"tipple" poems
I knew the orange on the orange tree
you had an ache in your shoulders
uncomfortable in an unnatural way
yesterday I passed you talking to flowers
you hadn't moved you hadn't strayed
but hiding in the leaves was a forced disguise
the omens told me something quiet and unceasing
reminding me of a slumbering domesticated cat
dreaming of cutting yourself loose from truncated ease
dropping down from the branch with panther steps
licking fruit lips ripe with revealed acidic petals
riddled with a past you revelled mixing in with zest
shocking chances stepped in for the next dance
sleep taken aback by wings cut from a dark sky
the sidewalk pitted and cracked beneath the pounce
relief escaped the twigs with a spring like waking prey
pressing into night foliage shaken from a nice balance
as I saw you take control with nothing to mask your face
on the surface too smooth for violence
was laughter of glowing gloom to embarrass
and deter such rebellious arrogance
with a twist struggling from a lame curse
its flavours sharp against your sweetened perfume muscle
expecting you to build a limestone shed for tears
rather than take on the night with a mind to wrestle
the outside aches for your physical attraction
gaining courage from the purpose in your eyes
tense as the tightness of your dress' intention
demanding that my hands draw from such lines
the sinuous heat of pulsing flesh's invitation
curved upon seeds not chaste but not quite refined
which I try not loving with some cool disambiguation
you left me the taste of syrup of grenadine
too reputable to ripple vain red tipple eyed
on a table spilt with pink gin and mandarin
sharp teeth tingling a tartness into my hand
sliding slowly at a tilt like drops of sweat on skin
focus dwindling into the clasp of an escaping shade
wrapped carefully under soft rice paper and then
tucked under a heel with a pointed kick like a blade
only to feel you relent and burst open
soft in appeal again and again
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
ohhhhh..... santa be good to me this year
ohhhhh..... santa i love your fluffy beard
ohhhhh..... santa i sent you my big list
ohhhhh..... santa i sealed it with a kiss
on Christmas eve the big man knew he had a job to do
he'd worked all year to fill his sacks and bring some Christmas cheer
his elfs and freinds had wrapped and wrapped until it was all done
now santa's night is nearly here its time to have some fun
ohhhhh..... santa be good to me this year
ohhhhh..... santa i love your fluffy beard
ohhhhh..... santa i sent you my big list
ohhhhh..... santa i sealed it with a kiss
Now children listen did you do good and be a star shine bright
Now children listen did you do good so santa comes tonight
he knows you know the ones that show a love and care for him
its santa's secret so he says ....rudolph lets begin
ohhhhh..... santa be good to me this year
ohhhhh..... santa i love your fluffy beard
ohhhhh..... santa i sent you my big list
ohhhhh..... santa i sealed it with a kiss
** ** ** a mince pie please as santa leaves his sack
and dont forget the reindeers food or we wont be back
a tipple of sherry and a note ...saying thanks a lot
see ya next year santa says chimney up i pop
ohhhhh..... santa be good to me this year
ohhhhh..... santa dear i look
ohhhhh..... santa yes yes yes yes yes.. pressies all around
ohhhhh..... santa love ya lots and lots ..kissy kiss kiss kiss
Dec 10, 2011
Dec 10, 2011 at 1:14 AM UTC
I had to go and see my Doctor
For I was feeling rather dõwn
He took one look and said to me
You need to go out on The town.
He asked are you a heavy drinker
And do you drink alot of wine
I said whisky is my tipple
My preference every time.
He asked if I drink it often
I replied every single night
He laughed and said don't worry
That's perfectly alright.
He asked me what's my favourite blend
I said the Scottish highland malt
That's what they recommended
So the drinkings not my fault.
He asked do you eat much greasy food
Now that's something I can't deny
He suggested cooking frozen chips
They take less time to fry.
I asked Doctor what's your verdict
Is there anything you can do
He replied go out and have some fun
We are humans and our years are few.
So i am glad that I saw my Doctor
Now I am happy and I'm pleased
So go and see your Doctor
He will put your mind at ease.
