
I have long forgotten.
I left heaven
for the taverns.
I did my readings before daybreak
when the moon was far aloft,
but the nights got longer.
I kept putting things off
hoping I would discover a star
I knew was there.
Now I saw logs
and leave the leaves
where they fall.
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 9:32 PM UTC
I am a ***** of the very worst kind
Not of *** and promiscuity
A ***** of my own
Creation
You come up on my radar
Latch
Seek
Destroy
And you will never know
Each and every one of my
Dead lovers
Never loved me back
Tear them up
Spit them out
Abandoned
Just like me
But I hurt
I feel emotion
Like clods of dirt
Inside my chest
Rip it open
Scream at each
Small thing
Wrong thing
I want only this
That I can never have
Curses
Plagues
Dead
Ex-lovers
Stars in their eyes
That look past my
Efforts
Hints
Advances
I am invisible
Invincible
Or so I like to think
The invisible *****
You never saw me coming
Till I cry these three tears
Drop
Drop
Drop
Two from the right
One from the left
Just like the rest
So many to name
That wouldn’t even know my
Hurt
Abandonment
What have you done to me?
Nothing
It is I
Only I
Want so desperately
To touch
To be touched
3 little tears come from
Within this cold hard
Clenched fist
Wetting my palm
Trying to escape
Flung at your calm
Silent face.
I want to be empty
I want to not feel this
Gift.
Emotion.
In the pit of my stomach
Back of my throat
Behind these eyes
Sick
And they fall
One
Two
Three
The time it takes to
Break
Die
Latch
Seek
Destroy
I am on a rampage
To eat each man up
Bone by bone
Flesh and blood
Thoughts and loves
Till I spew it all back out
To every person I meet
I am a ***** of the very worst kind
I’ve been everywhere
Nowhere
Inside everyone
No One
You cannot pay for me.
I’m too cheap.
You do not want me
I am curse
Brought on by
Liars
Abusers
Molesters
I am the product of
A past
Mistakes
And I want you to
Make me better
But I become
Worse
Liken me please
To those on the street
Full of disease
Because I am worth
Nothing
Of your time
Energy
Nothing
And I expect
Nothing more
Than this
Agonizingly
Painful
You
Are just like
Everyone else
That I never wanted you
To be
So much more than
Dead
Ex-lovers
Death from their lips
In long streams of wire
Attached at my wrists
Ankles
Binding me
Cutting deep
Blood
Red
Stains like my shirt
Cutting me
Scarring me
Until I feel so much
Nothing
And uncountable tears
Flood cities
Destroy taverns
Come knocking
Breaking free
Again
And again
And again
And you are
The same
As those
Starry-eyed, wire binding
Dead
Ex-Lovers
So much alive
Reminding me of every
Failure
Each scar on my wrist
In the form of a name
And now you join the rest
In this shallow unmarked grave
You are alone
With them
And I will
Consume this hurt
Like a breakfast
Of nails and tacks
Each bite will puncture
The last remaining composure
Till I am nothing once again
Radar
Radar
Detecting
Latch
Seek
Destroy
All over again
The very worst kind
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 6:58 PM UTC
Here hang the wine-sotted troubadours of sadness and clouds,
~Having played serenas to paramours lipping at the cup of an evening bawd~
Like tethered donkeys now with their packsong of pastorela and alba,
No more musical mensurations of the ****** Mary, Cantigas de Santa Maria,
But slung over the railings of dawn-blotted taverns or courts of renown,
Here hang the wine-sotted troubadours of sadness and clouds,
Like drinking gourds, their stringed citherns dangle from their shoulders,
Leaking the strummed honey-wine of sound like the retchings of the nearby sea.
Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 11:33 AM UTC
The fat lady came out first,
tearing our roots and moistening drumskins.
The fat lady
who turns dying octopuses inside out.
The fat lady, the moon's antagonist,
was running through the streets and deserted buildings
and leaving tiny skulls of pigeons in the corners
and stirring up the furies of the last centuries' feasts
and summinging the demon of bread through the sky's clean-swept hills
and filtering a longing for light into subterranean tunnels.
