Wish I could get a little undrunk
So I could uncall you
At 5 in the morning, I would unfuck you

Honestly, this party's over
Everyone here should've gone home
But I'm afraid of being sober
'Cause the first thing I do when I'm alone
I start touching myself to the photos
That you used to send me
I should've deleted, but kept it a secret
Is that crazy to do?

So I squeeze out the lime on the ice of My drink
And the juice hits the cuts on my fingers
It still doesn't burn as much as the thought of you

Wish I could get a little undrunk so I could uncall you
At 5 in the morning, I would unfuck you
But some things you can't undo
I wish I could unkiss the room full of strangers
So I could unspite you, unlose my temper
But somethings you can't undo
And one of them's you

I'm afraid to turn the lights on
I don't want to face this rebound
Is it weird if I come over?
I want to, but I know that she's around

So I'm touching myself to the photos
That you used to send me
I should have deleted, but kept it a secret
Is that crazy to do?

Oh, I'm hungry and wasted and my hands are shaking
I shouldn't be cooking but spilling hot water
It still doesn't burn as much as the thought of you

Wish I could get a little undrunk so I could uncall you
At 5 in the morning, I would unfuck you
But some things you can't undo
I wish I could unkiss the room full of strangers
So I could unspite you, unlose my temper
But somethings you can't undo
And one of them's you

Got through every emotion
Right now I'm sad, I'm broken
But the bottles in the floor
I'm to buzzed to clean them up
Wish I could get a little undrunk
So I could, I could unlove you

Wish I could get a little undrunk so I could uncall you
At 5 in the morning, I would unfuck you
But some things you can't undo
I wish I could unkiss the room full of strangers
So I could unspite you, unlose my temper
But somethings you can't undo
And one of them's

You
You, you
Wish I could unlove you
You, you, you
Wish I could uncall you
You, you, you
Wish I could unfuck you
You
Wish I could unlove you

I'll undress myself, undress all my coats,
undress all my fears, strip to my sheer.
I'll show you but will you want to see ?
what will your thoughts be to my naked, unadorned alive,
will you look around or will you hold your gaze,
as layer by layer i unfold myself,
strip myself down to my bare, undrunk skin,
will you still call me poetry as i take you on a tour of my anatomy,
will you explore all my fissures or stay gauging at the first shortfall,
will you understand the traces of my wounds,
the wounds not from battlefields but from gentle smudges of
unfinished love,
each covered with bandage, not healing just concealing,
trying to stop the pain from bleeding, covering my corpse in aches,
and so i keep my gaurd up, no strolling on passion boulevards,
for torment and agony were never printed on invitation cards,
but when the time comes and you compel me to,
i'll let my inner demons out for you,
and as i strip down to my sheer,
i wonder, will you peer or look away,
will your thoughts run astray,
will you love the bone and flesh just as much as,
you loved the carapace.

Now a flowing air wise signs on waters streaming,
pouring forth from the pitcher of wisdom anew,
ever full undrunk,instinctive of human absolutes all.
Gods,men,minds all uranian battling calm,now futile,
But knowing,caring, grasping,fathoming, conquering
tidings evil of powered souls unholy,uncaring deliberate.
Searing lightning flashes of intellects just,truly intuitive
burning stiff coffined conventions,dry dead rules of yore
melting old cold solid knowledge cruel of Draco obsolete
to humane rivers gently righteous, of merciful hearts
ripping away ways human sordid and corroded deep
repaving with light golden love those roads to hearts.
is it enough I wonder, have we become naturalized?

will you tell me of the hues that drip and bleed onto your canvas—
the streaks
the smudges
the smears.
are they the ones flowing through your veins
twisting—turning
to reach that place I long to call home?
or maybe the ones residing in your eyes
flickering—hiding
behind the mask you too willingly wear?
will you
show me the color of dawn
when darkness sheds its skin and kisses goodbye.
the amethyst seas
where sirens beckon from the deep.
the color of blood
when it meets oxygen’s lips.
the strokes of rain against the window pane
where you spent your autumn afternoons.
the cups of undrunk tea
that your mother left sitting on the kitchen table.
will you
show me the hues of your paint-stained hands
that I have yet to hold
so maybe—just maybe—
I too can see the colors you see.

ć                        ch



cz                       č

   and how language is the most
volatile substance known
        to man -
as if constructed solely from alkali
metals -
                                              Li    Na    K     Rb
              Cs                    Fr -
concerning the italicised: or how
to spot the odd one out -
as is peculiar to all diacritics
                               *č = ch = cz -
whereas the Germanic offshoot that's
English applies the aesthetic of
chisel and chatter,
      the Slavic offshoots that are
represented above (Czech former,
Polski latter) use the caron and
equivalent of cheap as czapka (hat)
kowbojska (cowboy's) -
                          but you still have
to remember the exact encoding of
Czech -
               to be in check -
                   and play these alphabetical
chequers -
                   with due queue - or by simply
demanding your cue in the demographic
splintering apart.
                    as with English
the many variations to encode,
                as with
papa German and mama French (1066)
        or what was ******* Celtic:
Sel-tick         in Glasgow and K elsewhere
             namely Celt -
as if looking at a moth (ćma) -
                  which is unlike the waiting time
(czas czekania) embedded in winter
               in anticipation of spring's floral
rainbows - it's stressed differently -
   unique, as this diacritical approach
of acute on consonants is more
pronounced
   and modifies the sound much
differently than in, say
       grave abbreviation in française (s) /
                                                  françé -
or not finishing the hélèn(e)
   even further (h)élèn(e)
   ‎À l'immortalité - (to immortality, also
                                optional) -
of course: much frowned upon:
        with much gusto and a hand gesture
of a thumb tucked into a partially folded
hand: esthétique! but alas no θ in
       that too;
     but it's almost as if no one wrote an
instruction manual for Englishª (the
possessive self of language without any
human representation, or a language abandoned
    in light akin to a dodo extinction
  and then picked up by travellers from
a distance)
                                     ªunending variations.
   as already said, acute above consonants
is more pronounced than on vowels -
              e.g.    ó = u           and unending
are the lessons in orthography in Poland -
     unending, like writing lines in detention:
because so-and-so said that his was
the more beautiful a spelling.
                 czar (spell) of the charred tsar -
the closest way to provide how a close
relation of equally said ćma  -
                            as one man said
in the 17th century in Düsseldorf:
         i doth not travel very far from it.
ah, the archaic passable and unreturnable.
           i'll be honest though (vou)
               writing poetry sober
is so unrewarding, unremitting,
         much ado about e. e. cummings
in feel and as much ado likened
    to Goethe -
                 absolute undrunk not only
in the pure sense, but in how language can
also intoxicate -
              sober composition
is the opposite of alkali metals' nature -
all in all: absolutely no impression of a
haunting sense of urgency -
             too Apollonian - too rigid,
  very American even - grids, straight lines
no roundabouts or windy roads akin to
     Europe: winding, grizzly, feral -
                   perhaps even Aussie dingo;
even if it's good... i'm not feeling it.

As the winterly ice case bubbles
untrace the tracks on cobbled streets
at the visible foot prints of ecstacy
unleash the angelic coded chords

Let's lay under the moon haunted rays
diving with whisks of shiny anticipation
on the icy silky sheets, shaking the undrunk
inside the claused trays of the eyed desires

See the moonlight on our unlost chins
unafraid of the highs and the lows
above the rocketed skylight highlights
sailing deep in the caves of unclouded holy vice

Sweep your breath on my satin satiable lips
as your saliva washes the sins of the sun tilts
to lure and uncover the sainted desires of within
on the layered victory of the unconquered stars

The mystery is not so much the
deed Tom but why.  

Of course the karma of
my acquaintance celebrated the
dedication with which I floored
the pedal over the years.

No I didn't leave an opportunity
unvisited, a door unopened, a cup of coffee undrunk,
or a walk down the evening hours
to the music of possibilities
unsung.  I learned to rub the
consequences into my benefit
and gave my response to the

night air.

I lie prone now reading on the
living room couch and ponder
the times.  An unseen vessel
pilots me from behind.  Hope is
when I sail her into the

long sought after meridian,

when the time
for poetry is over
and in the
afternoon I find your

conversation

waiting


Caroline Shank
3.1.2023

The neon vests are huddled
against the white sleek of the van,
crowing cigarette gossips
as they warm up the machine.

The asphalt is plowed away,
churned and melted, black butter
of the earth, pecked to hell
by rapid, merciless steel beaks.

The foreman's memento mori:
tobacco's body returns itself to ash,
a smoked soul rises toward my window,
gray crown cooling and fading.

They strip the street.
Denuded, a dirt stripe stretches
into a water cradle.
They pour tar into a slick shape,

it gleams thousandfold,
accusing insect oil eyes.
Paths can be taken away, remade:
crooked roads straightened.

Two years of grief distilled
in gulped gallons: undone,
undrunk, sweated out
on the cork yoga mat.

New things are placed
beneath the surface,
filling the cavities.
New skin is pressed.

The orange vests disperse
into the rings of evening.
I sit and wait in the new dark:
someone is coming for me, and soon.

She looks good
blue hat
green glasses
pink headphones
red galoshes

almost as if she's splashing
her
colours over the contours of
this carriage.

There's a smell of yesterday
and its undrunk alcohol
waging war through the air

she looks as if looks didn't care
but looks anyway
at medallion man who looks to me
like Mr T.

score one for the A team.

Thursday
wore away a little more.

I'm still here though
pushing on through
the day of work is done
and I am heading home
which is
the right thing for me to do.

The Chinese man
wearing ****
way to go!

Shanghaied.

Somewhere
stars collide
planets are torn
reborn
to be torn into
a
dawn out of dust

and I just
had to put that in
even though it's not
a part of this poem

It was lost where I found it.

Our epilogue is a grey sky
beneath it are the small plants I care for and bring to bloom
lavender, vervain, rosemary--especially
that anchor me to your memory.

You knew it meant remembrance
How the lathe of time reshapes, shaves
mud from my eyes
on the small abrasive moments
the little thrip-like wounds we never meant to inflict
and how they siphoned the spirit from us.

In the throes of want
I was hungry for more than arms--
there were times I could almost taste your soul
but even on the doorstep
when I caught the key from around your neck
it would never fit into the rusted lock,
despite all your honeyed words.

I have known men with varicolored souls
with wounded souls
with starving souls,
yours-- silver, mausoleum still
a ****** eating snow
to hide any sign of life.

Loving you, coaxing a stag to drink
holding water in my hands until
it seeped from my fingers into the earth, undrunk--
At my feet grew anemone and yew
living things
that do not have a soul
that want only what I can give
and never
promise
more.

Sunshine rises
Rose
with a pounding
Eraser

Emptied --
Stilled by
cooking bourbon in tall glasses,
Emptied again.

She, however, almost
Falling off her
Chiseled bottom,
Sprang up and said
Oh, but a drink
Left undrunk
Is impolite

A wry wink
A dry hazard
To guess

One can never
Better too much
Courtesy