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 7:09 AM UTC
A horrific thunderbolt
hit me right at my chest.
Oh! what an assault.
A hundred carafes of poison
or
the thousand rounds of bullets
would have hurt less
than the pain it caused
when
you abandoned me.
But,
I tried to deal with it.
‘Move on’,
I urged my inner me.
‘I am not a loser.
Quitting is never an option’,
I tried to pacify the anguish.
It did not aid.
The palpable twinge
troubled more;
aww! my delicate heart.
To sweep away the woe,
I pact with the *****
Alas!
Every sip of the nasty tipple
ousted heavy flood
from my shuddering eyes.
I could tell you , love,
that was quite a sight.
Still the heart pounding,
the excruciating truth,
still unsolved.
I banged my liquor’s glass
in sheer dismay.
Sane enough to halt
the bleeding from the wound,
I searched the bandage.
Sadly, the wound was in heart.
- Bhaskar Dhakal
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 6:37 AM UTC
On Christmas eve the big man knew he had a job to do
He'd worked all year to fill his sacks and bring some Christmas cheer
His elf's and friends had wrapped and wrapped until it was all done
Now Santa's night is nearly here its time to have some fun
Ohhhhh..... Santa be good to me this year
Ohhhhh..... Santa I love your fluffy beard
Ohhhhh..... Santa I sent you my big list
Ohhhhh..... Santa I sealed it with a kiss
Now children listen did you do good and be a star shine bright
Now children listen did you do good so Santa comes tonight
He knows you know the ones that show a love and care for him
It's Santa's secret so he says ....Rudolph lets begin
Ohhhhh..... Santa be good to me this year
Ohhhhh..... Santa I love your fluffy beard
Ohhhhh..... Santa I sent you my big list
Ohhhhh..... Santa I sealed it with a kiss
** ** ** a mince pie please as Santa leaves his sack
And don't forget the reindeer's food or we wont be back
A tipple of sherry and a note ...saying thanks a lot
See ya next year Santa says chimney up i pop
Ohhhhh..... Santa be good to me this year
Ohhhhh..... Santa dear i look
Ohhhhh..... Santa yes yes yes yes yes.. pressies all around
Ohhhhh..... Santa love ya lots and lots ..kissy kiss kiss kiss
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 1:47 AM UTC
All that will remain is bones and rotting meat
Toss it in a cheap wicker box for worms to eat
Topped just with wild flowers and no cement
Plant a weeping willow instead of a monument
It can do the weeping, please don't you cry
There is a chance that I'll be busy when I die
For if I am wrong and there is life after this
I have plans with whom I'll dine and reminisce
I'll be dining with Oscar Wilde and Caravaggio
Cocktails and conversation with Kant and Plato
Then with Bellini, Verdi and Rossini I'll take a Show
An interval tipple and discourse with Rousseau
An after party with Bakunin and Proudhon
Whisky and blues with Howlin Wolf til I'm gone
I shall breakfast the next day with Tz'u Hsi, Homer and Malcolm X
And take morning coffee with Gandhi and Marc Bolan from T.Rex
At noon a spicy ****** Mary with Mary Queen of Scots,
Freddie Mercury, Lou Reed, Picasso and lots of tequila shots
Lunch that day with Saladin, Karl and Groucho Marx
Then smoke a pipe with Newton whilst discussing quarks
Afternoon tea with Queen Victoria, Kipling and Colin Ward
Followed by a game of Tafl with a viking on a giant board
Dress for flamenco with Carmen Amaya (then dress the blisters)
Then pre-dinner drinks paid for by Geronimo and the Bronte sisters
So you see, if I'm wrong
And we actually move along
A fascinating after life awaits me
Yeah, when I'm gone from here
There'll be plenty gin and beer
Cucumber sandwich's and tea
If you wonder what I'm doing
Give your watch a quick viewing
Then just check this poem and you'll see
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
explore the forest of my eyes
understand my bones
study my body
all my brassy undertones
surf through my skin
where the ocean ripple
like an overflowing river
and you've had more than a tipple
learn all my head
like I'm your mother tongue
as though you're addicted to venom
and you've just been stung
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 8:00 AM UTC
Like a designer drug
An electronic message from you
Via a cellular phone
comprising of dull text
With no promise of a lengthy dialogue
And a somewhat dismissive connotation
Leaves me strung-out
And like my tipple
Gin and peach juice
Leaves me blisteringly intoxicated and crazed
In sheer shock
I then detonate
Like those chemical experiments done by the scientists in the laboratories of research
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 1:02 PM UTC
As Julia once a-slumbering lay
It chanced a bee did fly that way,
After a dew or dew-like shower,
To tipple freely in a flower.
For some rich flower he took the lip
Of Julia, and began to sip;
But when he felt he ****** from thence
Honey, and in the quintessence,
He drank so much he scarce could stir,
So Julia took the pilferer.
And thus surprised, as filchers use,
He thus began himself t’ excuse:
Sweet lady-flower, I never brought
Hither the least one thieving thought;
But, taking those rare lips of yours
For some fresh, fragrant, luscious flowers,
I thought I might there take a taste,
Where so much syrup ran at waste.
Besides, know this : I never sting
The flower that gives me nourishing;
But with a kiss, or thanks, do pay
For honey that I bear away.
This said, he laid his little scrip
Of honey ‘fore her ladyship:
And told her, as some tears did fall,
That that he took, and that was all.
At which she smiled, and bade him go
And take his bag; but thus much know:
When next he came a-pilfering so,
He should from her full lips derive
Honey enough to fill his hive.
1.2k
I used to go to class
And now I'm sifting through Smashed glass
with my hands
I told my dear boys
I would stop buying more toys
And try to get in with the band
But now I'm trying to prove my worth
By Smashing Mother Earth
And proving ****** work will still stand
I want to tipple topple over
And burn it to a smolder
As I watch this shitropolis expand.
We put them in the cubicles
To try and make them feel more full
But all that ever fills up is the air And the land.
I hope when all the years go by
I'll look back and wonder why
I Chose not to care About my time
and the thoughts
That occupy my mind
During all of those days
I chose To be blind Left behind
To remind me that
Days are numbered
And when we slumber
They slip slyly by
Waiting for a meaning To which I sigh. What is the meaning To the bleeding
Of our short lived reality?
To except and expect there nothing more to be?
It's all we know And all we ever will
And a thought like that can make you Ill So you spill Evil Into the world
I want to tipple topple over
And burn it to a smolder
As I watch this shitropolis expand
I want to roll it all over
With a steady stream of boulders
A victory for the land.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 7:57 PM UTC
No good
Comes from deeds
Gone unpunished
I do my best
You snark my shark
Infested waters
Come cuddle with my menace
Marry our fortunes
Tipple with buds
Then orchids adapt
To environs made men
Advertisement fulfilled
I ask my friend why compete
He answers the mothers must win
Tight ******** fight the bill
Cheap advice: Stop hurting her
Give your daughter everything
My only worry concerns
What will be left for her?
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 10:34 AM UTC
Some people say I’m sheltered
And perhaps that is so
But if that means watching slugs
To shelter I’ll happily go
That’s the way it is in Muskogee
It’s a trip to go and get the news
And the biggest scandal of all
Is when Mr. Scott blew the local fuse.
We just sit and watch the world go by
We still raise the old Union Jack
We still don’t know about foreign policy
We just think I can’t be too late getting back
Got to get the washing in
Got to put the food on the fire
Got to get in from the rain
Livin’ free is our only desire
And to go down to the freehouse
To have a tipple of ale
We know alot about the weather
What to look for in thunder and hail
We just cherish these honest values
We just know no more can be done
When the dark sets in
And we start at the rise of the sun
It’s quiet but it’s nice
The last untapped reserve
Free to do as you wish
The Internet don’t get on your nerves
You just talk to your neighbour
When you want to know
What the sport was last week
And he’d say off to the shop I’ll go
Come back two hours later
With not much really to say
Other than about the chicken he strung
And that ‘rain stopped play’
Being an Oakie from Muskogee
That’s all you had to chew on
You sat and stewed over a brew
Until the rain was gone
Then you were back out and
Sure enough you’d get a laugh
As two old coots tried in vain
To back a tractor down a path.
I here people talking bad
Sayingthe way things ought to be
But life here is good
If they would only come and see
You don’t get no emails
You don’t get no one bossing you
The last place where you can be free
And do what you want to do.
I say do what you want to do!
From An Oakie
Dec 10, 2011
Dec 10, 2011 at 8:07 AM UTC
COUNT ORLOK (my alter ego) gets light-hearted in Poem #9
I'm a vampire who likes to drink blood
And I drink more than I really should.
(I think biting necks
is better than ***
I'd drink yours if only I could.
The blood of a ****** is best
(it wins every possible test);
But I still like a tipple
From a bite of a ******
On a hot nymphomaniac's breast.
I'm Count Orlok the black vampire bat
And blood-sucking is where I am at;
I'll cause lots of pain
To your jugular vein;
I don't care if you're skinny or fat.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
Idle talk
and groping glances
are thrown and strewn
at the idle dances.
Your sickeningly sweet smile
given refuge in the eye of the storm;
abetted by the valour of your current tipple.
Hand on hand,
eye on eye
then quickly turn to pass on by.
The constant ebb and flow of your
in-out,
here-gone,
love-doubt,
ignore-fawn,
contradictory chaos is enough to drive the
dead to drink.
I drown the dead within me
with the dregs of the Host.
Living tonight to the
detriment of tomorrow.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
A quaint little hostelry
with character entwined
Picture perfect the setting
with ambiance combined
It reflects some old saga
of many a past event
All those who ever visited
or regularly did frequent
Some in to drown sorrows
while few for indulgent glee
A lot amble in plain curiosity
to behold and just to see
The pace here is unhurried
and music soft & mellow
Pictures on walls with time
have turned a bit yellow
Smoke spiraling to ceiling
a sort forming thin cloud
As if oddities of tiled roof
it is attempting to shroud
Fan slowly going in circles
with hardly any of draught
Odd chap is vying attention
from table set farthest aft
Local gossip it goes to feed
is known as the grapevine
Nearly all swear by its tipple
and the homely food divine
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 3:19 PM UTC
I was sat in a Tavern in Pompey Town,
Sipping a tipple of ***
When I watched a Jack make an axe attack,
Chop off his finger and thumb!
I couldn’t believe the blood that flowed
From the cut of that rusty blade,
But the barmaid Flo, said ‘You’ve done it, Joe,
Now look at the mess you’ve made!’
She cleaned it up with a swill of ale,
Walked off with the finger and thumb,
‘I’ll nail these up on the balustrade
With the rest that have been as dumb.’
But Joe sang out when he’d had a drink
‘It’s better than being a tar!
I spent three years, under the lash
On His Majesty’s Man o’ War.’
‘They ‘pressed me when I was still a kid
And treated me like a dog,
I suffered scurvy and couldn’t work,
The answer to that, was flog.’
‘They flogged me around the Southern Cape,
They flogged me a-ship and ashore,
Whenever I thought that I might escape
They dragged me onboard for more.’
‘And Cap’n Foggett’s abroad tonight
With his cut-throat parcel of rogues,
Impressing the able-bodied men,
They’re lining them up in droves.’
‘For Nelson’s lying abaft the lee
With barely a half a crew,
He needs more men for the ‘Victory’,
And that means me and you!’
‘In every tavern they’re moving in,
In every alley and quay,
At first they offer the King’s shilling,
To war with the enemy.’
‘But the Frenchies rake with the carronade
That will rip the flesh from your bones,
And the decks run red from the men who bled
Impressed from their wives and homes.’
‘They say he sails on the tide tonight
So they’re doing a quick Hot Press,
Even a gen’lman walking late
Won’t meet with their gentleness.’
‘A cudgel whack on a squire’s head
Then dragged to the bilges, free,
They’ll never know ‘til they all wake up
That they’re headed on out to sea.’
‘That Nelson’s got but a single arm,
He’s got but a single eye,
If that’s not enough to be alarmed
By God, then I wonder why!’
The Press Gang came to the Tavern door
But couldn’t come on inside,
They tried to sell me a Man o’ War
But Joe had made me decide.
I took a gulp of Jamaica ***
And I steeled myself to the task,
‘The Press are waiting outside,’ I cried,
‘Just hand me that rusty axe!’
David Lewis Paget
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
Each flaming curl winks life at me, as they dangle and flicker,
Their owner, like sleeping serenity, defies the reality.
Icy cold, to the touch, to the eye but there is a stillness that haunts me,
A divine silence as if I have peered into the casket of an angel.
I am a stranger here and yet I am drawn to the dainty hands, ink-stained,
And so capable of trembling. A ring on his finger speaks not of unions and
Bonds of love but of his unsatisfied defiance.
His skin reminds me of a river, in its sparkling green shadows.
Pale lips, so articulately formed, decaying as if they have remained unkissed.
So thin is he, but in some elfin way; he could grow wings any moment and take me
To the fae. No one would know that he dined on unhappiness and little else.
This is still-life. The world around him is slow but still breathing,
And a coat clinging pathetically to a chair says “There was once life here”
Life or half-life, eyes can’t help but notice thousands of jagged papers,
Scattered like a cluster of dimly twinkling stars.
Half-written sentences, gasping about some impregnable Camelot,
Where hennins reach out up to heaven and their wearer
Giggles at chivalric glory.
Verses only half formed. A glance at my dead friend,
And I wonder what unfinished treasures are locked and lost within him.
The room grows stale, although colour still fights for a voice,
In the same way that he took up his pen, under the influence of some
Unbridled angst, and screamed against his betters, from heart to paper.
A potted flower, precariously fading on the window sill,
Looks out to London and the dying August day.
I see him in the petals. This flower, easy enough on the eye, but
With secrets in every root. She saw him grasping at hope,
At happiness, but like some sick joke, only finding despair.
She speaks of muses and misery and I listen,
“My love is dead” she says “Gone to his death bed”
The culprit rolls towards me and I survey it.
Its emptiness only beautifies the glass but its inky label throws me.
I can hardly read it but I know it is the tipple of the truly profound,
Of disillusioned souls. A beast that snarls
“You will never be 21”
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 9:31 PM UTC
To old age, and hefty time that laid upon your shoulders my dear friend. Your eyes illustrate circus poodles falling from high wire, into the arms of a performer in pleated sequenced dress of silver with a smile of a clever alligator.
Although your bones deteriorate and your blood grows thicker as you tipple your nights into slumber, your brain remains a fetus, music keep the heart at drumming pulsation. you cradle your very heart, when you close your eyes. To keep the spirit alive.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 8:09 PM UTC
she goes freeing herself
and stops to break her fall
suddenly to gather herself
and begin again with such brazenness
was it the moon
and not the far-flung bird of song?
was it the brigade of shadows
and not the heady kisses of night?
she keels over like a vast wave
stretching her arms into the sky
once again, permitting herself to be seen
not by the moon,
not by the hale of such night that struggles not to
tipple over her hair that demands a different hue
of silence
but by herself in the mirror
the metamorphosis,
true to the claim of the world
except she is not to flutter away,
just yet –
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 8:42 AM UTC
In the last chance saloon, thou didst reach for the moon.
Caught it,
Sat it in an egg-cup.
While everyone waited to crack up its head.
The moon his name was Edward,
Continued moving forward.
The moon met up with the light of the sun.
The light of the sun was served with a bun.
And a pint of the Bishops favourite tipple.
The yolk of the moon, it was somewhat lumpy.
Having his head smashed in made him so grumpy.
The corner shop sold him some scrumpy.
Left him in a tizzy.
As the pull of the tide left him soggy and dizzy.
He huffed and he puffed and he moved away.
Bringing on time at the eve of the day.
He never appreciated the gravity of the situation.
Getting caught by stupid and ladies and girls.
Still the sun shines and so the moon whirls.
(c) Livvi
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC
Tesco's jammed
Asda's rammed
Sainsbury's dropping
like ham off the bone
I'm heading home to the market town
getting down with the real stuff.
I hope the still's still there and breathing steam
into the cold night air
well
you've got to have a tipple or two, you..
(..they should have put that in Oliver)
Just gonna put a face on, look
a bit like Fortnum and Mason,
posh like.
If you're waiting for the reindeer
they're quite near and
just coming over the midnight sky,
Santa's a bit shy so you might not
espy him.
I'm leaving him a brandy, some socks
a mince pie and my electricity bill
what will
you leave Santa?
empty wrappings?
Crimbo trappings?
forgotten the rest.
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 6:23 AM UTC
The grog's half full
n the tucker nerly done
I head to my ol' man house
Lost me job last month
The ol' man listened to the yarn neatly spun
Ignored the pleas from his grown boy's mum
Give him some, help his family run
no he said, let him stick to his ***
A decent job and a bright prospect he had
Ruined it all for tipple n fun
...He tottered on past his prime
wouldn't last much longer he thought n sighed
The bar beckoned him once more
Dragging his feet he entered the place
Pr'olly the only home he he felt safe
Downing in his drink he obscured
The deep rut he endured
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 3:24 AM UTC
Don’t need my ‘full English’ served
On a giant rectangular slab
Don’t need a dressed salad garnish
With my bacon, sausage and egg
Don’t need vine-on cherry tomatoes
Give me canned ones in juice instead
And though I’ve scoured this ridiculous slab
Can I **** find a slice of fried bread?!
And where is my builder’s tea?
English breakfast or Earl Grey’s the choice
But cutlery won’t stand up in either
I want Tetley’s, nowt else will suffice
Oh, what has happened
To the greasy spoon?
This ‘N8 Brunch’
Is loony tunes
10 of my squid
For two brittle half rashers
That crumble to dust
When faced with my gnashers
One measly egg
Yet a goblet of beans
Presented as if made
Of priceless things
Resplendent on said slab
In a vessel all of their own
Yet still I detest these things
And deign to leave them alone
And every cuppa you have
Costs an additional fee
No bottomless beverages here
No meal deal where your tipple is free
This wasn’t always the case
But gentrification is setting in
Prices soar, pretension is rife
Poshification of everything
I love London toon
Particularly Crouch End
But I’m northern at heart
And it drives me round the bend
When I’m being ripped off
Taken for a ride
Fleeced and shafted
Hung out and dried
If I pop down the road
To N22
A tenner will buy
Double the amount of food
Might not look as pretty
Might not be as ‘posh’
But at least it’s value for money
Not like detonating your dosh
Middey’s by name
****** by nature
The tiniest of fry ups
Leaves me cold by temperature
A sprinkling of rocket
Is an utter abomination
On a British institution
I can’t afford at this rate of inflation
So b***ocks to the balsamic
You sprinkled on those leaves
That didn’t belong there in the first place
Desist in future, please!
Dispense with the vegetation
The slab that should be a plate
And reinstate the greasy spoon
In my beautiful N8.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 2:45 PM UTC
Yes, I love beer
And beer loves me,
We’re as thick as thieves
As honey is to bees.
I can’t help but wonder
What life would be
Without this golden amber,
Not a world I’d like to see.
Every sip a luscious joy,
Food for body, mind and soul,
It warms in winter, cools when hot,
As water is to ice, as fire adores its coal.
But now they claim it hampered,
My judgement in my youth,
A baseless common slander,
Insulting and uncouth.
A lifetime spent in service,
As a bastion of the law,
A judge regaled with honor,
Not just a man of straw.
So what I had a tipple
And sometimes a few more,
It livened up the party,
With a drink I so adore.
As to these accusations
That somehow I blacked out
I just can’t help but wonder,
How folks could not this doubt.
A father and a husband,
A friend to countless girls,
A man of faith and principle,
Tarnished by innuendo’s swirls.
So let this be a lesson
To all young pups today,
Consider each and every action,
Beware of what posterity may say.
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC