"whiskeys" poems
I'm trading sticks of cigarette for a poem
Bottles of beer for a few more
Whiskeys make me forlorn
Why not a few more poems
So I scribble and scribble some more
I'm trading my loneliness for lines
Rhymed or rhymeless, why should I mind
When the please the eyes and tickles the mind
I sure will memorize and mimic them like a mime
So I'm still scribbling on this torn paper of mine
I'm trading my hearts pain
Trading it for a paper and a pen
Like a painter ready to paint
I deep my petite paint brush in a bowl of paint
Dap dap, little dots, strokes and dashes as I dare to paint
Little by little the whole picture is becoming plain
I'm trading all love's tears
Tears shade in secrecy for a poem shared publicly
Though seemingly absurd but poems brings this inconceivable peace.
So I'm scribbling and scribbling my way to serenity.
I trade it all for a piece of poem
I may not have made the point
But I've washed clean my plough
And starring at this beautiful not-so-beautiful poem
I have read and reread it that it is starting to sound like a song.
Reading one last time, "my best trade ever".
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 7:16 PM UTC
I had my cake and I ate it too,
like all the time in the world that you took.
Adorned with cherries
and decorated with cream,
like the taste of my lips
that is only a thing of your dreams.
I thought I have once
tasted a slice of heaven,
only for it to rot away to
a thing from hottest hell.
I had my time and you took it too,
like my faith and my core that you shook.
Laced with grace
and the promise of salvation,
thoughts of your touch once felt
like a dream vacation.
I thought I have once
been granted patience,
only for it to burn down a hole
in my purest conscience.
But then I was sure I had it all,
the diamonds, the universe,
I had you, but then I also have a curse.
The parties, the best jazz age whiskeys,
these shall be enough to distract me.
The waiting, the wondering
are opulence I could no longer afford.
Like my favorite vice I had to abandon,
you are a glimmering borrowed gown
I shall never again don.
But then I'm sure I could do more,
the Philippine pearls, the world,
wrapped around my finger in a red cord.
The weddings, the finest wines I could buy,
these shall do good to get me by.
The patience, the pitying
are charities I could no longer give.
Like a prayer I utter in front of a new lover,
I am the luxury, the gold, all the fortune
you would never wager.
Jun 24, 2023
Jun 24, 2023 at 1:11 PM UTC
Cigarette hugs and Fireball kisses,
How can this love be fictitious,
How the smoke fills my lungs with tender embrace,
The cinnamon whiskeys gentle caress,
This is true love,
Warm, Comforting,
Whiskey tells no lies as it touches my lips,
The smoke bares no knife as it surrounds my hips,
So Cigarette hugs and Fireball kisses
Because your memory still makes my eyes glisten.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 9:50 PM UTC
•••
*Dancing lights
Only hurt my eyes
Screaming and loud music
Disgusting to my ears
Vodkas, cocktails and whiskeys
Never wanted to feel frisky
*** dope, cigarettes
I will only regret
Dancing, party, bar
Never wanted to go that far
Yes I have been to parties
But never will it become my thing
Maybe my past life has an old soul
Who finds comfort in her own hole
Yes, sometimes an anti-social
And sometimes interacting is crucial
So next time you ask me out
Make sure you know what I'm about
Coffee or tea, movies and books
Exhibits and museums let's take a look
A good music or a storytelling
A walk in a park or just talking
Pick me a flower, don't buy me a bouquet
Just hold my hand and always stay*
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 8:11 AM UTC
*I wish we met when her tarmac road was still mellow
Then when she still danced to the Congolese tune "Mbelo",
I wish we met when she could not stare in the eyes
Right when she was too shy to tell any lies,
I wish we met when she was still under her Mama's apron strings
So innocent, when she still trusted human beings,
I wish we met when she did church each and every Sunday
And had no thought of bearing a guilty conscience someday,
I wish we met when she saw the world for her best, not her worst
When the balloon of her ***** wasn't yet burst,
I wish we met when her future was still blinding bright
Wish I'd seen her in the dawns of her life, not the nights
When she knew no whiskeys or beers but only Fanta and Sprite
So that she wouldn't get herself in trouble and drunken fights,
I wish we met when she still had dry “unkisssed’’ lips
When she thought kisses were an unhealthy swap of saliva,
I wish we met when she hadn't developed attractive hips
When she wasn't a depressed Heart-wreck survivor,
I wish we met when she still believed in fantasy and fairy tales
And had a honest fascination for cowry shells,
I wish we met when she flamboyantly wore her natural African hair
When she still thought herself naturally beautiful and fair,
I wish we met when studies hadn't corrupted her mind and stolen all her hours
When she still smiled at the sight of frail petals of red rose flowers,
Wish we met when the movie title that described her ******* isn't “Olympus
Has Fallen”
But probably “Hard Boiled”, “Only the Strong” or “Swollen”,
I wish we met when she had faith in things like weddings, when her soul was
a spring of hope
When she hadn't lost respect for such societal norms preferring to elope,
I wish we met when she still respected danger
And risked not accepting courtesy from every rich stranger,
I wish we met when she believed true love existed in the world
Maybe then she'd believe my each and every word,
I wish we met when she still honestly needed a friend
I’m sure I’d be there to love and care for her till the end.*
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC
I keep writing down the year as if it means anything to me dear
I don't feel connected,
just another spirit lost.
Gone is that turned leaf.
And his mother still faces him in his wildest nightmares and keeps him home,
and his mother cries tears and whiskeys down her pain. She can't do this on her own,
but she's holding on; for the sake of them both.
It makes him happy to know that he was actually a part of the family before he left
and I can't speak for him, but I sure know when someone loses their mind again,
better keep it on the downlow, because nobody wants to go to detoxification home, no.
So, I won't report
and he sings with me, and he lives with me and he loves me indeed. He just can't see about me, can not even breathe...
and you can't even see that
Our ideas linger together, and it makes us both in company just like it should be.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 9:37 PM UTC
I’m always afraid you’re gonna kiss me in the elevator
you ask me out to lunch and I always think you mean it
we just wind up at the nearest mock irish dive
every bartender in midtown knows your name
even when it’s swarmed by the christmas crowd
they always point to you, give a nod and laugh
we pull up stools in the mid day snow
my nose whines over the **** floors
we order warm whiskeys and work on the crossword puzzle
you say my company is charming but
you’ve never asked me a single question
and your eyes are always on the room
but when everythings still and no women are near
sometimes you’ll stop on mine
I take your picture in the snow
remember the morning I left and startled you with an exiting touch
your cheek painted with drool
I couldn’t sleep the night I stayed
so I scribbled neil young quotes on your chalkboard walls
listened to you snore, waited for the sun
walked through stuytown like I’ve lived there all my life
boarded a train back to the man who loves me
prayed both of you never care too much
and that I start soon
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC
Smoke rings drift into the night with thoughts
seldom understood and often remebred.
Gin a old friend to newly betray.
Left cold in warm waters,
Over the border trapped by a tongue with unspoken
thoughts and empty emotions.
Dust apon the flesh seeps into the soul.
A page held close to heart and far from thought.
Sometimes we have to be ********
Cause when in hell the whiskeys burn
seem's to bring a chill.
Fate is a evil ***** Ive grown to love.
No need to say hello.
When goobyes already a promise.
She's as vacant as the mirage.
repeating a action she
leaves that part of herself behind.
Holding onto the rage masked as passion.
We remain numb to survive.
*** void of love.
Shells lacking soul.
The dust takes to vein.
The pen rewrite's the past.
Why polish the edges to appear
that which you can never be.
Confessions of the hollow.
To reveal the ******* who thrives within me.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 9:29 PM UTC
Strumming the guitar
I keep writing down the year as if it means anything to me dear
I don't feel connected,
just another spirit lost
gone is that turned leaf.
And his mother still faces him in his wildest nightmares and keeps him home,
and his mother cries tears and whiskeys down her pain. She can't do this on her own
but she's holding on; for the sake of them both.
It makes him happy to know that he was actually a part of the family before he left
and I can't speak for him but i sure know when someone loses their mind again
better keep it on the down-low, because nobody wants to go to detoxification home, no.
So, I won't report
and he sings with me, and he lives with me and he loves me indeed. He just can't see about me, can not even breathe...
and you can't even see.
Our ideas linger together, and it makes us both in company just like it should be.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC
paths are crossed while others are being blocked with road signs
neon lights on parkways blinding eyes
how easily people come and go these days
like sickness
patterns and get learned and forgotten
daily routines lost while olds ones are picked up like broken dishes
gestures and words are re-gifted to the next birthday boy
small fractions of memories stick like band-aids
originality was lost three years ago
love has become re-runs in syndication
eventually the VHS of romance will deteriorate to fuzz and static
running fast from the sopranos to baywatch
not knowing where taste escaped
lips on lips
chewing and spitting
double whiskeys all night and still feeling sober as the world around you falls into a drunken stupor
like silk falling off a soft shoulder
thoughts still present
paranoia growing
cigarettes are starting to be manifestations of thoughts
this one's for my broken heart
this one's because i'm drunk
this one's because it's hot out and i'm bored
when worse comes to worse
sleep is always there
until then
no harness
let's fall
who cares if there's anything to catch us
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 1:45 AM UTC
Saint Patrick's day
Two whiskeys six beers,
Getting ready for the night.
I wasn't ready.
My phone buzzing
Like a hummingbird
Stuffed in my pocket.
Suddenly I have friends,
It's so overwhelming.
Feels like getting cancer,
I hope it was a misdiagnosis.
Then I saw you.
I'm used to it,
But it's always just a ghost.
Tonight it wasn't,
And I wasn't ready.
You were buried years ago,
But **** you smelt the same.
As the day I threw the dirt on you.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 4:58 AM UTC
He was younger than me.
He was a Prince of the “Street”.
Folks would all stop and listen
whenever he deigned to speak.
To him profit came easy
And with it came fame,
(while I cursed my bad luck
at the Powerball game.)
Yet I’m still living and breathing,
while he’s stiff as a board.
His heirs all lining up
to ravage his hoard.
It’s said he had millions,
yet, as you can see,
they could not buy him health
Or even longevity.
He saw the sun set
But did not see it rise.
Was it pangs of regret?
-Of Thrombosis he died.
First they’ll hold a grand funeral
with much mindless palaver.
Then, like other such maggots,
They’ll feast on the cadaver.
They’ll Jet here and there
To Paris or Rome
Drink fine wines and whiskeys
but seldom at home.
Their meals will all be
Five star and five course
and all at the expense
of one excellent corpse.
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 6:09 PM UTC
eyes dart
train station waits
empty footsteps smartly
sound
the bone parade
wiping make-up from your face
you're waving to eternity
but eternity does not wait
for you,
preferring preacher men
in stiff neck-collars
downing whiskeys
just as you leave
a butterfly dies
& newspapers the next day
print an article about the extinction
of a rare species
& the train station waits
waits
waits
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 8:00 PM UTC
AT 20,000 FEET
such as it
reciprocates
our biological rights demands.
our genetic material reciprocate magnetism.and your seat cushion may be used as a flotation device
how couldn't i?
at 20,000 feet
drunk as ****
clinging to a chair,
clinging to each other,
clinging to the air,
this plane is quite obviously crashing,
but betwixt flames,
and screams,
shouts
of the crew
as we
all know
we
are
to
die, through
the shouts of all this
through every waking moment
through the snow
and the rain
through death
through pain
and ****
i would climb through sewers
i would swim through a lake of radiation
i would overturn every stone in chernobyl
and never
would i find.
ten whiskeys deep
and i think
"oh ****
what am i getting myself into?"
and then
"really,
i don't even give a ****
and then
"christ,
i need a cigarrette"
and then,
at the end of the day
all that really matters
is whether or not
you
svghjkgtorijhbnjkcvf
Aug 11, 2011
Aug 11, 2011 at 8:15 PM UTC
"It will be like learning to eat without pepper, but slowly. As pepper adds flavor to each dish, so does love to each moment. In marriage, the love will inevitably become a forsaken understood; an uncommon commonality that, through the years, loses it's luster. But, if I cut pepper wholly out of my diet I would notice. Each dish I tasted it in would revel in splendor, no matter the meat or vegetable on which it dances. So, I vow to never cut out love because of the commonality of love that marriage will ensue. I will never give in to taking it, her, for granted. Spontaneous mountain getaway weekends with lots of Merlot and unashamed whiskeys and even the occasional smokes on our porch out our bedroom window, celebrating my wife with little poems and sunny side up eggs on an idle Tuesday morning, dancing and getting drunk in the living room at 2am when the kids are asleep. This is how I will keep love biting, burning, peppered.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
Drugs and diseases.
Flesh and bones.
Whiskeys and waters.
Hi she said with such a cute ******* smile.
Hey I said. What's going on?
she gave me the up and down look
and I knew right away
she wanted me to **** her.
You workin' tonight?
Yeah, I'm workin tonight
Such a cute smile
and an *** that I
could bounce a quarter off
Ah **** man. I took a long drag off my smoke
and turned to walk away
But only because I'm trying to get to Kansas City for...
I didn't really
give a **** what the
rest of the story was.
yeah yeah
Such a cute little thing.
I walked back into the bar
and took my place
among the dead.
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 12:40 AM UTC
three 8.5% oranjeboom does that to you,
in between several whiskeys,
you end up derailed somewhere in the mind,
you end up writing really crazy ****
but of course in relation to past experiences,
being told to dig up baby potatoes
in an allotment patch filled with weeds,
taking some home on the sly,
while watching “here by the grace of god”,
ok honey, just say it, retards, on a day-trip,
drooling, taking out their genitalia and laughing
being herded like cattle by the carers
because their parents have died, the ones
with down syndrome
being the most intelligent of the lot,
a little spark in them still there -
because you weren’t the one who’s intelligence
was insulted and told that this is
adequate psychiatric therapy -
but indeed it is, here in england, perhaps
not as bad as the great american pharmaphilia
(excessive pharmacological prescription;
will the big buck ever buckle? who knows:
but i do know that your brain will end up
being a surgical insult to the professions
of psychology: spongy goo tomato purée).
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 8:58 AM UTC
The windows broken seals make whistling
bottle top noises in the ruckus, the seagulls
swarming like spiders in the back field,
the fat geldings hide by the hedges searching
for shelter. The fire roars and we sip hot whiskeys,
boys stroke their whiskers searching
for wisdom. Hum advertising jingles, hum
in agreement, wolf whistle at the young girls
in small skirts exploring something they call
"fun". Wonder if you remember what is was like.
The taste of brandy reminds me of something,
of a few things. Once I took a bottle to the head
of a boy that betrayed me, stinking of it,
and once my friend spit up like a baby,
milk of her alcoholic mother into my lap
in the back of a car. We're all so much older
and yet younger than we are.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
Sly & Cunning
Swift & Nimble
A Demon at home,
has life so simple.
Whiskeys' soul
on the rocks;
Reading alone, past
four o'clock
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 12:31 AM UTC
*Fall in the Ocean, don't fall in love
you may forget how drowning felt like
but you simply can't ignore the ache of
a cracked heart or its shards decorating the floor
sharp pieces that you'll step on and wounds reopen
pieces which will clatter from deep within
to echo the despair especially when you're beyond repair
jump off a cliff and fracture, broken bones heal
fractured Hearts seldom truly find healing,it's chilling
when you place support about it but nothing changes
and the more you organise your splintered heart
the further apart it crumbles and breaks apart
fall in Hell, the devils and monsters can be exorcised
but the monsters of a dead romance never leave
they taunt and haunt with voices whispering in your head
and drug you through a living Hell that's eternal
fall in acid, not a single piece of you'll be left behind
love'll rip and have your pieces wandering blind
fall in an abyss or the darkest deepest pit
someone might find you,you'll wash off the ****
but Love'll rob your sanity for it's mind impairing
it'll take away your radars, disorient your bearing
fall from the sky, your entire existence will splatter
falling in love will deny you your esteem and have you stutter
fall off a bicycle, you'll get up,dust yourself and ride
in love you'll live your life like you've died
climb one and jump, there's less pain falling off a tree
unlike the fantasy of love that chains and never sets you free
fall in the Sea, the sharks'll leave nothing for the world to see
love will bewilder you through an endless cyclonic ecstasy
it's worse compared to being once and for all torn by jaws
which takes you to oblivion where lives no feeling of loss
fall for anything else, fall for drugs and addiction
love is a blade that'll never cease making its incision
fall for wines and whiskeys,or any adulterated concoction
my broken heart thinks all but falling in love a far better decision
when you're out there searching for whatever you deserve
embrace all else your heart desires, all else but love*
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 3:31 AM UTC
Dappled, isn't it?
Slotted bits of sun rays.
A radiant dalmatians coat
sprawled upon messy bedclothes.
***** sheets.
Always ***** no matter.
Yes, they've been changed.
Thousands of times, they've been changed.
That sparse sunlight
shines.
It highlights the
grime
and the sweat.
I awaken to a stiff neck,
and stretch out the cracks
and the pops
from my spine.
My bones sigh as I flick a switch.
The shower runs,
coffee is brewing in the kitchen.
I hum.
I'll be humming
for eternity,
walking through grass
and clods of mud.
My worn boots go on,
begging for a cobbler.
I'll see the sky,
the sun shares it with the daytime moon.
I'll whisper to myself:
It'll be time for bed soon.
A couple hours.
A few beers,
or whiskeys.
Waiting for that ever dependable
dappled sunlight.
It always comes.
Until it doesn't.
Nov 17, 2021
Nov 17, 2021 at 8:21 PM UTC
i walked past the wine aisle today
pretending to be grown up
as i saw rows upon rose
and expensive wines infused with
notes of exotic fruits
and smooth whiskeys, cool beers and
cheap *****
i almost walked right past it
a blur of artificial pink and green
in the corner of my eye
i had the sudden urge to linger
for a little bit longer
on that strawberry and lime cider.
"hey you'll like this"
you offered me a sip of your
cup and suddenly i was
hooked
it's too easy to
imagine the exact taste
as it bubbles on my tongue, tingling, and making
it's way down my
parched throat
easy to swallow and
a delight going down
especially perfect during
a night out
in town
though it will never quite
taste as lovely
as when i sipped it
from your
lips
sweeter than sweet
a sensation reminiscent of,
swirling, dancing
twirling along my tongue,
the most heavenly cocktail
of you and
my new favourite drink
and suddenly,
strawberries in season,
remind me of you
as you held me close
and we missed the sun rise
limes suddenly
remind me of you
as you let go and left
only sourness behind
i never liked cider until
you brought the taste to
my lips
and suddenly,
i wanted to drown in it
but then you taught me, that
like most alcohol it's
best served cold with
eyes that look past me
and frozen strawberries
a fizzy concoction of
regret and enjoyment and
longing and excitement
and
regret
hard spirits and expensive liquor
just cannot compare to
the sweet and sour high
from a bottle of
strawberry and lime
but imagine my surprise
the first time after
you left
when i discovered that
suddenly
even something so pleasant
could have such a bitter
aftertaste
and i'm left wondering
how much longer
will your memory cling
to a branded bottle
of my old favourite drink.
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 6:30 PM UTC
The beat pulses.
The rhythm shakes.
And she never breaks eye-contact as she serpentines
around me on the dance floor.
I thank god for that.
Because even after 4 whiskeys
I can tell
I'm an awful dancer.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 4:32 AM UTC
Dusty bottles of *****
Raise up dusty ghosts in this basement,
Sickeningly sweet whiskeys and buttery shots,
Warm,
Then sharply struck by icy cold, antiseptic *****
I’m numbed and dulled to these divorces of life.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 4:38 PM UTC
If only these bottles were as soft as your body
If only they replied to conversation like anybody
If only your memory would sublime in the cloud of the moment
If only the much I've taken would erase the torment
If only remembering the good times made me smile
And not cry regretting why I walked an extra mile
If only I had known that the good times were just future tears
I probably would have survived these strong whiskeys and beers
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 6:12 PM UTC