The graveyards, yes the graveyards
and the sorrow of the kitchens buried in sand,
and dead, pheasants and apples of another era,
pushing it into our throat.
There were murmurings from the jungle of *****
with the empty women, with hot wax children,
with fermtented trees and tireless waiters
who serve platters of salt beneath harps of saliva.
There's no other way, my son, ***** There's no other way.
It's not the ***** of hussars on the ******* of their ******
nor the ***** of cats that inadvertently swallowed frogs,
but the dead who scratch with clay hands
on flint gates where clouds and desserts decay.
The fat lady came first
with the crowds from the ships,s taverns, and parks.
***** was delicately shaking its drums
among a few little girls of blood
who were begging the moon for protection.
Who could imagine my sadness?
The look on my face was mine, but now isn't me,
the naked look on my face, trembling for alcohol
and launching incredible ships
through the anemones of the piers.
I protect myself with this look
that flows from waves where no dawn would go.
I, poet without arms, lost
in the vomiting multitude,
with no effusive horse to shear
the thick moss from my temples.
The fat lady went first
and the crowds kept looking for pharmacies
where the bitter tropics could be found.
Only when a flag went up and the first dogs arrived
did the entire city rush to the railings of the boardwalk.
2.1k
WAGON WHEEL GAP is a place I never saw
And Red Horse Gulch and the chutes of ******* Creek.
Red-shirted miners picking in the sluices,
Gamblers with red neckties in the night streets,
The fly-by-night towns of Bull Frog and Skiddoo,
The night-cool limestone white of Death Valley,
The straight drop of eight hundred feet
From a shelf road in the Hasiampa Valley:
Men and places they are I never saw.
I have seen three White Horse taverns,
One in Illinois, one in Pennsylvania,
One in a timber-hid road of Wisconsin.
I bought cheese and crackers
Between sun showers in a place called White Pigeon
Nestling with a blacksmith shop, a post-office,
And a berry-crate factory, where four roads cross.
On the Pecatonica River near Freeport
I have seen boys run barefoot in the leaves
Throwing clubs at the walnut trees
In the yellow-and-gold of autumn,
And there was a brown mash dry on the inside of their hands.
On the Cedar Fork Creek of Knox County
I know how the fingers of late October
Loosen the hazel nuts.
I know the brown eyes of half-open hulls.
I know boys named Lindquist, Swanson, Hildebrand.
I remember their cries when the nuts were ripe.
And some are in machine shops; some are in the navy;
And some are not on payrolls anywhere.
Their mothers are through waiting for them to come home.
2k
What is a moth if not a butterfly
who's traded in her grace and colour
for pitter-patter sighs
Inked nights
To sift shy in shadows
And forever thirst for light
Soft Laughs in Dim lit taverns
Almost winked out flames
She's the tattered mistress of stars
forgotten partaker
Of a lesser praise
Jun 9, 2020
Jun 9, 2020 at 8:26 PM UTC
alarm clock set for early morning
wails and peels without fair warning
rub my eyes in an effort to see
surprised to wake up in the state of VT
what is this, where did it go
whats a po’ boy doing far from buff’lo
where be the park, the lake and da’ strip
where are the people with the stiff upper lip
why leave the breeze, the squalls, the kimmelweck
the taverns where gran’pa drank anisette
that sycamore growin’ on Franklin street
the angst that consumed a community beat
the grimy grey skies to summers impossibly
what happened to lead me to the state of VT?
