"weeknight" poems
devil time
and Pyrex pipe
whatever will you find
so late on a weeknight
that is not found
every other night of every other week
Pyrex pipe
and devil time
margaritas, marijuana,
everything i need
and eye drops in the morning
my favorite gypsy
first cut
early take
quit while you're ahead
but you never do
that hammond *****
really shining something through
my favorite gypsy
don't get too friendly
but you never do
Pyrex pipe
and devil time
i was just a star
i meant for you to name
nothing more than that
you were just the devil
if the devil's name was music
and he still stayed up late
writing songs for everyone
takes all kinds
to give power to the name
Pyrex pipe
and devil time
my favorite gypsy
stays up all night
devil's got a lot of songs to write
that hammond *****
really shining something through
if you could hear it as clearly as i do
but you never do
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 1:07 AM UTC
So I scuttled up, until I found a voice like Japan, I read him his rights, turned out the lights, and laid right back on the sand. They said, "Sir, he was much of a father to me, but we were labeled his kin, right in our family tree." "Oh wow", I said, with a gentle, smooth voice, he went missing last August, but now he wants back you boys?" "Oh yes, he sure is a feral man. We think that's why he dried up and flew to Japan." Right then, the two of them went silent just like two second story men, so I inquired, "What happened then?" "From Monday thru Sunday he took to prayer from the bible, and on every other weeknight he watched Japan's Top Model. He threw gallant parties to a harem of wives, he read each of their palms, and looked in their eyes; some time later, when everyone was about to leave, he'd turn on Happy End and start a wild **** By this time I was tired, the sun began to set, I grew tired of my beach patch and yearned for my bed. Although soporific, I tried to be polite, I said, "Let's finish this conversation some other time." "Of course!", they said, "We're off to bed. We'll see that you'll do the same." Then they stood up quick, and reached down and picked up my chains. The beach we laid on was black top, asphalt and tar, the bed I craved was behind a row of private bars. The two of them, them both, were children of mine, because my memory is shot, this might've been their millionth time. i got locked up in a county that's dry as a beach, like Elizabethtown, Kentucky, where I was raised till 13. No one, not even the warden, knows really why I'm here, even some man from Cell Block Five, asked me last Sunday, why was I here. My beach perhaps, it's love at last, concrete, gravel, and stone- a 6' x 10' room with bars and a porcelain throne. It's mine I cry, each night I die, with glee, with smile, with rite. But it makes the other guys run at me, and try to start random fights. I don't remember the boat I took, but I remember the tour, going to Japan at Epcot Center since I'd never gone before.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 3:30 AM UTC
I collapsed the seats of my Rav4
You watched my *** the whole time
And saw an opportunity
As I bent over between the front seats
One, two, then three fingers
While fumbling to turn off the hazards
Biting a seat to keep quiet
Accidentally turned the music back on
"Stay In My Memory" by Bim
The song from Him
**** him, I'll **** you instead
The hazards were off
The music still on
Your fingers making my body quake
From the inside
Twice
Strong enough to throw me around
Like I was someone cuter and smaller
And put me on my back
With a hand around my throat
Kissing at me like a dog
Making me submit like a *****
Three, four, five
"On your knees"
And you threw me there, too
Six
Around we spun
Getting rug burn
Lost count of the quakes
They started to blend
With the aftershocks
"Are marks okay?"
And then you left one
A hickey on a weeknight
And a Monday, no less
Next time, we need a bed
Rug burn is a *****
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 11:53 AM UTC
the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
huddling over a stranger's phone in the streetlamp glare
your skeletal fingers slow and stained with nicotine
pupils shrunken
deer in the headlights
what do you need
the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
plucking pills from carpet fibers
scraping your hands through the couch cushions
snatching my allowance from beneath my mattress
prince of thieves
what do you need
the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
smiling for the kodak
cooing sonatas against her cold pretty ear
nervous fingers tying the corsage
casanova
what do you need
the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
peeking out behind worn fort walls
sketching monsters over saturday morning cartoons
fishing pole in hand
sweet thing
what do you need
the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
rewind the tape
first tottering steps
gummy smile
child of love
what do you need
the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can hear you
hello
yes
what do you need
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 5:48 PM UTC
They say only in infinity
do two parallels meet,
but in this house at 6 pm
every weeknight when we eat
the finite get a touch of love
as food is more than just prepared,
when you cook it with the thought of us
it’s more than taste that shows you care.
Through acts alone you give us life
beyond what’s seen upon the surface,
despite the cause of any strife
you give us all a purpose.
Forever to you we owe a debt
to be paid in love and life beget.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
this society of ours is so gargantuan,
policed by the daylight we hold at night for ransom,
Like a Jesus or a black Aphrodites,
I'll be your daddy if you let me call you my mommy,
give me your milk, the nectar that forms at your eyelids
We can go out in public on a weeknight Ireland,
I won't drink, but I'll wrestle every penny you
throw into each fountain, unless each wish
you make puts us together in California. At 55º it's as
cold as it seems your heart is, you whisper the omissions
of lies over mute. Every silver trinket on this charmers'
bracelet abused. Be the freeway and I'll be the car, drive around my circles, and we can drive the map of the Hollywood Stars. This circus- paddy-wagon, sewer stardom, I've always been the over-roasted beans from your local Starbucks. I grew up to grow up, I got up to throw up, I sought you to show up, and give you this leigh garland. Egyptian or pitiful, critical mister 'are not.' My words were worthless and wounded by such ardor of this perfervid martyr. Enveloped by threading the eye of this tempestuous hourglass, just another sign of being extremely intolerable to the minutia, the worried, and nervous curse of being so human and the fear of being, quite heart broke.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 1:34 AM UTC
I wanted to die
This house This place I can't
Tried to drown it smother suffocate deprive ******* life-force
I felt feel I belong to some Otherplace
I still feel; weeknight dim-dark
Streetlamps cities and my eyes swole shut a silly haze
No sugar or milk please thank you and could you
The owls sound off—or owl they all sound the same don't they
One too many passersby
Screams far away terrible
Wait for prescribed calm to take hold
Crows are not like owls are not like vultures
No thing is like any other thing
This I've come to sense
I can't shake this pain from my belly
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
I miss:
Daytime drinking and
Lazy mornings and
Student loans and
Living with friends and
Lecture theatres and
Essay deadlines and
Empty weekends and
Fancy dress and
Coffee on campus and
Weeknight clubbing and
Petty arguments and
Academic writing and
Walking into town and
****** TV and
A queue for the shower and
Un-ironed clothes and
Library fines and
Simpler times.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 4:21 PM UTC
I held your hands when you were very very angry
I've been lost, stolen, and have felt weeknight pity
My cure for loneliness was a waste of energy
My life is a sentence constantly being rewritten
My life is a black line erased with a frequent recurrence
Fire to dust with your cold and new blandishments
I said "Fun can turn over when sober very quickly"
Open your mouth to my wine, and somehow take it away
Your words have become more and more filthy
I just want you to stay with me, don't you want to?
Its hard not to know how your days begins
When you're lying next to someone new
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 1:59 PM UTC
You don’t know this
But I sat at the top of the stairs
Listening to you and your brother
Chatter on about school
And play
Making noises
Just to make each other giggle
Two boys in a room
Not a spectacular sight
But listen
Listen and you’ll see
Simplistic moments like these
Are what we live for
To make our brothers laugh
To have slumber parties
Even on a weeknight
Because, well, he is your brother
And as I sit down the stairs
I miss my sister
And the way she makes me laugh
And how I am never embarrassed
Never worried about her reaction
Because this nightly talking thing
These falling asleep ambiguous babbles
Is love.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
In the corner, a sign: “Welcome back students!”
(Oh, who could doubt Bud Light’s sincerity?)
“The townies are nice,
(As far as they go)
But the size of their tabs doth butter no bread.”
Merchants of spirits will always prefer
The deluge over the modest trickle.
Full for a weeknight, this place seems to me.
The close, thick air,
Breathed in by too many lungs,
Shows off proudly its perfume
Of grease, old sweat,
And stale, sour hops.
How many paramours have been drawn by that scent?
Lines of glass soldiers stand at attention,
Waiting to be drained of their courage,
Shot by shot.
Bitterness is sweet here,
A flavor to be savored,
Rolled ‘round the tongue then swallowed down;
An arid rain to dry wet fields.
An old, kind, self-conscious biker-type,
My grandfather’s ghost tends bar.
A red bandana over a ponytail stirs black and white memories;
Long legs astride a battered black Harley,
Easy grin tearing the corners of his lips,
Faded, cliché bald eagle tattoos
Adorning weather-leathered arms.
Grampa Chuck serves drinks with a smile
To the hot press of bodies that encircle him.
Sounds of glee and mirth pierce through the murmur
Of robot buzzing bees,
And generic rock music,
That no one listens to but everyone must talk over—
They did not come for the music any more than they came for the alcohol.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 4:01 AM UTC
hi dudes
do you want to get in the christmas spirit
do you want to hear christmas jokes and listen the christmas carols
do you want to be entertained by a pink haired cool clown
do you want to get your candles out and sing along with the clown
because if you do, watch the topsy the clown christmas corner on AAA youtube TV
It’s a time to celebrate with youtubes newest family friend
and it’s time to say merry christmas with so many carols and jokes carols and jokes
it’s 25 minutes of great christmas fun
please watch it, after 7.00pm every weeknight on aaa youtube TV
topsy the clowns christmas corner
i put it on brian allan’s Facebook page as well
after 7 est all week watch it, dudes on
AAA youtube TV
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
explosions muffled by distance
colour sprays the sky
another weeknight
no cause for celebration
patterns spread across the horizon
black and white
leached of feeling
wondering what the occasion
I am missing is.
heading outside
smelling smoke
seeing mirrors
the conjurer designing displays
distracts me momentarily
until I remember again
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 6:55 AM UTC
We hadn’t seen it for a couple years,
The film being a bit difficult to watch
Without dropping a few bucks
To stream it in all its black-and-white glory,
(A prospect which would have brought a grim smile
To a certain white-haired small-town banker)
Our laser disc scratched, our VCR beyond obsolete,
But there have been enough viewings
That certain tableaus
(Flower petals strewn, the glycerin tears)
Remain as familiar as the views out the front door,
And so on a whim we drove up to the quaint burg
Which espouses its claim to be Capra’s inspiration
With a tenacity which belies the season
(Though one look at the bridge which sits astride
A wan offshoot of the Erie Canal
Is sufficient for a startling bit of déjà vu)
Finding ourselves by ourselves in a restaurant
(The times after all, and it a weeknight to boot)
Surprisingly open, even though the town fathers
Had opted hopefully to decorate, as per usual,
The village streets to be as Bedford Falls-esque as possible,
And as we sipped our soup and munched our salads
We mused on how wonder and anxiety
Could walk hand-in-hand
(As we did on the way in and again on the way out)
And though our laughter was a soft, muted thing,
It tinkled in the manner of such things
Which enabled seraphim to gain their wings.
Dec 23, 2020
Dec 23, 2020 at 4:00 PM UTC