"tippling" poems
Man enters the tavern
Claps down some cash and outbursts ;
'Thirsty Things Firstly !'
The barman evaluates his condition
And provides a session brew
Man tilts toward potential company
(a ferrety bloke in the shadows)
"Pull up that stack of milk crates
And halve a heart with me"
(he earns a quick friend
in a tolerant stranger)
Soon fellow gaspers fill out the gloom
And an eve of humour descends
Though soon upending
Gourds downed the gullet
Sunk ugly into the scene
The tippling wit drags the night
to the Slurry Pit
things turn Psychologically Rugged
his Mates soon round on him
bulldozing at the Elbows
saying he's a Cheapskate
they Berate him with rigorous Rattleprat
he's been goated with the Cain's mark
they tousle his crown malicious
Thorough in his cups and eaves
he mumbles and leaves
heaving up bile words
unheard
gurgle
over
his
shoulder
outside is dark and harsh
Outside the whole wild world does wail and weary
drunkenly
he sings to match its melancholy
but sadness lifts with his altered view
he sees 'a flock of moons' weigh down the sky
and natures churn
makes a phosphorescent stew of it all
... decay
to lifes' celebration
Jun 27, 2022
Jun 27, 2022 at 9:04 PM UTC
because love when cut,
lets loose
an empire of blood:
i have in my lips,
a treaty of oblivion—
releasing an embittered lemon.
in the throne of the sea,
waves repeat the crash
of perfidy.
by the mountains they ride,
the thick air of strobe.
rocks receive the genital fire
of lighthouses
exposing intones of shadow
one by one.
the beast maimed
behind the zither of trees
makes no sound like
an aleph.
i herald the collusion of night
and children
and weep at the solicitude of mothers,
because pines swoon in the dark
and with its hand, the gentlest war
threshes the flesh and blood,
raining on us forever.
hostile eyes bypass the silence of things
and lovers closing doors repeatedly,
disrupting the vale from its slumber.
it is because when love is let loose,
it releases both of us — weary, inescapably ripe with the wind, looking
for each other as doves do in flight,
separate and obscured, opening gates;
nightfall:
the savage aroma of wood
on the leaves that sway fervently
tippling away from boughs.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 4:32 AM UTC
12/18/24
I choose fingers,
among the array
of many wonderful
parts on offer,
the other sensory emissaries protest,
but the multi-fluency of fingers,
fluent in all Romance languages,
nay, in every dialect, tongue,
tippling the balance in their favor
for the fingers are wonderful conversationlists, trumping the
cooing coyness of sweet wordy
verbs, fingers defy nouns, pronouns
and are fingers the finest conjunction
that was ever conjured ot conjuncted?
the ears hear poorly when upom it
a long slim finger casually traces outlines
slow~sensually and the eyes shut tightly,
reflexively, the tongue froze to the
mouth roof, muted into inaction
even the the sense of smell lies powerless
should we block the nostrils with but
two fingers, and breathe mouth mightily
we do not diminish the orchestration’s
totality, the blending of sound ‘n sensation,
but the blind and deaf all must bow before the power of fingers speaking to
every part of the bodies totality
Dec 30, 2024
Dec 30, 2024 at 2:01 PM UTC
On that day my soul grew drunk
The cooked curiosity craving
The passion never slaving
I crave the ****** sick spirit
Instead I uncovered the affinity
The vehemence smiled
What could there be more purely piled?
I crave the temptress, thirsty thing
Suddenly, I heard some feeling
My ambition, I could not awaken
While I pondered, bibulous and forsaken
I crave the tippling, touched target
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 10:49 AM UTC
blending in with the
low flying shadows
imbibing colours and
tippling emotions
zeroing in on life
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
tip-tap
the tippler rain drips
tip-tap
the tippler rain's slick
tip-tap
the rain, tippling, wraps
lit-up
city streets in plastic
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
This teetotaler turns to tea
torquing temptation
towards tippling
thankfully, though
that tremendous tugging
teasing tendency thirst *******
thru teaching this totally tubular
toothless titular Texan thuggish tyrant
(titled Tsar Terry Troutman)
transcendental theology
tenets taught transferring
torpedoing, taming threatening
titanic tsunami tempest
tastefully tickling temperance
testing trying taut tenacity
together teaming (troika)
triumvirate torchbearers
*********** therapist
(Tony the tiger)
tough trailblazer theoretician
toady treacly Tory
(Tommy Two Tone),
thence thirdly Theodore
"Tornado" Tornetta)
themselves trained to tamp
twerking tremens triggers,
their tripartite treatment told
tattooing thorny transforming
took this then truant teenage turtle
through time traveling
to those truant tumultuous tragic,
toxic, tipsy twitchy, touchy, tetchy
typhoon terrible two times two
times two times two tantrum
throwing, thieving, threatening
taxing textured teen tinder times -
tossing, tilting, taking tankful tolled
throaty, thoroughly,
thickly telltale temblor
toured terrible tournament
testing taupe tumbling termagant (Thaddeus)
tangling (Tangoing) tiny Timothy,
the treacherous tarantula
tying tussling travail – tata!
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 6:31 PM UTC
let startle inlight, if not so lifted
in peregrination, a lavish seeing.
two eyes are worlds in
tippling axis.
taking deaths, a wreath would a candle,
a prayer would a body thumbed down
to wisdom our backbones break.
to see death like a rush of flowers.
great the sight of such illumination.
swiftly going to god's dark behemoth,
metaphysics of bone clenched—
darkling like obsidian
a complexing fault of road
as the same vein of Earth aspirates
the wind — whose exigent fire
cleaned her bones back to
pulchritude: her face a diamond
in the rough — never to speak
yet to clamber with summarization,
realness and revelations of roses.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 10:06 PM UTC
a tippling reminder is the finder.
the top shelf savior fills the timer.
a bond too fated to be a burden,
for fate, as a type, is assured a warden.
decadent findings
are details less grounded.
mindful snappings
of a world rewinding
telephone games fill the mind.
a nimble challenge, to get behind
too easy
to get queasy
test the best
and forget the rest
when the guest says yes
the host fulfills the rest.
meant to be sent
peeled back to rent
and not easily sent.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 4:43 AM UTC
we are each to ourselves, selected amongst the few –
yet you cannot help but
be mortal.
you, mortised to sleep.
I sick behind white walls that will never
bring your laughter
back to that small frame in front of picture windows.
I look at the world around me
reduced to a grey-faced elbow room,
as the flickering lamp lays out
all the sorrows we forget in our sleep.
who are you?
I pucker up and pull this bottle
snuggled in my clenched fist
and I cannot help but think of any other
thighed upon the cold brink of this bed,
I cannot unthank the existence of flowers
that refuse to bloom in the Sun,
all the more the birds so clearly far better fate
than this enigmatical.
we are each to ourselves and selected amongst the few –
I am the same bar-drunk soul
you met years ago, and will perhaps be
that in all the hours that lay before your callow eyes.
when it is time to draw
the knife,
blinded by the glint of your bones,
wired to the same mind that has once
had me tippling over furniture.
you are this very distant portrait in the
mausoleum that I told many people about,
wanting to go there but my feet can’t – there is a slender
thread eyeing in itself a margin between
the two of us.
and now you turn in your great wave of motion,
next to me, pressed against the sheets
far from being tossed out of sleep.
and along with you, the wind drags a cold, lunar tail:
they are marvelous in their slowness,
and the dark grows more immense than the probability
of you sinking and I, emerging,
turning, turning,
breathing,
so much the turning
and never staying still – there is inimitable life
in this dreariness,
half an elbow,
knees pared to moons,
collarbones and all that music
hung on some frail home,
sovereign of nose
and that whiteness to a paling mood,
almost at the verge of leaving
but cannot because there is conscience tossed out of sight
like a living work of guillotine
immortalized in this sleeplessness that begs
for more waking hours,
continuing in darkness, your eyes close and close and
close like the many doors
that have disappeared
before me,
and the frailest thing that
we have
almost, if not always
loved.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 6:46 AM UTC
1
Fails to realize the momentousness of the ordeal. Syntax means nothing. Delineations weak. It is all obsolescence, this one. This thing that has no name. This agreed-upon assault of objects. Its loose fizz into the air. Buildings without balconies, or balconies without height – a plunge will mean that there is only little ache left to wring out of some futurity. Arrange the furniture, you said. Take pictures of the sullen victory right after. There is no place in there but only spacious silence. Like meat before it goes into the melting *** Like light before it reaches its tippling point. Hence, let us both agree to this once again. An end. A limit has been reached. In most days you say nothing. I wait – concealed, overwrought with time’s unloosenings. I do no waiting at all. I do wait at all – this made moment is your new retreat.
2
This is an old woe with a new name. I ask you things, you answer me endless. Endless as in quiet is infinite. There are so many places in this world fat with stillness. Feelings flatten and fall at last, here, its exoskeleton. Keep it in your drawer with your DMs. To make a metaphor out of you means I acknowledge your disappearance. To keep mum about it means I take it inside me, deeper and deeper. Do you dream of fish now? Or waves? Or the undertow you take with you, dragged in miles of feet through dunes of sand? I ask you again, and you show no signs of being uninhabited. Although there is sometimes the warmth of pressing sheens, you take them as the passing of buses – you emphasize the waning. Although this has been written, there isn’t so much writing done here. If I could be abject like say, a washrag in your home, there would be little difference made.
3
To keep myself intent is declaration. To quote otherwise the world that you breathe in, simply suppression. It is much imaginable that way, much more attainable, resolute and quick with sense. A new kind of wailing. What I want, I destroy by earnest regard. There is a paradoxical way to cultivate this thing: and it is to leave it there, thriving in a space meant to contain it, alone. Nothing will be retained – it will always be one, and never two. You believed me. I asked you again. Your answer compressed everything to shadow.
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 11:52 PM UTC
Why this house? This house that walks without frame? Only air strides
circumventing the dome. The permeable atmosphere
flows freely shaking water down my arms,
pulp by pulp, fragment by fragment,
consolations for tippling music streaming in the ears.
Blowing arias – intone of regret, or the loss of beautiful things.
Preferring silence over sanguine narratives. How are we to assuage yearning?
I heard someone say, “The ideal is unattainable.” – strange, holding
the small of one’s back and lament the narrow ends of the world.
Strange the flight of birds, the hum of buses past Quezon City.
It would drone that you do not know her – and that she is never somebody
else’s – that is dearth consoled. Your palm indents delineate not fate
but the steady distances of things close to contact, eluding tragedies.
Why this house, and why you?
I have no blueprint of your home. I know not what festoons the balustrades.
Your rue for the absence of a balcony. A panel over earthenware I suppose,
or partitions to separate dreams from stilled things impaled to the wall.
I presume there are photographs of you in every corner
to remind you of your gathered storms.
I know not the smell of your home, but I have your
nameless fragrance on my shirt wedged, ambulating with me through the halls of
where I chase moments like cirrus stirring in a somersault of summer.
Make use of bowls with
evening water and flush the specter down like how you would, cold water
into throat from a night of weeping. Somewhere there,
the China will remind me of your elliptical face in
the intensity of leaving. Your eyes
the windows for birds humming a music I do not hear. I have been to too many neighborhoods,
I have seen unfinished structures foretold by obliged scaffolds holding together
a would-be home. Why this house? There are only shadows intimate on
the floor. The sudden burst of impossibilities watered down, attenuated by
piercing glances through the thickest of nights black with remorse.
The palpable silence gyrates and the diameters of the world are too close
to break in sidereal circles.
Why this house? Because you are in it, and outside,
through the thick quietude, underneath the paling moonlight,
you pretend you see nobody.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 12:08 AM UTC