{not right to accuse others of conceit
why play handball with self deceit?
far better to accept the things that be
and apply my emotions, stoically}
for one place is much like the other
careers are for greenbacks, that’s why the bother
of numbers and lawyers, of panels of priests
up north, out west, down south and back east
I am dissolved in a prelude that leads to eternity
with so many points available, might as well be VT
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 10:02 AM UTC
I've lost count of the taverns
Where my face has kissed the floor
at least twenty down in Texas
Arizona, fourteen more
twenty three in California
In Wyoming, seventeen
You can see there's lots of places I've been drunk
But, haven't seen
Kissed sixteen floors down in Nevada
Twelve in Idaho
Four over in Hawaii
and in New Mexico
It's not that I'm a fighter
It isn't that I'm mean
I'm just a drinker with a problem
In the places that I've been
It doesn't matter where I am
I'm not selective, not at all
I drink, I get in trouble
I get hit, and then I fall
I move around the country
Kissing floors in every state
I'm an alcoholic punching bag
Kissing bar floors is my fate
I kissed six in Massachuesetts
Eleven more in Washington
Twice, I ended on a table
So, I just count them as one
New Jersey I kissed plenty
I lost count up in New York
Up there the floors are softer
Some floors are filled with cork
Florida, I kissed the beach
Seven times, at least I think
One time doesn't count though
I kissed the beach and didn't drink
Lousianna, kissed a lot there
There's a lot of floors to kiss
I hit every bar down on Canal Street
There wasn't one I didn't miss
In South Dakota, can't remember
Not too many bars around
But, I did get in trouble once
And yes....I kissed the ground
Virginia, and Ohio
Up in Minnesota too
In Michigan, oh man oh man
I kissed near twenty two
In Illinois I kissed nineteen
In Georgia, I kissed nine
I found six teeth where I last fell
And only two of them were mine
there is not one location
Where my face and floors have kissed
I'm an alcoholic travel guide
And I keep running into fists
It doesn't matter where I am
I'm not selective, not at all
I drink, I get in trouble
I get hit, and then I fall
I move around the country
Kissing floors in every state
I'm an alcoholic punching bag
Kissing bar floors is my fate
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 7:35 AM UTC
From across the hall, I watched her double
over Coleridge, sympathizing as she looked
up to the thin curtain filtering the street-light
universe past the pane held in hot glue.
The click-heels, car barks, ceaseless L-Train
turnstiles, tipsy choirs in cracked-door taverns,
hinges, keys on carabiners, bus hydraulics,
the wall clock, and her fingers caressing the page.
She loved a soft wind carrying birdsong
through screen doors and dowel chimes.
She used to leave her shoes lace-tangled
by the key rack until she saw glass pollen
sparkling in a caged tulip blossom.
She raised the book and sullenly whispered
the last stanza of Frost at Midnight
into the spine, wondering how anyone
could live away from impressionist-dandelion
forests, children's plastic toys in the front yard,
and church bells at every hour.
I wondered the same thing.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
we are the insects trapped inside homemade fly traps
glued on at the roof of the mouth
underbelly, I run around looking for trouble
trailer park princess, bar-fights in every space between my teeth
I'm a child of a child
I beat my paper wings against the shamelessness
Dance like the cigarette breaks are forever
Swisher blunts for the forget-me-not flowers inside backseats of cars, cabs, stolen automobiles
Revenge, locked jaw police officers like the fathers that never let you hold a gun so you become one
Taste blood, tongues, beauty in chaos
loose lips, stolen drugstore mascara and no more bruised knees
Boys like soft but you're the ******* Armageddon, knuckle-ring gods and all
so the men want to be kings and you grow up a feral cat sleeping in twin sized beds with a mouthful of curse words
Lord of the flies, lot lizards and truck-stop races
gritty bathroom graffiti is the cathedral but prayers never stop
Taverns with your name and the angels that spit
The television static never ends here, cicadas
Doors with mosquitoes held hostage, home for supper
wasted by dessert
Down in the dirt, grimy bathtub I unearth all the things I couldn't drink away; all the motel fantasies, cum-stained skirts and the neon lights waiting for the swarm
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 5:36 AM UTC
Gliding
through the fresh snowflakes
of my mind;
feeling
warm and sociable
in the taverns
of my contented heart
I embrace this winter's day
as a benevolent gift
chosen from Your inexhaustable
chest of treasures.
Jul 5, 2010
Jul 5, 2010 at 7:38 AM UTC
I'm looking for an answer
As I move from town to town
I leave a trail of empty bottles
For the voices I must drown
Nothing in each bottle
Not an answer in the glass
But, I'm still looking for an answer
To a question life has asked
Bottle after bottle
In each tavern and each bar
I travel round by greyhound
I long sold off my car
I leave a trail of empties
And of cigarettes and dope
Looking for an answer
Looking for some hope
I'm sure it was a question
And I know I heard it clear
I think I was on my seventh bourbon
Or maybe my ninth beer
I can not quite remember
Where I heard the voices first
Were they asking me a question
Or responding to my thirst
I'm looking for the answer
To a question, that I think
Was asked to me by voices
That I heard once in a drink
The voices are much louder now
They will not quiet down
I have to find the answer
I just have to find the town
Nowhere in my memory bank
Is there space for one more voice
I have to find the answer
Or I have to make a choice
Do I keep on looking for
The answer in the glass
How do I turn the voices off
And put them in the past
I know a million taverns
Like some folks know the stars
They look up to find their answers
I just keep looking for the bars
I leave trail of bottles
And I look in every glass
'cause somewhere there's an answer
To a question I was asked
I can not quite remember
Where I heard the voices first
Were they asking me a question
Or responding to my thirst
I'm looking for the answer
To a question, that I think
Was asked to me by voices
That I heard once in a drink
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
I reflect with a projection,
when hearing
melodies of rhythm or
stronger
lower basses like guttural
voice chords, especially
in the dark or being on a waiting room
of a car ride,
whenever I want it or not
/
an endless dance or some
semi-tangible
image that twirls into
hot
red
rose
petals
even though
there’s no dress to whizz,
feet strong like Carmen Amaya’s
had no mercy for Iberian taverns’
dance floors of flamenco
/
watching that spectacle
always
from discarded collage views
/
of that accounting
and how no
voice is needed to direct
the melody a vector,
only let it be sung-thrung
through the heat rising
and orchestra listened to
completely, sharp motions in
the eyes of the crowd
or those who had ever considered
pondering on me like a philosophy...
Maybe such styles and asphyxiations
of rapid ragged jerkings of too sharp
notes in the air cutting
the atmosphere like a blunt knife
have got to me a long time ago,
stay ever more as visions to moves
audacious, and have been
chosen beforehand my vessel
without its decision to be turned
into something greater
in the collaboration with my own other dishes
to fit Passion.
Then - then - I always imagine - then
in all that how
any certain entity
would be looking at that,
taking it in from the outside
and what that painting of me
partly
will be made as
in their sculpted no flesh
eyes.
/
Thank you
Ladies, Gentlemen, Whoever Further
for attending
/
Nov 8, 2020
Nov 8, 2020 at 11:36 AM UTC
My brother was twelve years older so
I knew him not so well,
But heard of him in the taverns,
Getting drunk, and raising hell,
My mother said, ‘Keep away from him,’
And I did, for many years,
But blood is blood, and a brother should
Help out, though it ends in tears.
He’d done a spot of embezzling,
He’d picked the pockets of Earls,
You never left him to tend a horse
And he wasn’t safe with girls,
But he was my brother Toby,
And I was his brother Tim,
I’d often find him beneath my bed
When he said, ‘Don’t let them in!’
By ‘them’ he had meant the Runners
Who were active in the Bow,
And some of the old Thief-Takers
With their ruffians in tow,
They roamed the streets with their cudgels
And would lie, just out of sight,
Beyond the doors of the Taverns, when
They turned them adrift at night.
The streets were mean, and were far from clean
Where my brother used to roam,
Despite the pleas of our mother, who
Would beg him to come back home,
But father remained unbending, said
His eldest son was a swine,
‘His endless scrapes, a Jackanapes!
He is no son of mine!’
I heard he’d taken a horse and fled
From a stables in the Strand,
‘There’s little that anyone now can do,
When they catch him, he’ll be hanged!’
My mother, crying a flood of tears
As my father cursed and swore,
‘I’ll call the Runners, or I’ll be ******
If you let him through my door!’
So Toby galloped to Hounslow Heath
Along the Great West Road,
Teamed up with the brute Tom Wilmot,
Lay low in his abode,
They’d venture out on a moonlit night
To wait for the latest Stage,
But Tom was never the gentleman,
Or known to contain his rage.
They stopped the coach on a lonely night
‘Your money or your life!’
Dragged out a country gentleman,
His maid, and his homely wife,
He wanted the ring on the lady’s hand
But her finger held it tight,
So he sawed the finger off as well
With a sharp, serrated knife.
‘It was terrible,’ Toby told me
As they loaded him onto the cart,
‘The screams and the blood, unholy,’
As the horse was about to depart,
They hung him high on the Tyburn Tree
Next to the Wilmot pig,
Not undeserved, but I cried and cursed
As he danced the Tyburn jig.
David Lewis Paget
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
"To the victor goes the spoils"
This everyone knows.
However, not all spoils are created equally.
Wealth--especially material--is wondrous.
Territory--especially far-off-- is tempting.
Power--especially political--is promising.
Influence--especially cultural--is intoxicating.
Not one, however, can compare
To the greatest spoil of all.
The greatest spoil of all
Is neither tangible nor immediate.
The greatest spoil of all
Is the ablity to control history.
The ability to control history
Is not to be scoffed.
It is but the victor's voice we hear
As accepted history.
The loser's voice is silenced,
Heard at most as a murmur.
The victor's voice is a trumpet,
Sounding loud and clear.
The loser's voice is a wooden flute,
Unheard except by its fellows.
The victor's song is one of rejoicing
Echoing in the cathedrals and palace-halls.
The loser's song is one of mourning
Heard in the taverns and shanty-towns.
We hear what the victor
Sees fit that we hear.
His crimes never see the light of day,
While the sins of the loser are displayed at e'ery chance.
Think for a moment,
The next time you hear a victor's speech.
And remember that he is in control
Of the greatest spoil of all.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 6:55 PM UTC
He couldn't
not take off
the backward cap
that hides
his tousled hair
as he pulls back
the high-backed stool
he'll perch himself on
next to
this unfamiliar beauty.
He couldn't
not accept the bourbon
shot, a pert bartender
offers to keep
his pint company
and lend him
extra courage.
He couldn't
not exchange
an inquiring smile
then a glib remark
about the heat
and the sudden
appeal of dank taverns.
He could
watch her
small gestures for hours
and never
lose interest.
The way
alabaster fingers
tease auburn hair,
they pull at his longing
for a moment
they'll land to still
his right hand
nervously tapping
so useless against
the emptied glass.
He couldn't
guess where
it all might lead,
but he couldn't
not take the chance
it might,
somewhere.
Her accent
sounds French,
and it is Bastille Day.
Anything's possible,
n'est-ce pas?
Jul 28, 2010
Jul 28, 2010 at 4:40 PM UTC
There are no ****** Rottweilers tethered to steel poles
outside basement taverns.
No emaciated men picking **** mites
on their faces or women staring
blankly into the fog of their day.
Not a bad smell, a dead bird on a lawn,
an old person wearing a sweater too tight
or a poor kid with a cleft palate; not in Euphoria.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 6:28 AM UTC
How innocently and wholly she fell for me-
It's a shame we won't have that again.
What good are the taverns and church bells
When love is the doula of rain?
I'd rather be drowned in red water
Than have these bad dreams chisel stone in my mind
I felt the deep call of my meat to the slaughter-
The marvelous, numbing, sweet nothing, sublime.
My finest carbuncle I offered, she smiled,
Uncomprehending intangible worth;
It's red like the robin's fine coat in the morning
On the unfortunate day of my birth.
How innocently and wholly she fell for me-
It's a shame she won't have that again.
What use for the taverns and church yards
When love is the doula of rain?
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC