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"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
0
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
Orange Drops
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
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42
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
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Dec 10, 2011
Dec 10, 2011 at 1:14 AM UTC
Oh Santa be good
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.
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Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 7:09 AM UTC
,Go and see your Doctor.
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
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Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 6:37 AM UTC
Grievous Separation
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
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Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 1:47 AM UTC
Oh Santa be good
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
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Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
When I die
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
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33
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
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May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 8:00 AM UTC
Mother Tongue
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
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Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 1:02 PM UTC
Electronic Message
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.
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1.2k
The Captiv’d Bee, Or The Little Filcher
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.
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Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 7:57 PM UTC
Demolition
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?
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Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 10:34 AM UTC
Behind
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
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Dec 10, 2011
Dec 10, 2011 at 8:07 AM UTC
A Branded Man
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
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54
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.
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Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
Three Vampire Limericks by ORLOK
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.
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May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
The Idle Dances
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
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Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 3:19 PM UTC
Tavern
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
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Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
Before Trafalgar
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
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61
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”
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Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 9:31 PM UTC
ON LOOKING AT A PAINTING OF THE DEATH OF THOMAS CHATTERTON
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”
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35
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.
0
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 8:09 PM UTC
Mr.Piddles
tipple blood our ever-thirsty hearts a fuel-fount
0
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 3:40 AM UTC
haiku #25
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 –
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Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 8:42 AM UTC
Flutter
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
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Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC
The Moon
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.
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Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 6:23 AM UTC
Forgotten lines
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
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Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 3:24 AM UTC
Bundaberg
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.
0
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 2:45 PM UTC
Not Quite Breakfast At Tiffany’s
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.
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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.
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Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC
I Love Beer - in Justice Kavanaugh's own words