"tipsy" poems
I'll be eaten alive one day:
one day, i see it in my mind
so close to closure along an empty street
late at night
(owls just retired and birds
not yet up),
orbs of light tethered to tall electric poles
cast dappled circles on cracked pavement;
illumination and safety
(for that two metre radius).
Stepping between them
like a girl child on stones
across a garden,
I anticipate each missed step
as sinking into sand or frightful waves.
Singing drunk back-alley lullabies
i'll soothe the skelebabies in their sleep,
their poor crusted noses snuffled against
a cold shift of air
(their private torment plastered over billboards
with corporate logos and dim colours,
suggesting the city's lights have gone out and
the local government is in frantics.
That is, after all, what you'd focus on)
Girl child games were so tipsy and magic
(and so close to real coldness);
between two orbs of light i'll slip
through the cracks
in the pavement.
THE END.
(eat me alive,
eat me alive,
eaten alive by the
wolf at the door)
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 6:36 PM UTC
I am a paper boat floating down a
Stream, imagination made me from
Yesterdays sport page, read now
Turned in to this boat floating down
This stream.
Calm waters as I float as I pass a fisherman
On the shore, a hat over his eyes as he
Is sleeping not much biting as no fish
In this river that I can see.
I pass a pub only slightly damp as the
Stones thrown by those drinking at the
Shore, I hear a pint to sinks the boat,
But to tipsy are they to throw straight
Lucky for me.
I float bobbing up an down, a fold slips
And up a sail shoots me forward at speed.
But the faster I go the more splashing on
Me. I get wetter down the stream and
I start to unfold more, till there is no boat
Just soggy news paper floating down the
Stream.
It was fun being a boat, as I wash up on
The side of the river, I was once part of a
Tree then a news paper, I became a boat
With imagination, what will I be used for,
Or we I decompose be one with the
Earth I will have to wait and see.
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 5:25 PM UTC
Sara L Russell, 19/12/14 00:58am
White gulls fly against darkness of winter trees
swirling in a reeling easterly;
bare branches stand in earthbound traceries
behind the birds that dance weightless and free.
There is a rhythm in this circling flight.
a lazy, slightly tipsy minuet;
a majesty in gliding wings of white,
a sign that better times are coming yet.
The dew has barely faded on the green,
two fountains bend before the icy breeze,
as seagulls, with a grace I've rarely seen
swirl heavenward, like flights of fantasies.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
A Friday night of imbued strangers
Streets full of all walks of people
Mostly staggered and tipsy
Haggered and narrow minded
As they sing the only one anthem of
pumping alcohol inside their veins
A Friday night of rejection and temptation
I couldn't give my cash to enter a joint
Thoroughly rejecting a norm construct
Unhumbled and judgmental
As they sing the only one anthem of
pumping alcohol inside their veins
A Friday night of inspiration and joy
Where I saw a mirror of myself on the streets
Vagabound souls sat begging for a today
Justice and truth prevails
As they sing the only one anthem of
pumping alcohol inside their veins
A Friday night of me sat on the ground
At the entrance of a busy closed shop
Begging for the homeless soul as people sneer
The abuse and hate ejected
As they sing the only one anthem of
pumping alcohol inside their veins
A Friday night of broken promises
When all they do is try to have ******
People set traps of unfriendly gesture
The rotten and pompous society
As they sing the only one anthem of
pumping alcohol inside their veins
A Friday night of me wooing the drunk
Melodious symphony of "change please"
Negativity beakers but we made money baibe
A reflection of minimalism
As they sing the only one anthem of
pumping alcohol inside their veins
A Friday night of concluded perception
Their souls touched me, they can go back a time
They try but have no strength within
Sour love was the wound that brought them hassle
As they sing the only one anthem of
pumping alcohol inside their veins
It's not a Friday night anymore, the dawn smiles
I have a warm home and access to facilities
They have no options and crack is their hope
Police huddles and societal direct abuse
As they sing a song for strangers to listen
For your smile and talk can be the only hope they got
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 5:22 AM UTC
I asked my mother for a glass kaleidoscope,
but instead she handed me three shots of wine
and a field guide to running galactic bases,
which I guess is her way of selling dreams
at low prices. I have yet to understand a coffee shop's symmetry,
so I embrace the scrupulous company of a dragon-riding-a-butterfly.
One spin around the Milky Way leaves the butterfly
with holey wings and the dragon vomiting in my make-shift kaleidoscope.
The apple tree in the corner of the living room ruins the symmetry
of the space and I have to chug another glass of wine
to make up for the peach tree I couldn't dream
about and another wrong note sung by the basses.
The song's in too low of a key, which is the basis
behind the evil chinchilla's plan to mass-produce butterfly
farms as part of a larger goal to pillage the dreams
of dreamers. Luckily, we all have a handy-dandy kaleidoscope
and a bag (or two) of bitter-tasting wine
stolen from their boxes -- too much symmetry.
My brother put a block on local news; the symmetry
of our county's border was too much for me to bear. He bases
his action (when mother asks) on the wine
he didn't drink, so I throw the broken butterfly
out the window where it lands on my nephew's spinning kaleidoscope.
He doesn't know it yet, but that drum he's banging will envelop his dreams.
A hike to the top of the cliff (a leap) re-energizes my dreams
and I still can't relate to the maple leaves and their symmetry,
but at least I can look through a lampshade at the kaleidoscope
of trees dancing below me. There are seven thousand bases
yet to run and they still haven't caught the butterfly,
so a boy yells, "Drink!" and I take another sip of wine.
The dragon and chinchilla are tipsy from the wine
at this point and discuss the difference between dreams
and electricity while my mother sautés the butterfly
in ice cream and abstract ideas. The symmetry
of my right ankle is still a bother, so I tell the basses
to sing a quarter tone flat while I collide a scope.
Off goes dragon-with-butterfly (once again) and I finish the wine.
I make my nephew a chinchilla-skin kaleidoscope and rinse the rocks stained with dreams.
My mother comments on the apple tree's symmetry while the trees below keep running bases.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 9:27 AM UTC
the day the city we built came crumbling down is the day i asked myself over and over again:
were you not level headed,
were you tipsy turvy,
were you drowsy eyed,
when there were earthquakes erupting from your palms?
were you even ok,
when you shoved me in the back of your "junk drawer" in your mind
did you even try to know what it felt like when i erased you from my wasted time
did you flight or fight
or did you even try to understand
when your palms were trembling like earthquakes?
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 11:01 PM UTC
Red, edifying & ditsy,
Wine illuminated names -- eclectic,
& gypsy. Yippee persons; So yawned
Night. I gathered her, too
Tipsy, I paused & smoked young
Faith, aimed it too high
And next dared
The hour escape.
Oscar sounded clear and round.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 3:11 PM UTC
*it's dark
and a little cold
you can feel
winter kissing
the air
the stairs
are made
of steel;
frozen
we are intoxicated
i am tipsy
you are drunk
we're laughing
my shirt
falling
off my shoulder
your eyes
glow in
the dark
as you throw
back your head
and
laugh
i tease you
by licking your straw
and think of how the
milkshake
would taste so
much better
off your
lips
you tease me
playing with
my glasses
and
tickling
my leg
with
your
feet
"try me"
i say
i am trying
to
act like i am
bigger than
my body
i am playing
a game
you are a
king of
"oh, really?"
your
breath is
on my
lips
and i can feel
the heat in
the cold winter
night
i can
see your
freckles
they are brighter
than the stars
in the black sky
we looked at each other
a little too long
to be
"just friends"*
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 12:20 AM UTC
I wish I liked you more
When you're sober
The way you bubble over when you're tipsy
Is so enticing
I want to sip off your sweet nothings
That all wash away down the drain by dawn
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 3:16 AM UTC
I pretend that your poems and
my poems go
slumming in disguise;
carrying on in dark doorways
of riverfront bars—
tipsy, telling secrets,
spilling out into the sweet-smelling
night,
libertines
more in love
than they were before.
Dec 15, 2010
Dec 15, 2010 at 6:16 PM UTC
In the in-between stage where there is just enough alcohol in my veins to try and convince me that what we had was good.
The sweet spot.
Too little or too much and all I see is the problems and why it ended in goodbye,
but here-
here I see “hey princess”-
all the “I love yous”
“I’d do anything for you”
“You’re worth it, no matter the cost”
and I know in an hour or two I’ll be thinking clearly again-
but **** right now-
I know why I stayed for so long.
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 11:10 PM UTC
Through years of my prime
I walked with a heart
crazy about love.
I wanted my heart to bloom
and shelter a shadow of love.
when the heart was soaked in passion
and was wet,
I wanted to wrench it dry
on love itself.
I wanted to paint a picture,
in indelible print, across
the canvass of my heart.
I stand today
in front of the Taj Mahal.
I watch the marble smiling
as the sunlight gives it a touch.
I feel gusts of wind
gone mad
as they come across
the heights of love here.
I listen to the music, waking in
the dream-eyed visitors' quiet hearts.
I am tipsy after my
own feelings
themselves have become wine.
I forget myself, world and all.
I don't know
whether I'm thinking of Shah Jahan,
Mumtaj or myself.
I'm quite disillusioned, stupefied,
enveloped under an expanding heart.
Shah Jahan who proved
an emperor to be shorter than a lover,
who turned a grave into a temple
who gave his beloved a place of God
and converted love into a prayer.
there exists one difference between
us two.
he was all in all, and if
I'd ever grown prosperous like he was,
I'd not have waited for my beloved's death
before I erected a Taj Mahal.
(Translated from Nepali by Manu Manjil)
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 1:35 PM UTC
Did I touch you as I left?
That night of beer and music
Almost tipsy,
laughing good-byes
Backing into blindly
I felt an arm... a moment
guide me
before I all but fall
against you
Knew that warmth
of mass was male
You exhale
I sense your being--
behind
Amused
By accidental intimacy
I come unglued
By your flirtatious
catch of eyes
in lowered light
By faint fragrance
of whatever it is
you've drunk or used
to put yourself together
Turning
guarded
Apologize
glancing down
Women always look, though
however briefly
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 4:46 PM UTC
Baby let's go
tipsy-toed
Skinny dipping in
disco lights.
Drunken mouth in
worship,
you call my body Jerusalem
till I'm
spluttering up
pool water.
The ceiling spins
a salsa,
the fridge exhales something
obscene when it opens
and the furniture
blushes
I'm jealous of the
love story
in my home.
We roll around in
bolognese
I slurp the happy
out of
your mouth.
Saucy smirks.
Oh keeper of my heart,
I chain myself to
your smile and
swallow the
key.
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 11:53 PM UTC
the dendrites don't know what's right anymore.
the tipsy balance is falling off the table,
and there's nothing there to stop it.
gravity is such a *****
but, so are a lot of things,
and i can't seem to grasp onto anything good
anymore by standing
right in front of the doors
that lead to something better.
i knew it when i found my body
still in the second row of the
dark movie theater,
crying at the smiling stars
on the explosion of a projection screen.
i'm pretty sure i was feeling
sorry for myself
lapping up some kind of
enlightenment.
i've been too nice for too long,
but i've been old since the
day i turned eight.
that was when i learned about
the rough bodies
portraying the new style of
***
on a vhs,
and my eyes stung
because i didn't want to watch
and it seems to hormone driven
boys that it's ingrained in my dna.
i have been uncomfortable for ten years now.
but not as winded on the
day it burned a hole in
my solar system,
the milky way
told me to love the metal hearts
and
always be kind.
i can't do that anymore,
there's too much anger
in my stomach
for my body not to
convulse in shame.
it was never my fault,
but everyone else likes to think so
and
i've always held it gently
so no one else would have
to breathe in sawdust
and exhale hurt.
i always had it covered
with my hands lined with
fortunes.
palms,
can you tell what's in store for me now?
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 6:40 PM UTC
I am tired of writing love songs about you
Because they do not work
Because I cannot bring myself to summarise the hurt
When it's greater than just words
I traced your lips with my fingertips
As you held my neck and drowned me
I tried to keep the bubbles in my hands
For the day you'd come drown me again
Funny how a heart so small
Could wreck such treacherous trouble
Will you hold me closer?
When you say 'sing me a song'
And I think it's because you love it
But you were right all along
You were in love with my need
A need for something more than greed
And I could not play along
So the songs sounded the same
Because all we had was a blank page
Blander than a desert tongue
Will you hold me closer?
And still I begged
Because it is all I know to do
I crashed walls through
Just to get to you
A fool a fool a fool
I played for you
I turned tipsy as the world went spinning round and round in psychedelic swabs
Liquor after liquor
Anesthesia
Only brings out pain
I gave in
Because it is all I know to do
In a dark place full of wastrels waiting for love
Will you hold me closer?
I came here
Ready to regret
A little revelry to rock the bland away
Yet how far could I run with your clutches round my neck?
I tore up the pieces of paper
That I wasted all on you
Happier times
Haughtier lies
I tore up all the words I gave to you
No more poetry for the first time your lips touched mine
Or how you playfully pushed me by the seaside
The days before you showed your wicked side
No more circles with endless lines
Here I'm staring at the blank page right before my eyes
Ready to rewrite
What was life like
Before you?
Your eyes meet mine amd smile
One last time
Will you hold me closer?
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 6:30 AM UTC
V. Ethereal
Maybe being drunk
is the closest I will
ever get to zero gravity--
to walking on the moon.
My fingers curled
around the neck of a liquor bottle,
I wander to my bedroom window,
as a tipsy weightlessness settles
amongst my limbs
(and my thoughts).
Swaying slightly,
I part the curtains and,
in my intoxicated stupor,
search for Polaris in the night sky,
point to it,
press a clumsy hand to the glass,
convince myself that
I have captured the star,
and all the omniscient power
it possesses,
beneath my finger tips.
Star light,
{lips pant--
inebriated,
heavy}
star bright,
{my breath appears a catalyst
as the window pane glazes over
in an impenetrable paroxysm of fog}
first star I see tonight,
{I take a swig,
raise the bottle--
a toast
to the cosmos}
I wish I may,
{Lashes meet in
silent matrimony}
I wish I might,
{Behind closed, desperate eyes,
ribbons of colour dance
towards me in a disoriented jig}
have this wish I wish tonight--
to be
obliterated by the very galaxy
that birthed
these grieving bones
and this tumultuous heart.
Because only then--
as the Gods paint the Night
with the innards of my soul,
acrylic purples
churning against the blackness--
will I become what I
have always dreamed
of becoming:
Lovely.
Ethereal.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 11:57 AM UTC
Can I have a little bit whisky?
Just so I can feel a little bit tipsy
In a jiffy
Can I lean on your shoulder?
Like a frightened puppy at the shelter
So I can feel a little bit safer
Can I count on you?
When things in life are feeling so blue
Because I know you will always come through
Can I ask you to be patient with me
When my world is raging sea
And draining all your energy like a flea
Can you be my paragon?
With you around, I could go on.
Without falling off the wagon
Can I be your bro forever?
So we can grow old together
Reminiscing on life wonders we both had to discover
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 10:39 PM UTC
Two miles from town, I meet an old woodcutter
and we travel the road lined with huge pines.
The smell of wild plum blossoms
drifts across the valley.
My walking stick has brought us home.
In the ancient pond – huge, contented fish.
Long sunbeams penetrate the deep woods.
And in the house – a long bed
all covered with poetry books.
I loosen my belt and robes,
copy phrase after phrase for my poems.
At twilight, I walk to the east wing –
spring quail startle into the air.
Tramping for miles I come upon a farm house
as the great ball of sun sets in the forest.
Sparrows gather near a bamboo thicket,
flutter about in the closing dark.
From across a field comes a farmer
who calls a greeting from afar.
He tells his wife to strain their cloudy wine
and treats me to his garden's feast.
Sitting across table we drink each other's health
our talk rising to the heavens.
Both of us are so tipsy and happy
we forget the rules of this world.
Too confused to ever earn a living
I've learned to let things have their way.
With only three handfuls of rice in my bag
and a few branches by my fireside
I pursue neither right or wrong
and forget worldly fortune and fame.
This damp night under a grassy roof
I stretch out my legs without regrets.
4k
Stretched out,
Tipsy,
Under the vast sky:
Splendid dreams
Beneath the cherry blossoms.
3.8k
Ticking the days off was exciting
Yet became a living nightmare
She’d had an invitation to the ball
She now worried how to get there.
It was the End of Year Fairies Ball
Where the best of the fairies went.
She’d got her gown, her fairy shoes
And had made her rose petal scent.
She had chosen pale green for her dress
And had sewn buttercups to the hem.
Little golden flowers cascaded down her
With tiny leaves still attached to the stem.
She had a buttercup upside down on her head
With golden thread under her chin
Daisies draped from her arms held tight
By a tiny golden wrist pin.
She looked adorable but so did the others
They all looked like a story from a fairytale
Nerves sometimes got the better of her
So the breathing slowed down, a slow exhale.
The buttercup fairy looked divine as she did
Always and mingled, taking her time
She ate raspberry pips and drank blossom juice
And had her first sample of apple wine.
She sat under an acorn and arranged her wings
A robin provided a pillow for her which was nice
Before he knew it she had fallen to sleep
But was she about to pay the upmost price.
She had missed the best dressed fairy time
When all fairies were judged by the chief elf
Instead this tipsy little fairy fast asleep
And was sitting on a very expensive shelf.
She awoke with the sound of little bells
Announcing the winner of the best dress
She tutted at the robin for not waking her
She as angry because now she was in a mess.
She now wore a face as long as a fiddle
And did not care about anyone or thing
She had prepared for this day since the
Beginning of this year’s spring.
The moral of her story don’t nestle
Next to a naughty little robin with fluffed chest
Otherwise you fall to sleep all afternoon
And then end up seriously depressed.
The buttercup fairy found some comfort
In a super little bar under a mushroom
And smashed her way through too much wine
Which for now ended her doom and gloom.
Staggering her way home in the early hours
Singing over the blackbird’s morning tune
She perched herself under an oak leaf
And slept until the new light of the moon
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 3:34 AM UTC
a heartness of light displays ;
in initial tinting
the morning
tipsy
dunked in the thirst
from the passing night
unnecessary
the fight we experience
in darkness seems
once exposed
wincing in the maturing sunlight
a wedded weight is removed
Dec 27, 2021
Dec 27, 2021 at 11:52 AM UTC
You’re wishing plus wanting
to win the other side
remove your pride,
you untied tidal pool,
the wide subdivide of these paper pages.
Unrelenting numbers
remind you of the next stages,
taking you wildly to Namibia,
surrendering you to Zimbabwe,
the terminal station.
The narration vocalizes the translation of quotations,
your obligation to the violation of the rules, the regulations,
vulgarization of spoken word.
Pretty paintings plaster typecasts,
the pitter-patter of pity’s pretty ******
quickly shifting refurbished velvet sofas.
Overcast symphonies outlast
witty recast stanzas,
scores with notes naturally quote
verses romancing seltzer spines
noticing the negotiation of sore throats.
Oblivion’s oblivious to the people,
obnoxiously obscene with syncopated
saturation of public vital signs.
You’re the vain strain of virus
photocopying yourself within skin,
waste your sin on tattoos trapped on shins
safety pins selecting prints
pinning sets of twins to tanned wrappers
protecting official reports.
The ossuary welcomes records printed on thick paper
suspiciously missing skeleton swords.
Writing stories reversed while tipsy,
quickly preforming risky poetry smog,
sweetly omitting secret words,
trying to spell simply without the proper prologue.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
Tipsy daze were just foreplay
for the passionate midnight sexcapades.
Every Sunday
Drinking champaign,
Not practicing self-restraint
Sneaking into privet estates
Dive into the grotto pool.
My late night wicked pagan lover,
Two lonely hearts bonded over confessions in the dark.
We were nympholepts in retrospect.
All clinquant, in gold light
But turned to heathens, in the night.
Dancing in rhythmic eruptions of fevered delight.
Wondering eyes are tantalized
You are luxurious, feral, **** boy personified.
I was mystified by the wild & eroticized by the style.
A Huckleberry Finn identical twin, ohh but of corse
-You had a Porsche.
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 4:34 AM UTC