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Claire Walters Jun 2017
I walked into a 7-11 with you and  then all of the sudden I stopped and starred,
not because a loud and angry guy was screaming at his kids not to touch anything,
but because,
the coffee in the pots were cold and less than half full just sitting there on the counter
and no one was going to come in and drink it,
it would be left there to sit all night getting colder, until someone dumped them and cleaned them out, that's how I was before you came along,
I was a cold *** of coffee left over from that morning that no one wanted anymore,
you see, you seemed to drink the whole coffee *** before it even had a chance to get cold,
And if it did get cold,
You'd drink it anyway,

You got ecstatic over the thought of having caffeine in you to wake you up and make you lively again  
And I love that about you

You are different
You don't care about my non-coffee drinking past
You don't care about the dark rough grinds that took over me and made me undrinkable
You don't care if I was French pressed or keurig'd out
You still love me

You'd still love me if I was skim milk
If I was a skinny fat free latte
You love me now, even when I'm whole milk
If I became a double chocolaty chip
And I love that about you

You love my "I wanna white mocha latte",
and my "I need an iced French vanilla coffee from Dunkin' Donuts right now!",
And my "I am on a first date with this guy walking around with this amazing dude spilling a watered down small coffee all over my hands because I am so nervous, AND I DONT EVEN CARE BECAUSE I DONT KNOW IT YET BUT HE WILL BE MINE FOREVER!"

You're that kind of "I-don't-need- another-espresso-shot-but-I'll-take-an-extra-one-anyway-even-if-I­-do-have-to-pay-fifty-more-cents" type of guy,

Because in the end I realized paying that extra fifty cents was worth it and I'm glad I did
Because this is the best cup of coffee I've ever had and i don't want any other kind,

And I wish I would have tried this sooner and I want this feeling to last forever, because this feeling is nothing like I have ever felt before, it's like the first time sipping a different kind of coffee and not sure how it's going to taste and then all of a sudden your taste buds start going crazy and you lose your **** mind because it is so good,
And you want the cup of coffee to last forever, and it will,
Because you will keep going back to your most favorite and amazing cup of coffee for every day that you live

We went to Dunkin' Donuts again the other day,
We're known as the 7pm coffee drinkers,
One of the workers that's always there gave you two free to go cups,
We're there a lot....

The first thing I gave you was a small coffee with cream and sugar filled kiss,
the second thing was a gift card to a coffee shop,

I love you a latte
And you know i espresso a lot of feelings towards you
You're my 4 packs of sugar
My hazelnut and French vanilla creamer
You're the first thing I think of when I wake up and what keeps me up at night,
You and my coffee
Us and our coffee,
Surprising each other at work with a 16 oz coffee in our hands with a dumb smile on our faces

You are the reason I am happy
You are the reason I love coffee so much
You are the reason I wake up
You're the reason I ask if you want coffee
And the baristas at our school have an odd look on there face when I order not one but two cups of coffee and they can't help but wonder if there's someone they don't know about
And there is
It's you
And you are mine
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
.perhaps in my company we wouldn't be... opening a bottle of red wine... to let it breathe... or pouring it into a bowl to give it more air to breathe with: otherwise on life-support machine through the bottle-neck... right here, right now, we have... a glass bottle of beer (13, guinness hop lager) and 4 cans of stella artois (the wife beater's lager, so they say)... yes... beer in cans... for all intesive purposes - a good way to transport beer... in aluminium cans... but we're not bums... we don't drink beer straight from cans... we pour our beer into a tall glass and wait... so the beer can exfoliate like aladdin's jinn in the glass... away from the confines of the can... we don't drink beer from a can... we can drink it straight from a bottle... but if it comes in a can... we pour it into a tall glass... just so... so there's some head on top... we're not english in that respect either... of cutting the head (of foam) off the beer... which is probably why i always order a stout in a pub... you can't pull one without the creme de la creme on top... a head on a beer is what makes it look less like carbonated **** or concentrated lemonade... we're not bums... we drink beer from glasses... never directly from cans - the metal gets in the way... a beer like a wine needs to breathe too.

i found that there are only two types of music styles
that are suitable for drinking -
that's... drinking and not going out -
playing a cat with an imaginary fireplace...
the less imaginary fireplace being:
a stare confined to... watching a pillow...
and the general schematic of a bed...
and sitting hunched in imitation: all crow because
no crow doesn't get you far
on golgotha of daydreams: if only i...
humble servant of dusty feet - the tourist,
the pilgrim - would set off...
         on an amphetamine riddled skew into
a messiah complex adventure...

                     but not me...
                once upon a time the only music
worth drinking to was the blues...
            a long, long time ago...
                hell: once upon a time any music
would do if we all decided to go dancing...
or at least waited for the dance to come of its own
volition and not mine: i.e. the me in i would
just be dragged under the teasing waves
and slurped out to sea...

                   a thousand waves are all but the single
tongue of some swindling kraken...
drinking and random shamanic interludes in
the youth of the night-club...
when there wasn't a tally for score or...
the ones shot down by manfred...
good thing he was called manfred...
   and not some swabian helmut! oi oi!
                                             von Richthofen!
and that was when...
           until came the five beers and on
the 4th it became apparent...
                                  the red garland quintet...
soul junction...

   and it's not... a gerry mulligan's night lights...
piano sentimentality and the ode
to all things urban, cosmopolitan...
                        yes... it's not grenadine in that
sulk of yours... it's cranberry juice...
the city and... the sewers and...
                                 jazz for the urban scenes
of: anywhere but the park...
the graveyard... a choo-choo slowing into
a station... and billy joel come:
mid-life crisis and a new york state of mind...
while over 'ere we have...
     teasing the woods: where concrete ends
and mud begins... thus we can have our Adam...
and...

only today i was walking past his bride...
doing my odd citizen duty of recycling glass...
and buying the amber sedatives (carbonated)
for an evening with some cannonball adderley
or some donnie byrd... or a horace silver...
that's the beauty of jazz...
the music is all there is... the names come and go...
sonny rollins and the story behind
the bridge... and how he would pretend to
but not pretend to... retire and go off and practice
on the bridge so as to not disturb his neighbours...
all the details are there: on the vinyl sleeve
from 1963...

now that's jazz... i don't even want to mind
how pretentious this might sound...
but... it doesn't in that: jazz is jazz in that there
might come some great improv. -
after all: it's all somewhat improv. -
   but you can't really make such basic
generalißations...
        speedy-shoom-of-a-choo-choo whizzing past...
schematic!
   classical music is all a priori...
                              jazz... it's all a posteriori...
how? when people phone in between
1pm and 5pm to classic.fm and they make requests...
they sometimes ask for something specific...
but usually... they vaguely allude to... a feeling...
something "uplifting" - play something "uplifting"...
ergo... there's this... a priori "item"(?)
in the music that's... an expectation...

          i do know what jazz sounds like
a quintent: drums, bass, piano, trumpet, sax...
yes... the guitar... asking the algorithm:
a quintet is five - what is six?
        sixtet - d'uh... sextet... well that's the basic
"i know what jazz sounds like"...
but with jazz there's always this lag...
it's this lagging behind:
    i don't exactly know what i'll feel until
only after i've heard it and in the meantime too...
jazz is all a posteriori -

while classical music for me is all a priori...
given that... it's not exactly improvised:
there's the orchestra, the movie, the script...
   and it's such a music that doesn't worship
itchy fingers of improv. - the stale or rather:
the head-about-to-explode of scoring the music like
a dissected **** of beef...
the cuts for the violins the cuts for the woodwinds...
more so: the almost shy drumming...
the wet-drumming... like rain playing
rattle fingers on tin (roofs)... or what rain would
sound like... if it was made from sand...
either way... jazz is a baggage...

hardly any sort of envisioning a journey from
(a) priori through to (b) posteriori -
and at least with jazz... you never have to really
cite who's playing... in a passing gesture
for all necessary bookmark purposes
of: where i am in the library of jazz...
unlike in classical music... where...
it's either Mozart, Beethoven or then again...
some obscure composer... perhaps ola glejlo...
but it's less about the music per se:
it's about the music of THE composer...
bonus marks for keeping to a rigid diet of one
and completing the herculean task of digesting
his entire oeuvre...

-       so i was walking past the most usual scene...
a car stopped... and she got out...
she must have been no more than 16 pushing 18...
the heavy make-up hid her otherwise boyish
contorts... a short black dress...
and as she got out of the cab...
she had her high-heel shoes in her hands...
   she was walking the cement barefoot...
i peered into her eyes... the lights were out...
perhaps her soul was screaming - perhaps this was
her first disappointment - and it was only... what...
not even 10pm on a saturday night...
my nights of youthful regret usually came after 3am
having to wrestle a berserker...
or how a dog looks like when it takes
to beer with a fond heart and only three legs...
god forbid but "they" would also cut my tail off
to further throw me off balance...
the walked passed and i looked into the cab...
a very, very nervous asian was looking at me
and then her... this didn't exactly look like...
she was ***** or was fighting to escape...
           aren't those scenarios usually stage in and around
woods - without any pedestrians walking past?
call it a trainwreck a carwreck...
                      or just running mascara...
that bad, eh?
at this point... society is a cruise ship...
and i'm stuck with ottis and none of that sentimentality
of the dock: running away with a bag of
chips wrapped in newspaper away from
seagulls... who... are apparently prone
to kleptoparasitism - a real thing... i swear to god...
the animals that want to eat in the realm
of trans-species... dogs have had their
kleptoparasistism repressed: crumbs from the table...
the chicken bones with hopes for
cartilege and someone who... is bad at
cleaning the flesh off the bone: pucker up...
move aside leech... watch this slurp...
ol' hank mobley and wayne shorter...
        one cascade after another...
5th beer in and...

yeah... so that's what a carwreck looks like...
for a girl in her late teens...
the cute black dress...
   getting out of the cab holding her high heels...
walking home barefoot...
she wasn't crying just yet...
but i could see puffy tender demon baron
of the soft cheeks readying to turn into
medussa's stare-grip... but not there yet...
this must have been her first time at "life"
and the night life and saturday...
         the cab driver looked scared shitless...
as if frozen in time... about to have his photograph
taken by a more sensible shadow of his...
i did think she just escaped a bad
session of prostitution...
but not even prostitutes look so ******* gloomy
as she did...

the ******* ***** it up -
the pundit ***** it up - the show goes on...
stage or no stage... an audience or no audience...
those eyes though... not yet crying...
but they felt... like wheeping oysters nonetheless...
you know when eyes are like that...
teasing bulging out... they appear dimmed
at first... but that's a dimming before
the sparkle of tears...
it's the 29th of febuary - yes...
mr. zodiac wasn't kind to those who still believe
in the horoscope but never tried
gambling on a winning team or horse...
it's still winter and those poor feet of hers...
she must have told the cab driver to stop...
hell... half a mile before she would get home...
a 6ft2 115kg sore thumb up with a beard
up ahead: stop! let me walk past him...
that's why i gave an inquisitive stare at the cab driver...
the cab driver was looking at me...
aren't the **** victims the ones jumping
out of the cab as it speeds off or whatnot?
so this was... staged?
              i read the "situation" wrong...
well no... i didn't find a lancelot in me...
there was no door to be held open...
           not tonight...
                                           i was in a mood for
beer and jazz... and luckily for me...
marvel of all marvels...
     haig club (1627) was sold at a bargain...
                        down from 25 quid to 16 quid...
goodbye excessive drinking the cheap *****...
hello: clubman haig... is it whiskey...
is it ms. amber... or is it chanel no. 5 -
                   is it whiskey or is it a perfume?
a snapper of a dinner standing-up...
   the scent of the last bite still on my moustache
even though i had washed my teeth...
the beer bottle opened - a drizzle on the hand
and then the hand smearing the liquid all over
the stinking hairs from an unwelcome scent...
i don't mind stinking like hops...
                  but hops is better than smelly food...

- regrets? ah yes... the "what if" universe at large...
that "whaf if" this and "what if" not...
"what if" yes and... when a man takes to walk
the street at night... he's only looking for empty
streets and... the hope of not seeing his reflection:
which is never about abruptly stopping
a cab and taking your shoes off
and walking in a tight-knit black dress
having met the world and...
                     was it heartbreak or just...
disappointment that... there are no unicorns
and she isn't daddy's precious?

any of the rudy van gelder editions...
                      "what if" i had more than just these
words... a barren wasteland of a flat
with no furnishings, not a book to call it a genesis
of a private library... not a single record
to play... no bed no curtains...
and she was the: honey-catch and snare and...
what if i were still in my late teens and
didn't have these invisible tattoos of historical
dates and the tattoos that riddle bones
that are... "habits of hygiene"...
      by hygiene i imply: ontological fixtures...
immoveable objects of accumulating my mortal
years for this formal circumstance of
the worst magic trick of all...
                   transient and... packaged elsewhere...
apparently going nowhere...

if this was a truly urban scenario...
but we're talking essex...
the outskirts of greater london...
if i bothered myself tonight i might go
to a place where i'd sit on a throne of a stump
of oak and listen to owls...
spot a rabbit, spot a badger... the foxes would
come of their own accord...
and perhaps even a deer or two... or three...
there's no glit of a picaddily circus romance:
when a girl decides to get out of a cab early
and put her porcelain toes on the wintry cement...
as if: supposing she be enticing me...
as i was thinking about the scared-shitless
cab driver...        

to have once upon a time believe in love:
the sort of love you'd see in movies...
but that's of course...
before you'd get a chance to see love...
in opera...
blue pill red pill... spiderweb of fiction...
blah blah...
watch the sort of love in movies...
then go and see an opera...
most notably verdi's la traviata...
  the movies fizzle out and you don't really
need to read this to begin with...
        i was in love once...
it was a love that was in love with itself...
          a mirage a carrot on a stick...
probably something akin to this sort of impromptu...
rescuing a girl walking barefoot home...
oh sure... happens almost every other saturday...

- the beer is for these musings, for the jazz
and for... cleaning the kidneys and a work-out
for the bladder... the shot-at-a-crescendo
will come with the haig club whiskey...
is 70cl really worth 25 quid?

- there's a difference between food with a USE BY date
and food with a BEST BEFORE date...
most notably goat's cheese...
once the best before date expires...
which is way way down the line from
the use by date... the cheese starts to taste
like... ash...

i should know since i know of the alternative
to doing shots of tequilla...
the salt is replaced with licking some cigarette
ash...
the tequilla is replaced with *****...
and the slice of lemon is replaced with
black peppercorns...

so i do know what ash tastes like...
piquant tastes: this omelette of an octopus and
of tongue...

- society is a cruise ship and i'm waving it goodbye...
welcoming a sunset of a sea as calm
as a mirror... telling my feet to take root
and stand... inaccessible...
otherwise... i am barren when it comes to having
some (h. p.) lovecraftian sensibilities from
maine... aloof and anemic... anemic with bloodshot
eyes...

- of course she isn't a mystery...
the narrative would run: the little match girl...
hans... hans! hans?! hans andersen is drilling
a hole into my head about... a woman walking
home barefoot...
yes... but she is walkig home...
unlike the little match girl...
and unlike the little match girl...
this girl was carrying a pair of shoes with her...
it's not my problem whether
i'm the sore thumb that "got in the way"...
a fork in the road: like any other fork...
like any other road...

do you have to reach being 34 to see these
teenage break-ups and regrets come and bump into
you after you've done...
that most spectacular feat of towing a backpack
full of glass for recycling?
where is one to recycle bones?!

- right not all the ***** in the world is...
something of an adhesive... a hitchhiker pollen...
a hard-on of: ****** yourself for a hard-on
just because even flapping a pancake will do right now...
to ease constipation whenever necessary...

- it's a torilla... but it's wrapped like a burrito...
well... it's a torilla... kultur shock -
sarajevo - the entry level shock-awe and
blitzkrieg of drinking from the fountain
of the Haig...

- second tier... to treat pornographic movies
like... early cinema... silent...
otherwise a return to the magazine form...
and the ripe imagination readied for:
improv... or... when was the last time
my left hand didn't feel like an oyster...
and an oyster didn't feel like a leash...
and a woman's ****** stopped being
an hour worth 120 quid? -

             - third tier... the haig club whiskey
is not worth 25 quid... it's over-rated...
you're basically paying for the bottle...
i'll stick to my guns...
only the irish know how to make whiskey
on these isles... bushmills: mellow, tame...
the picts have decided to lodge
a smoking salmon into their barrels to die...
i'm supposed to have an aftertaste of vanilla...
with all that smoke... i'd be happy to taste
hungary and smoked paprika! that would
be a bonus to boot! -

- i can appreciate the picts for trying...
but let's just leave brewing whiskey to the irish...
and let's keep the english away from hops...
they'll make an undrinkable ale from it...
never the lager...

   - armed with balkan rock... standing before
the h'american monolith of tongue and culture...
or... just before what's filtered for the export...

- no... of course i don't think h'americans are dumb...
i just think there's only a naive majority...
i'm going to find the vermin and huddle among
them...

- sooner or later we'll be calling the germans
come spring... for winter provisions...
"keeshond" or: hund... i much prefer the latter...
from under the iron curtain forged from
a broken jaw when biting the curb of:
under the silicon veil... nowhere else to go...
beside Ishrael...
                        
          remains of the ottoman - which is hardly
me put into an iron maiden of akimbo...
where's the geisha and the samurai?!

- is your beard long enough?
      like mine... i tease it... catch it with braille
cardinals: the thumb the index and middle fingers...
twirl it... wait for some thread to tie it together
into a hanging ******* of a bundle...
while at the same time:
          before you... a throng of vermin...
this beard... a magic flute!
the zenith of my thinking...
and ultimately: the nadir of any narrative
that might be inclined to escape and
not become 3D...

- i listen to songs in german...
i put on airs of pride - my chin starts to contort into
the moon's scythe and sickle...
even if the night is overcast with beard,
or cloud...

- then i put on a record that's 20 years old...
deftones' white pony...
and i remember being a teen...
hungry for hormonal diet...
a diet to stop the bones from aching
as they grew extra sprouts:
adverse to the skin and photosynthesis...
bones that were expected to grow
entombed... not in flesh...

- sketches from the gasoline additive when
it comes to a beer, starter...
otherwise: elite... gonna breed on top
of the general... pucker up the tremor for a vibrato
kiss and leech her lips off...
to expose her most pristine:
todlächeln -
                           not a chelsea grin...
the joker lapse... i mean... extending the shaving
lines and just, completely, forgetting there's
any botox involved to grow a peach
from a duck of the reinvention of
the deflating balloon...

   leave no selfie without it...
                   herr grinsen: die / das / die / das...
i keep forgetting the definite plural and
the definite singular... feelz... feels...
maximum impromptu: das bösartigwimmern...
anything in german at this point...
sounds better than...
wenigbruder englisch...
                       dies, mein krawatte beste...
alle schwarz alle weiß:
      say to me... nein pinguine willkommen...

anything to keep these mosquitos these
zeppelins away... alt vater großartig Schwab
from this... herd of minor dicta
of the children of the house of ßaß...
translated nomad from the high pressure
***** basin of:
later, trajectory... later... the yawn and canyon...
and the sky above...

- beer first... whiskey after...
shrapnel... and gasoline... no car... no speeding...
fast but otherwise still walking...

            - a hurrah and the cohort of a hum...
to match the echo of the centipede...
         the silence and otherwise the simplified
complications of a conversation...
the bed torn between *** and sleep...
between saturday sunday and monday through
to friday...
   and the need to drink with someone else...
"the need"...
          
the skulls breaks at the sight of sea-riddled-and-*****
cliffs... daggers persuaded to be forever sharpened...
the fiddly parts of ***** as accountants when
it came to the pennies, copper, and granules
of sand... seized: the rivers of time...
constipated shock value elevated...
                            
                                am i to find a lover when
the orchestra tells me...
these words will never find a dear sir / madam
or circle round for a yours sincerely...
                godzilla... the theme i remember from
the days when the japanese still had control over the beast...
otherwise... an overweight t-rex with...
arm extensions... the lotus feet of the chinese...
which also includes...
the savory diet of... tendering dog meat...
i.e. beating the dog to a plum softening...
which is: then again... not curing the already dead
curated meat...
life aware needs to be involved...
brick by brick brick on brick...
the status quo: made in china...

         cheap whiskey... although in an expensive bottle...
that is the haig club whiskey...
        so much for ezra pound admiring
the ******* ideograms...
what's to admire... when...
it ends up being a crude...
current latin emoji-infiltrated grafitti
equivalent to: CUL8R...
               chow-chuckle-mein-hong-shui-chew?
all that intricacy into the ideogram...
and all that remains is...
bat soup... and an advantage at playing
poker... omnivores...
you'd think that Islam would be...
more geared to break ranks among the omnivores...
like all the fickle gods... a good joke...
they abhor / are told to herd sheep
because: what sort of pig would survive the desert
and not become crispy bacon...
camels are fine too... as are their testicles...
never mind the pork leather shoes and pork
leather belts...
but the chinese omnivores are fine by
Allah: Muhammad & Co....

                               khadijah **** khuwaylid..
wrote the first surahs of the quran...
she was the literate:
the stephen vizinczey epitome:
                          in praise of older women...
last time i heard... muhammad was illiterate...
pray! that i've exhausted sympathy on
him being an orphan...
but not a ******* oliver twist thrown into
an orphanage! b'ooh h'oo...

                     the end... the whiskey isn't going
to drink itself;
as i have exhausted the patience of my bladder...
while there's the remaining concern
for a bewildering and a simultaneously
bewildered peacock... on the hunt for coy;
which is not exactly the darwinian daydream
of the short-hand greek alphabet...
the α-β male thermodynamic...
          the Σ-Δ female harem...
salmon swimming up-stream to spawn...
                             and... Ω-man / unicorn...
                     sha! schtil!
brandon nagley Jul 2015
What is a poet?
If he
Or she
Canst not spilleth their soul on a Papyrus?
Or speaketh their soul's poetry in words?
If one poet canst canst not speaketh their poetry in word's
Or write it down on some Papyrus,
Than that's control
And no poet
Ever wanted to be controlled!!!!
It's as if a prophet in the oldened day's
Whence man tried to control the prophets truth from being spoken
Take Moses as an example.
They tried to holdeth back his truth,
And the water's didst turneth into undrinkable blood....
Never control a poet's writing's
Or his souls word's!!!!


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesoms poets poetry
This isn't pointing to anyone, this goes for media anyone period so anyone saying this is for them not for you... Goes for all who wanna control our souls and our souls words and feelings and truth!!!
A B Perales Mar 2014
At times it all fails
to make any type
of worthy sense
at all.

Watch the talking heads
talk about false
events and never question
this reality.

The lies flow like
***** undrinkable
water out of a
rusty unusable pipe.

That turtle I seen on Alma
street wasn't a turtle at all.
It was a tire.

The mind finds ways to accept
these unbelievable truths.
Even when your soul curses
your decisions
and your heart cracks in
zig-zag patterns as
you ingest more
and exhale the soot
of your experience.

Scrape away all that remains
of yesterday in hopes
of creating a better
tomorrow.

Make your own path
past the
justly stricken suffering
souls who bought into the
lie and now dance among
the angry dogs.  
Plenty of riches blind
the fools,only
one true eye controls
them all.

Make the first move
in this
war they have waged
against our reality.
Hold true
to that questioning voice
inside your head and run
towards the front,
while screaming
questions about
it all.
Anais Vionet Feb 2023
I’m chilling and doing homework tonight. Leaning into it.

Last night one of our suitemates (Julia) turned 21 - she’s barable. Not that we get carded anywhere - I’ve never had trouble getting into clubs or ordering drinks - I mean never have I ever.

She had her birthday party at a place called Mory’s, in New Haven, which is very Yale themed. We ate dinner in the “captain’s room,” where every picture on the wall is a Yale team captain of some sort. They even have a whiffenpoof plaque. It’s so Yale-core it’s funny.

Have you ever heard of a drink called a “Singapore Sling?” Me neither, until last night. Then, somehow, there were undrinkable oceans of it. I had six of them, sitting at a bar and I felt nothing. Then I stood up and my bones seemed to liquify. Leong and Anna reeled me in.

I was hangin this morning though, I mean rocky-socks drunkover. My senses seemed sharper, my optical nerves dialed up all the way. The air seemed bright and I swear I could’ve heard the sun burning if people would’ve just stopped all that annoying breathing.

I had a biochemistry quiz at 9am and I can’t wait to see how I did. Later, at breakfast (I had a piece of toast), Peter felt free to offer his sensible, 26-year-old, bropinion. I said, “You’re so wise,” as I steel-eyed him, “I-guess-you-never.”

By the afternoon I was back on my toes. Almost every night my roommates and I sit around a low table in the common room of our suite, crossed legged, on cushions and do our homework. It’s less claustrophobic than sitting in our rooms alone and we usually have some music on, lowkey, in the background.
We’d just heard “Love Story,” by Taylor Swift.

“I like songs that make love sound easy.” I stated.
“Oh, because it IS easy,” Anna says sarcastically, “grab yourself a physicist and make a TikTok song.”

“Hey! I’ve got a beef with TikTok artists, I said. “At first, they release these stripped down, intimate, acoustic songs that feel personal, and then, if a song hits, they put out a new version that’s totally overproduced.”
“Right.” Leong agreed.  
“Oh, yeah,” Sophie said, putting her hair back out of her face with a comb, “and some artists' voices are suited to simple accompaniment and the newer versions just don’t hit as hard.”

“I think Phoebe Bridgers is an example of production done right.” Anna said. “Her material continues to sound intimate and stripped down even though it’s no longer just her and a guitar,”

“On Tiktok,” Lisa adds, “when a new song works, I feel a connection, like it could be me recording a song with my guitar - so, I support them.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” I updogged, “there’s a place for overproduction but sometimes the instruments don’t even sound real, like when they go all out electronic - then they lose me.”

“The big-music might drown-out the artistry we liked,” Anna opined, “but maybe that’s how they heard it, as songwriters, in their imagination, but they couldn’t afford it - the new version rectifies it.”
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge:Rectify: “correct something that’s wrong.”

Slang…
barable = drinking age
whiffenpoof = the most famous Yale choir
hangin = hungover
rocky-socks = really hungover
drunkover = still a little drunk but hungover
bropinion = when a guy gives you a "brotherly" opinion
I-guess-you-never = you're a f-ing hypocrite
updogg = supply a comment to an ongoing dialog
Olivia Kent Dec 2014
Youth is fading.
Like a flickering candle, manipulated by the breeze of summers lick.
Inside the self not long ago.

Ageing was unthinkable,undrinkable.

Today,

Stiff joints,
muscles buzz,
stretched in wretched torment.
Knees red as blazing rugby *****.

Broken hips as crushed up glass, cheap market glass.

My greatest wish would be.

To wrestle with the beast of age,
Half Nelson?
Smash it neatly out of the way.

A role reversal of all powerful father time.

Oh well,
We can dream.
At least I can still drink it up.
Use of the pleasure.
This sweet thing called life.
(C) Livvi
Woke up the last few days with achy legs and a very swollen left knee, hence this write x
Jenny Dec 2014
A wiser woman taught me over coffee
to live above
whatever this world gives me.
The best thing is
that it is not invisible
it is something we can see!
  
"I don't know"... she whispered kindly
..."about you, but I am a visual learner."
So, then she held her hands flat downward
hovering close above the table.
Our coffee mugs rested full,
cold and by now, undrinkable.

"See"... she told me gently,
"this is what is happening to us down here..
do you know...
that moment where your feelings take over
and threaten to control you,
as it happens to all of us
and we can also do to others?"

Then she raised her hands up over her head
as high as she was capable
still facing downward
high above our table.

Now saying joyfully,
"Up here, this is where God sees all of our lives"...

At that I took a sip
and into cool liquid I took a dive.
I shiver, sigh and think
now i'll have to spend another five!

Then she continued...her hands still raised up high,
"this is where I try
to go to live
to see , what's happening...to you and me,  
when I can't see anything clearly
I go to see what God...
you know... how He sees all of us
and loves us all completely...
you just can't imagine the peace that this brings me."

Suddenly I stopped thinking about my cold cold coffee
because it began to taste
so so much sweeter to me...

For this truth, I could now see
was so right, even in the cool cup I was drinking.
For this wise woman who taught me
how to love everyone and everything....
even cold coffee...
she forever changed where I was living.
Robi Banerjee Jan 2014
A tattered flag dances on a rusty pole,
having forgotten what color it once bore.
It has forgotten that it is a flag,
and what flags are even for.
Was it a bed sheet caught by bad luck,
or a symbol of hubris since humbled?
None can tell, the reports say,
there are none left.

The rag flutters at full mast, saluting the death
of civil servants muttering below their breath.
Everyone's dead! scream the rotting newspapers
behind the cracked glass of their rusted dispensers.

This is a planet suffocated by an idiot race
that left a running car indoors,
stayed for tea, lazed and slept,
multiplied and made merry,
then burned the bodies to hide
their monumental stupidity.
Easier to remember faces than dig holes,
and if you can fit thirty five heads
into a two body boot,
just imagine what you can do
with a billion unused cars.

It looks like they built and they built
until there was simply no more room,
and they ate and lived and fathered
and sang and thought and wrote,
made love, war and many a treasure,
and used and churned and measured
and grew and burned and murdered
until there were no more brides or grooms,
just the long prophesied doom.
There are no more funerals,
no fun in this immortal ******
that is half clay, half undrinkable,
there are none left to sing elegies,
every ending should have eulogies
so silently final.

Under layers of dust and ash,
under this meaningless, floating rag
and beside the splintered corpses of trees leafless like discarded matchsticks,
every poem is posthumously ghost-written and never read,
the bricks have crumbled into desiccated bread,
but bone persists through the ages.
As seen on Apostatements (apostating.wordpress.com)
Traveler Nov 2018
(USA)
Change is a coming
And it don't look good
Flooding , hurricanes
Burning neighborhoods

Ice melting
And flowing this way
They're seeding the clouds
With vapors and rays

The water is undrinkable
Where I grew up
I'm quite sure
Our government
Is quite corrupt
The people of Flint
Are standing in lines
For hours and hours at times
To get clean water
Cause there's lead
And death
In the city water lines

Imagine that
Right here in the U.S.
A third world design
.....
Traveler Tim
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yJ_jA0KK5B8
AJ Jul 2017
Take your ship out to sea
and bring laurels blessed with holly
on this journey to unearth treasure troves 
hidden in the gossamer waves

Let your flag sail high in wind
and crane your neck high
among floods that rage
in endless sickness and fledgling health

Chests of gems and gilded bands
await at the edge
miles numbering thousands
unfettered to all but time

Rally your spirits and hang them by the sails 
so passing shipmen may see
the bones upon this watery hull
and chant for boundless Someday

Storms await and creep like snakes
through flumes of silver clouds
the tears they wring rocks the fleet
and dyes dry skin vermilion

Famine prays to fish for food 
while brine coats the shattered deck
parched crewmen beg to die in sandy oases 
surrounded by undrinkable water 

Promises and tears the only drinks
now pain tattooed to flesh
gold glows neither in caves
nor does it shimmer in light

However many years pass as eternities
brighter dreams mark crystal soils
and platinum trees plump with diamond fruit
float atop the promised land

Though the ship has weathered shattered frame
and dried blood lines your chest
the anchor dives through watery shore 
and cries through salt land ** 

Sands crunch loud underfoot
like God's soft muse skies hum 
no treasure lies here but an ashen tree
and the whispering wind begins to cry

my fortunate babe, you've arrived
I'd like to think this poem is about the struggles of aspirations. The floundering steps toward unreachable goals gilded by our flawed expectations. We are like shipmen, floating perpetually toward a distance that may never come, losing much along the way in pursuit of an ideal future. But often, reality is something else entirely. It is up to you to decide what this reality means, and whether or not it is worth the price.
Brandon Fox Jan 2017
The trees
used to sing with the wind
before He got here.

The salty ocean water
would gently shush us
all to sleep.
Now that He’s here
ships are sinking like
our dreams:
immediately.

Ever since He arrived
Candles no longer light the way,
They burn bridges
and build unimaginable walls
in their wake.

Plutonium
is no longer
radioactive.
Radioactivity
is relative.
Everything now glows a
sickly hue,
brought on
by His discolored
rotting views.

Air Earth Water Fire Aether

The eternal marriage
of Air
and the Earth
has faltered
under the guise of
conversion
“therapy”

Water has now
made itself undrinkable to all
but the chosen few.

Fire is now
Only Orange.

The Aether
is no longer empty.
It is filled
with all our memories.
It is the only place
for all of our bodies to go
now that we’re bound for soot,
inhabitable soil
and eternal
nuclear snow.

Air Earth Water Fire Aether

are now

GreatAgainGreatAgainGreatAgainGreatAgainGreatAgain

There are lots of avenues
through history
to travel down “again.”

Many views of former greatness.

Slavery
Holocausts
Massacres
Cities Lost

and it all starts

with an immigration ban.

Signed on the day
remembering
my dozens of dead family.
My millions slaughtered endlessly.

Here we are
At the beginning.

History supposedly repeats itself

Let’s not let Him
JB Claywell Jul 2017
to drink from
the river of
kindness that
flows all around
us is the goal.

to do the same from
the incoming tides
of hate is unthinkable,

undrinkable.


to have lost all
threads of faith
in: ‘We The People’,

but to have a circle
of friends to envelope
with love and compassion,

allows one to regain a
measure of faith in: ‘We, the people.’

there is a division.


it need not be black or white,
rich or poor,
left or right.

it need not be the elephant
or the ***.

there is only humanity.

(kind or unkind.)

unkind people can be
shown kindness.

Ignorance is easy.
Hate is hard.

we will not overcome.

(we’re too selfish.)

we certainly will not overthrow.

(we’re too soft for revolution.)


really, the only way that this gets better
is with pockets of ‘We, the people.’

you, and you, and you, and you.

(and me too!)

doing the best they can
with what they have
where they are.

trust that a little
kindness can go really,
really far.


*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications
james nordlund May 2018
Their Trumpler wags his finger, pounds his chest, does abhor and detest, yet,
Unlike the rest, I refuse to protest the pomposity of his demeanor, regress.
For, as I wrote three decades ago, they think with spooned nose, speak with
forked tongue, yet, '...we(e),...', will not be undone, only if you still will.
A nation's youth sacrificed to the dogs of war, and it's keep, plundered deep,
can give no more to ravenous avarice ******, the global oligarchy, seated,
then entrenched in our Gov't's executive branch, dismissing all who won't cower.
In 2016 you couldn't throw a rock without hitting a revolutionary or radical,
because 'Hillary wasn't pure, perfect', their excuse for helping install Trumpler
in the Kluckahouse, now where's their sound and fury, their installed feurher
states, African countries are 'shitholes', now, immigrants are 'animals',
our nations heroes 'aren't', ad infinitum, where's the 'Bernie or Bust 'Bots'
'revolution', declared in the beginning of 2016 by him, now. The dinos, sinos,
linos, ginos ainos declare their allegiance to the illusion of non-violence,
steadfastly, as it's evidently better than the delusion of violence, while their
invisible coup's installing the king kong sized terrible two as emperor, along
with the FBI, NSA, CIA, NSC, Assange, wikileaks, hackers globally, remocrat
Conspiracy, immoral minority, Putin's puppets All, is the most violent event
purposely unprevented since the levees in NOLA were let fail, the unnecessary
unending war in Iraq started, and king george and his ****, cheney purposely
didn't prevent the attacks on 9-11-01, with the republican conspiracy elite.
Cloven covens of their actual religion of materialism, which they all practice
behind masks of 'used' religions, worldviews, spiritualities, clustering in
their conclaves, meet, with unremarkable tidings, the time is neigh for all
to die from climate change, decimated environs, undrinkable water, unedible
food, unbreathable air, unarable land, their 'final solution', ending humanity,
is at hand. Still, the machinations of our technocracy's machinings of human
beings, succeed in their device's designs, bring us ever closer to their
extreme narcissism's lack of way, nihilism, their lifeless choices, hedonism,
and their self-possessed, la machine's, language of 0's and 1's, always tolling
for their bottom lines needs, exigency replacing humanity per force of self-
programming, tragically, no? Does the fiber of your being, the sinew of it's
meaning shout, as to forever echo on, no? Whilst words, symbols, also being
paths of study, can't lead to self-emancipation, for the intellect can't lead,
as the life does not follow, if one allows questions to be, until answers evolve,
they can inform perception's growth, to signs and meanings along the way, uplift
vision. The corporate structure's convolution, and it's devolutionary direction,
proffer otherwise. As his heart's being ripped from the heart in the heart
of the heartland, in his mind's eye, she still stands, hair as if ablazed by
the truest wind that e'r blowed, her hand ever unwavers, raised, with it's torch
yet unschorched, it's light still a beacon of hope and the liberty that birthed
it, to all entering our NY's harbor, if death needs be proud, then let it be, now.
As vernal, the melodies of nature evolve us, let's not forget, urgently separating
the real religion which all religions, etc., are a front for, avarice, from the
State, as dictated by our Constitution, must be done, if not humanity's extinction
will result, and almost all until then was just the premeditated mass-****** of
7 billion in ever more various and myriad forms. Viva la evolution.   reality
(Written while watching Loreena McKennitt's ineffable 'Nights from the Alhambra',
(for her "...it means mystery, eternity, and represents the human spirit") on
Netflix.  Especially apt, due to Pruitt's criminally insane administration of the
EPA, her ethereal, ephemeral, while Earthen, song, 'Bonny Portmore', imho. reality)


("To walk in seasons is to question, A flower is opening", Basho.  
"Let questions be questions, answers will come", Martha Graham.)
winter sakuras Jun 2019
I used to think it'd be nice
if people could brew their characters
and personalities to filter out
their destructive traits and twisted perceptions
derived from the challenges
that the world has ****** at them
to distinguish what kind of individuals they have become,

as if they had been freshly brewed
pitchers of dark roast coffee
that somewhere along the way,
got coffee beans jammed in the grinder,
generating grainy, polluted, dark, undrinkable water
so then they take a clean, white paper filter
and pour their mixture of grains
and water through it
in the hopes of salvaging some lush coffee
while removing clumps of impurities,

but life isn't a coffee maker that can easily be fixed
and me and you aren't just cups of coffee
that went wrong;
it is by nature that we will not make it through
the world unscathed and unashamed,
and we have not yet found the purpose to our lives,

every single time we go through the filter
and somehow end up with a trail of trash
following us to the other side,
it's not our fault; we didn't break any laws
and besides, every single person we visit
has a trail of crushed, damp, coffee grains
outlining their homes,
trailing behind them like their own shadows,
even spilling out from their clenched hands
and tightened mouths,

but every single time I ask if I can taste you
despite all the dark grainy beans polluting
your freshly brewed coffee,
you still taste so rich and savory
while burning the back of my throat
with your smiles, motions, and words,

and as time continues to flow,
I find it gets easier to sweep up
the crushed grains and pile them on the side
as I continue to savor you,

and the rest of the people in the world
and their polluted, grainy, luscious coffee.
In the past, I used to wish I could only experience the good aspects of people, while filtering out their bad traits and characteristics.

Now, somewhere along the way, I've realized that being able to appreciate people for who they are, despite their flaws and misconceptions, is a part of growing up and expanding my role in the lives of everyone I get to associate with.

We're all just products of the world and the environment of our surroundings, so we might as well accept that we'll all be flawed in some way or the other. However, we can still choose whether or not we let the flaws of others affect ourselves personally.

06/12/19
L Oct 2019
With every word, with every misguidance
This sharp, unbearable thing that digs into the center of me.

This sweetness that I salt ‘till it is nothing but undrinkable sea water.

This love wrapped in the ribbons of Death; almighty Death-

The end of human connection.
Krison Mar 2019
The beach is draped with moonlight,
and the horizon is of dance.

The ocean is the mirror,
that supposes trance at glance.

So on its glassy surface
are boats that chance the time.
To let us spend the meter
with it's bounty so sublime.

Through a wake to carry on
the wave that snares and tears.

Over, and about the hull that might  
to crest it's ****** deck.
Yet in course with shore insight
with overflowing stores.


But, to capsize, waiver,
with the cracking of a linking.

And down into the tempest,
and now the shallow sinking.

It's hull was made to ride the waves
it's hull's now of the drinking.
Of the ocean numerous
and waves unfathomable.

This water so undrinkable
that crests above the bow.
Is the shock of all aboard
That dared to weather through.

The vast expansion of the earth.
Immense but measurable.

So to all a salty dog
who might drown fathoms full.
We're to see it then at late.
The haste alarm so cruel.

Then might awake, the many dead,
and think there follies through.
For inky is there just reward,
and forgiveness given few.

This there sentence sacrosanct,
and of what they dare to do.

Is the nothing of the definite,
while in congress of the blue.
This was somewhat inspired by Lawrence Sargent Hall's, The Ledge.
MissBah Jul 2023
The soil is removed, and replaced
With concrete.
The trees are removed, and sold
In decent
The air is polluted, and the
ozone is thin
Under construction, men at work
When will it end?
The waters are undrinkable,
and the flowers now thirst
The Earth cries out as
the constructions gets worst
Earth is under unending
construction by man,
It is Jah who will repair
And give us a Paradise
Land
kfaye Nov 2019
Your name is a desert flower
Handed out to me
In the readying dusk.
The canyon walls
Pass a soft light back and forth like Rumors  

Nourishing  no lost soldiers in this valley .

In breaking several fat leaves from the stalk,
I expose cross-sections tapped for undrinkable  fluids


It is spoken again.
And justly.

My wool sleeves push dry against the earth.
Padding me.

The smoothed edges peel back for flesh
The torn finger hangs from the skin like dumbed ornament
Wagging falsely
Unwilling to begin the slow decay now promised .


Give me time.
Time.
I will ferment a new thing to drink you
And be domesticated [ by the sea ]
Andrew Duggan Oct 2017
Raining in Taiyuan
A kind of rapture
Waiting to rise into the sky
Her only dream was menacing fanaticism of love
A constant companion
Like tinnitus of the night
Always singing, a constant companion

Crawling in search of understanding
She died long ago
Remnants of herself
And torrents of whispers
Weight of loss, weight of guilt
A vacuum of memories
Draining into the city sewer.

So much left undone
No voice to shout now
The girl you used to know
Walking by the Fen River
Bodies lie in the undrinkable water
Disputing the time of the event.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2021
rearranging a rubber- band on my right
hand for "something" that
comes close to a golf handicap...
this "something" is actually more
tangible, though...
to... make the sensation of
sinew more prominent - like an exoskeleton
variety of a visible: contradictory sinew
that does the opposite of
what's already in place: by restraint...
- i hate golf...
i also hate typing-slow....
when you can't type without having
to look down at the keyboard...
why? it's basically underappreciating
the genius of the man
behind: qwerty... christopher latham sholes...
to me? herr c. l. s.
is leagues above the person who
eroded our brains with...
the alphabet...
why wouldn't you put all the vowels
first... and the consonants later?
maybe the alphabet learning should be
rearranged toward
the sequence:
q w e r t y
or...
   q a z
      w s x
          e d c
the rearranging of the sign of the cross
done by catholics... left to right...
otherwise the orthodoxy of right to left...
but why still bother
with the standard alphabetical...
as long as you remember / use... all the letters...
you stack up 26... what's so terribly
important about x y z...
   e f g... h i j...
         k- l, m, n, o p...
let me sit here... an fester on a wound...
let me keep rancid chicken meat
in my fridge long enough...
can you ever begin to fathom the perfumery of:
how meat can give off whiffs of
rancidity?
it's so specific... it's unlike... what national
treasure... dame Judy Dench said...
in chocolate (show-lo'ca)...
ooh... your cinnamon is rancid...
it's chilly powder...
         rancid meat: esp. chicken...
it has an almost acidic whiff about it...
i can still see the doctor... crow pecking at the keyboard...
armed with only two index fingers...
while here i am... utilizing almost all of mine...
sure... the space button
to catch a reel newspaper style "paragraphing":
columns... rubrics... sudoku being done
my "tired" bones of pinky ownership...
- such that each time i take a bicycle
from havering-atte-bower...
into the grid...
of... Loon'dune...
  who's who when having asked for Lee's...
Da'Un!
           the apostrophe cipher...
an intra-verbum pause...
    otherwise? down...
at best English is written as an approximation...
Fwench is worse...
that much can be said...
they leave their letters at the altars
of Moloch before this grand **** of
infanticide... Guld'An: not Gul'Dan...
if i had eyes worth of ice...
and a heart that throbbed wit
guilt... my eyes would not be the colour
of jade to begin with...
while my heart would not be...
the project of one man...
i desire to steal st. paul's cathedral...
i will not be able
to stick a river into the Thames to turn its...
by way... a river with a tide?
where is the cut-off point
between river water and the sort of water
that makes it... undrinkable?
before the salt settles the last hurrah?
if it weren't chicken scratches that might make
a summary of the solo project of scribble with
the one hand... a handwritten river
as hard to decipher as mandarin hieroglyphs
at times...
spawning an trans-generational
itch for ulterior usage of chop-sticks:
mostly used in the pit of the abacus...
you don't have to be prescribed
the alphabet...
you unfathomable you: you don't...
i see someone, able as i am: to use the arrangement
of two hands before a keyboard...
without looking down...
as a tier above the need to arrange
an alphabet like it might imply:
historical significance?
after a while... that sooner than later
disappears...
the alphabet is lost... when having to arrange
words...
what is the point of keeping the need
for the alphabet... my hands are my eyes...
when i sit down to type...
looking at braille might seem more
important by now...
i don't need the alphabet...
well... i might need it...
but learning it is obsolete...
            unless invested in via: vowels first...
consonants later...
vowels? ** in the realm of d.n.a...
      consonants? XY... ergo?
           vowels are female...
consonants are male...
             no one bothers these days... with these
stalemate concepts of pedagogy...
what philosophy isn't... pedagogy ought to be...
and what is philosophy?
freely available inquiry for those who
want to ingest it...
pedagogy is prescribed learning...
whereas philosophy is without a curriculum...
what is pedagogy? it's primarily: curriculum!

people most close to me once, upon,
a time... hoped... that i might succumb to
becoming a teacher...
i have a Leibniz-complex...
i'd sooner be a ******* road-sweeper than
custard my brain into a role
of overt-demands of responsibility...
******* mother-goose tribunal weighing
on my shoulders... no!
but i like the idea of detailing minor...
revisions...

the alphabet "concern"? using an anecdote...
in a car, with a friend... listening to his father
scold him for not remembering the alphabet...
so not remembering the alphabet is worse
than... not remembering the spelling of: remember?
the alphabet is beside the "hands that see"
argument of qwerty...
there is no "logical" argument for it...
to lodge A first... what about...
that curiosity exclamation marked and mark
and worded: huh? with a scratch of the head...

by the way... isn't the H sometimes
"ghosted" / i.e. surded?
in cockney it 'appens all the time...
i know i'll be robbed of something...
maybe this whole: this is the body of Christ...
i'll be cannibalised for the greater good...
maybe i'll end up with a *******
temple cult of "******" methuselah ladies on
the prowl...

and if i throw another tongue into
the equation: a latin scripted zunge...
will there be a need to throw all ambitions at
the ******* Mandarin like we're the second
coming of the mongolian golden horde?

London: loon-dim... or loon-dune...
i can expand the hell i like...
language is a dog... it obeys me:
i don't obey it... it's my ******* servant:
punctuation: girth of collar
and length of my leash!

i'm almost thankful that English... as a language...
is unlike all the other inheritors of ancient Latin...
you wouldn't see cappuccino anywhere in
neque enim tu es anima tantum,
sed anima corpus circumferens: corpus autem
non potest simul pluribus inesse locis...
Erasmus...

oh don't worry... if i bother... otherwise:
you'd think they'd prescribe us learning a feather's worth
of Latin while the "tide" receded...
back to the old ******* of nation,
tongue... giraffes... glaciers and graffiti...

while we're still rearranging alphabets,
while doctors peck blind at the keyboard...
write... sow: slow... index... primo!
because? cloud of a b c d e f, g...
  why put vowels so randomly arranged
within the confines of: primarily consonants...
it's not like a *******
schematic of 1 1 1 1 1 9 1 1 1
    9 9 9 9 9 9 1 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9
   vowels are... numbers are integers...
period...
    math like jurisprudence:
a ******* theausaurus game... word for word:
counter a word: hide a word... hey presto!
a "new" word...
oh, right... a vowel is an odd "number"...
a consonant: an... "even"... ahem... "number"...
since you can
cut up a S and get... E S or S (ee)
but when you cut up an A
you get... i... irrationality: "irrationality"...
diacritical markings... ą... oh that blessed
breath of things having automated odds-on ****...

breaking of bark...
timid squalor of meow...
all in disarray...
the politics of the sexes... of course:
tantamount...
there was a moon landing... haven't you heard?
this miraculous foresights of
post-subjectivity?

i scream on silent while you children
i given their hail mary / iron maiden
silent, treatment....
congested a best **** please....

i'm starting to get my "mojo" back...
perhaps my vocabulary to boot...
isn't enough... it's never enough...
the Leibniz-Complex is detailing
the afterthoughts of succumbing
to the status of: "librarian"...
or that one kind wonder of
a Portobello St. book on the broke...
hoarder of... "illicit" meteorogical oops
hey presto: there's a daisy.....

it's so much less presto when someone is
also a hey presto! who done it...
the cat takes 'ickles for its nap...
i bone, marrow and that's "fat"...

seagulls in essex?!
that the dead are reminder....
you remember me deaarest ol' ****...
i too tow a love for life....
it's no most importantly "you"... though...
A conceited restaurant

After the health clinic visit in Cascais
We had lunch at a restaurant nearby
Where the outdoor market is
It was overpriced and pretentious
The food, so and so.
Had a glass of wine it was undrinkable
Had a cold bottle of water instead.
There are many proper small restaurants
In Cascais, they appear not to be
Near the centre.
A few days ago, near the post office, we had
Splendid meal and it was reasonably priced
With not too many tables and people I have
fear of crowds this inane nattering about
Nothing, just meaningless noise.
Everything is a memory now
I hope it was worth it
We'll have to carry on somehow
Destroyed all for profit

The waters are undrinkable
Masks cover our brows
The air is unbreathable
Ashes fall from the clouds

Science tried to tell us
Warnings were clear and loud
Politicians wouldn't discuss
No dissension was allowed

They kept up deregulation
All the money made them proud
Releasing all the contagion
Now the sky is falling down

It's hard to have a keepsake
When poison seeps from the ground
They didn't try to keep us safe
From the pollution floating abound

It's so difficult to understand
Why they just ignored the crowd
Corporations polluted the land
Our leaders ignored the sound

Everything is a memory now
There's no turning back
We'll have to carry on somehow
This was a blatant attack

And now the sky is falling down

— The End —