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"wino" poems
for leather accrues The miracle of the streets The scents & smogs & pollens of existence Shiny blackness so totally naked she was Totally un-hung-up We looked around lights now on Top see our fellow travellers ~~~ I am troubled Immeasurably By your eyes I am struck By the feather of your soft Reply The sound of glass Speaks quick Disdain And conceals What your eyes fight To explain ~~~ She looked so sad in sleep Like a friendly hand just out of reach A candle stranded on a beach While the sun sinks low an H-bomb in reverse ~~~ Everything human is leaving her face Soon she will disappear into the calm vegetable morass Stay! My Wild Love! ~~~ I get my best ideas when the telephone rings & rings. It’s no fun To feel like a fool-when your baby’s gone. A new ax to my head: Possession. I create my own sword of Damascus. I’ve done nothing w/time. A little tot prancing the boards playing w/Revolution. When out there the World awaits & abounds w/heavy gangs of murderers & real madmen. Hanging from windows as if to say: I’m bold- do you love me? Just for tonight. A One Night Stand. A dog howls & whines at the glass sliding door (why can’t I be in there?) A cat yowls. A car engine revs & races against the grain- dry rasping carbon protest. I put the book down- & begin my own book. Love for the fat girl. When will SHE get here? ~~~ In the gloom In the shady living room where we lived & died & laughed & cried & the pride of our relationship took hold that summer What a trip To hold your hand & tell the cops you’re not 16 no runaway The wino left a little in the old blue desert bottle Cattle skulls the cliche of rats who skim the trees in search of fat Hip children invade the grounds & sleep in the wet grass ’til the dogs rush out I’m going South!
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40.3k
Jim Morrison
The American Night
for leather accrues The miracle of the streets The scents & smogs & pollens of existence Shiny blackness so totally naked she was Totally un-hung-up We looked around lights now on Top see our fellow travellers ~~~ I am troubled Immeasurably By your eyes I am struck By the feather of your soft Reply The sound of glass Speaks quick Disdain And conceals What your eyes fight To explain ~~~ She looked so sad in sleep Like a friendly hand just out of reach A candle stranded on a beach While the sun sinks low an H-bomb in reverse ~~~ Everything human is leaving her face Soon she will disappear into the calm vegetable morass Stay! My Wild Love! ~~~ I get my best ideas when the telephone rings & rings. It’s no fun To feel like a fool-when your baby’s gone. A new ax to my head: Possession. I create my own sword of Damascus. I’ve done nothing w/time. A little tot prancing the boards playing w/Revolution. When out there the World awaits & abounds w/heavy gangs of murderers & real madmen. Hanging from windows as if to say: I’m bold- do you love me? Just for tonight. A One Night Stand. A dog howls & whines at the glass sliding door (why can’t I be in there?) A cat yowls. A car engine revs & races against the grain- dry rasping carbon protest. I put the book down- & begin my own book. Love for the fat girl. When will SHE get here? ~~~ In the gloom In the shady living room where we lived & died & laughed & cried & the pride of our relationship took hold that summer What a trip To hold your hand & tell the cops you’re not 16 no runaway The wino left a little in the old blue desert bottle Cattle skulls the cliche of rats who skim the trees in search of fat Hip children invade the grounds & sleep in the wet grass ’til the dogs rush out I’m going South!
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86
When I was young, I used to Watch behind the curtains As men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men. Young men sharp as mustard. See them. Men are always Going somewhere. They knew I was there. Fifteen Years old and starving for them. Under my window, they would pause, Their shoulders high like the ******* of a young girl, Jacket tails slapping over Those behinds, Men. One day they hold you in the Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you Were the last raw egg in the world. Then They tighten up. Just a little. The First squeeze is nice. A quick hug. Soft into your defenselessness. A little More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a Smile that slides around the fear. When the Air disappears, Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly, Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered. It is your juice That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes. When the earth rights itself again, And taste tries to return to the tongue, Your body has slammed shut. Forever. No keys exist. Then the window draws full upon Your mind. There, just beyond The sway of curtains, men walk. Knowing something. Going someplace. But this time, I will simply Stand and watch. Maybe.
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6.2k
Maya Angelou
Men
When I was young, I used to Watch behind the curtains As men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men. Young men sharp as mustard. See them. Men are always Going somewhere. They knew I was there. Fifteen Years old and starving for them. Under my window, they would pause, Their shoulders high like the ******* of a young girl, Jacket tails slapping over Those behinds, Men. One day they hold you in the Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you Were the last raw egg in the world. Then They tighten up. Just a little. The First squeeze is nice. A quick hug. Soft into your defenselessness. A little More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a Smile that slides around the fear. When the Air disappears, Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly, Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered. It is your juice That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes. When the earth rights itself again, And taste tries to return to the tongue, Your body has slammed shut. Forever. No keys exist. Then the window draws full upon Your mind. There, just beyond The sway of curtains, men walk. Knowing something. Going someplace. But this time, I will simply Stand and watch. Maybe.
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39
Serendipity. You ******* what! What you saying, pal? Serendipity, oh aye, all right, Aye, seren-fuckin-dipity; whatever! Tell it to the raggedy soaked-wino, Look into his rheumy eyes, really look, Want to kiss his toothless grin, eh? Do you? Feel his sore-ridden tongue searching you out, Nay, I thought not, anyway, he hears nothing, Nothing except the rattle of change. Tell it to the punctured ****** go on, Cold body on a cold linoleum floor, He can’t hear you either, maybe though, Maybe, slipping away on the last tide of life, Do-gooder, maybe he will hear you call, ‘Serendipity’ and wonder: what the **** Until blackness closes in, blanking the stars. Tell it to the Fourth Bridge jumpers, go on, Always falling; to them, falling forever, In hearts and minds, the event horizon of death, Trapped in limbo, leaving unbearable hurt behind, Along with serendipity and bad choices. And the young, oh they need serendipity, Cruelty of life glittering in furtive wary eyes, Old already, far beyond halcyon blue-skies, Used and abused by those closest, the shame, Erosion of trust and sincerity completed over night, Christmas ghosts: slovenly laggards by comparison. Resilient youth! Yep, they ******* need to be, Grinding machine of town-life hunting them, Scouring dark corners, gnashing jaws growling, Crunching down darkened alleys, feeding, Lapping up the young blood of runaways, Slavering maw eating them alive; laughing. With serendipity, they can lie low, maybe hide, Dream of escape, for they all want out, Putting misery behind them, quelling cruelty, After all, they live in a lucky ******* town, So escape is not impossible, no, Unlikely, yes, poor wee ******** Serendipity should shout a loud warning, Run, scrawny urchins, run if you can, Run for your lives, the rest of your lives, Town-life’s grinding machine awaits, Watches for you, so keep running, Never stop, never look back, Not ever, not ever, Serendipity. ©Paul Chafer 2014
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May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC
paul-chafer
Serendipity
Serendipity. You ******* what! What you saying, pal? Serendipity, oh aye, all right, Aye, seren-fuckin-dipity; whatever! Tell it to the raggedy soaked-wino, Look into his rheumy eyes, really look, Want to kiss his toothless grin, eh? Do you? Feel his sore-ridden tongue searching you out, Nay, I thought not, anyway, he hears nothing, Nothing except the rattle of change. Tell it to the punctured ****** go on, Cold body on a cold linoleum floor, He can’t hear you either, maybe though, Maybe, slipping away on the last tide of life, Do-gooder, maybe he will hear you call, ‘Serendipity’ and wonder: what the **** Until blackness closes in, blanking the stars. Tell it to the Fourth Bridge jumpers, go on, Always falling; to them, falling forever, In hearts and minds, the event horizon of death, Trapped in limbo, leaving unbearable hurt behind, Along with serendipity and bad choices. And the young, oh they need serendipity, Cruelty of life glittering in furtive wary eyes, Old already, far beyond halcyon blue-skies, Used and abused by those closest, the shame, Erosion of trust and sincerity completed over night, Christmas ghosts: slovenly laggards by comparison. Resilient youth! Yep, they ******* need to be, Grinding machine of town-life hunting them, Scouring dark corners, gnashing jaws growling, Crunching down darkened alleys, feeding, Lapping up the young blood of runaways, Slavering maw eating them alive; laughing. With serendipity, they can lie low, maybe hide, Dream of escape, for they all want out, Putting misery behind them, quelling cruelty, After all, they live in a lucky ******* town, So escape is not impossible, no, Unlikely, yes, poor wee ******** Serendipity should shout a loud warning, Run, scrawny urchins, run if you can, Run for your lives, the rest of your lives, Town-life’s grinding machine awaits, Watches for you, so keep running, Never stop, never look back, Not ever, not ever, Serendipity. ©Paul Chafer 2014
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50
There was once a family of slugs That lived in a cabbage patch town They went out everynite to eat Found a cabbage and began to munch down All through the night they could reduce A cabbage to a stalk in the ground All night they would munch and munch But you would never hear then , nary a sound But Mrs. H was becoming fed up Her patch was the proudest around With malace , blood red , she schemed She vowed to eliminate all those clowns She purchased the best poison they had She tried every trick she had read But the slugs just kept on coming Every night, long after it was bed Then a local wino for he said Out of the garden he could take These inconsiderate gluttonous Stylommatophora Pulmonates So he began by opening a beer Placing some into a sphere Putting them by each cabbage head , he said "This will make those slugs disappear" But by morning the cabbage was gone Worse yet so was the beer and If you looked even more closely tiny signs saying , "Next time make it import you here !"
0
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
South-by-Southwest
Slug City
There was once a family of slugs That lived in a cabbage patch town They went out everynite to eat Found a cabbage and began to munch down All through the night they could reduce A cabbage to a stalk in the ground All night they would munch and munch But you would never hear then , nary a sound But Mrs. H was becoming fed up Her patch was the proudest around With malace , blood red , she schemed She vowed to eliminate all those clowns She purchased the best poison they had She tried every trick she had read But the slugs just kept on coming Every night, long after it was bed Then a local wino for he said Out of the garden he could take These inconsiderate gluttonous Stylommatophora Pulmonates So he began by opening a beer Placing some into a sphere Putting them by each cabbage head , he said "This will make those slugs disappear" But by morning the cabbage was gone Worse yet so was the beer and If you looked even more closely tiny signs saying , "Next time make it import you here !"
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27
We’re in a “new” trendy neighborhood called Cascade Heights, in Atlanta. It’s lush - hydrangea, musk rose, hoya and blue false indigo are in bloom and there are greens of every possible variation. The sky is clear and southern-sun bright - shadows are crisp. It’s going to be 91°(f) today and although it’s only noon, the heat is rising. Leong pointed out the black tubes that discreetly provide air-conditioning, carefully hidden in the shrubbery surrounding the shaded, outdoor dining area. She thought that was very clever and American. “They’re for survival,” I assure her, “it gets hotter and hotter over the summer.” Leong and I are finishing lunch, savoring a decadent chocolate chai-tiramisu dessert. “Oh, my God,” Leong said, sliding the chocolaty spoon over her tongue, “oomm.” “So good,” I said, moaning with pleasure and closing my eyes. The waiter comes over with an iPad, I wave my watch, like a magician’s wand and we’re free to go. We were going to relax a minute and finish the last of our cold chai-tea, but as the waiter left with our cleared dishes, a rando, wino-looking, elderly man came up to the bushes by our table and said to me, “You look sad.” First of all, I think: NO - and who ARE you? Thinking secondly, *** go away. I didn’t know what to say - but he put the kibosh to lingering. I started having an “eye-contact-only” conversation with Leong. Are we about done here - do you have your phone and purse - shall we go? Leong and I stand, in unison, pushing our chairs back with our legs, gathering our shopping bags and belongings in fluid motions long-perfected at mall food-courts. “We have to go,” I say, with a half-smile and goodbye nod to the man, “have a nice day.” He watches us go for a moment and we surreptitiously watch him watch us go. Charles, our escort, who was at another table, fell in, a short distance behind us. Maybe the guy was just being friendly but you can’t underestimate CrAzY in 2022
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May 19, 2022
May 19, 2022 at 8:31 AM UTC
anaisvionet
outdoor tables
We’re in a “new” trendy neighborhood called Cascade Heights, in Atlanta. It’s lush - hydrangea, musk rose, hoya and blue false indigo are in bloom and there are greens of every possible variation. The sky is clear and southern-sun bright - shadows are crisp. It’s going to be 91°(f) today and although it’s only noon, the heat is rising. Leong pointed out the black tubes that discreetly provide air-conditioning, carefully hidden in the shrubbery surrounding the shaded, outdoor dining area. She thought that was very clever and American. “They’re for survival,” I assure her, “it gets hotter and hotter over the summer.” Leong and I are finishing lunch, savoring a decadent chocolate chai-tiramisu dessert. “Oh, my God,” Leong said, sliding the chocolaty spoon over her tongue, “oomm.” “So good,” I said, moaning with pleasure and closing my eyes. The waiter comes over with an iPad, I wave my watch, like a magician’s wand and we’re free to go. We were going to relax a minute and finish the last of our cold chai-tea, but as the waiter left with our cleared dishes, a rando, wino-looking, elderly man came up to the bushes by our table and said to me, “You look sad.” First of all, I think: NO - and who ARE you? Thinking secondly, *** go away. I didn’t know what to say - but he put the kibosh to lingering. I started having an “eye-contact-only” conversation with Leong. Are we about done here - do you have your phone and purse - shall we go? Leong and I stand, in unison, pushing our chairs back with our legs, gathering our shopping bags and belongings in fluid motions long-perfected at mall food-courts. “We have to go,” I say, with a half-smile and goodbye nod to the man, “have a nice day.” He watches us go for a moment and we surreptitiously watch him watch us go. Charles, our escort, who was at another table, fell in, a short distance behind us. Maybe the guy was just being friendly but you can’t underestimate CrAzY in 2022
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14
Have I ever been profoundly lost? Yes. Railroad tracks and a river wide as the Amazon, yet lost. Living in the intense sunshine of northern New York summer, but lost in the shade of a gazebo. And here? Here I am enclosed in a tomb of porcelain machinery. With another winter passing its calling card in at the window. The warm steam no longer cutting the rough edge. Wearing wool sweater nights. The freedom of summer gone and only one **** What a nightmare, what a strange dream, life on planet, winter all around.             A system, they call it a system. I call it an evolved anarchy. Repetition, never. What do I know. Repetition, every two thousand years. Coming of a frost, coming of a fire. When nature proves furious beyond remembrance. Polar bear mugs wino.                                --------------------------------------                                         ***********                             Tall, attractive, talented WM, 31,                             trumpet player, takes pleasure in                             performing *********** with clean                             attractive women. Age, race, marital                             status no object. All replies answered.             Marlowe went to bed. He had a headache. Used an empty bottle for a teddy bear/sap. In the middle of the night, three secret men approached the rock he slept under. They did not see him there, the fire had long ago gone out. But they'd seen it across the valley, and tried to estimate. They were close.             What do I care. They did this, he did that, they did this and this and that. He used his feet, took off his shoes. It mauled him to death in two minutes of the first round. Would have been better for him if it happened faster. Never got his knife out of his pocket. But he lived, with one eye after that.                                --------------------------------------                    What do you do with a drunken sailor early                                in the morning?                    You pull that sailor out of bed by his hairy                                moorings.             Why should anybody believe this, this tiresome outpouring of old moans and groans, grumbles about loneliness of life and dominance of telephone. This gamble on print, above the spoken, sung word. The meditative call to inhabitants of planet to kneel woefully and pray. No, to chant as if the planet were mending.             Mending rhymes with ending, why not. And television, radio appreciated. Drugs and ***** jagged bent faces, black wet rock. The mantle of moss ripped away. Period. Amen to men. Absolute magical ripcord.
0
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
robert-ronnow
Polar Bear Mugs Wino
Have I ever been profoundly lost? Yes. Railroad tracks and a river wide as the Amazon, yet lost. Living in the intense sunshine of northern New York summer, but lost in the shade of a gazebo. And here? Here I am enclosed in a tomb of porcelain machinery. With another winter passing its calling card in at the window. The warm steam no longer cutting the rough edge. Wearing wool sweater nights. The freedom of summer gone and only one **** What a nightmare, what a strange dream, life on planet, winter all around.             A system, they call it a system. I call it an evolved anarchy. Repetition, never. What do I know. Repetition, every two thousand years. Coming of a frost, coming of a fire. When nature proves furious beyond remembrance. Polar bear mugs wino.                                --------------------------------------                                         ***********                             Tall, attractive, talented WM, 31,                             trumpet player, takes pleasure in                             performing *********** with clean                             attractive women. Age, race, marital                             status no object. All replies answered.             Marlowe went to bed. He had a headache. Used an empty bottle for a teddy bear/sap. In the middle of the night, three secret men approached the rock he slept under. They did not see him there, the fire had long ago gone out. But they'd seen it across the valley, and tried to estimate. They were close.             What do I care. They did this, he did that, they did this and this and that. He used his feet, took off his shoes. It mauled him to death in two minutes of the first round. Would have been better for him if it happened faster. Never got his knife out of his pocket. But he lived, with one eye after that.                                --------------------------------------                    What do you do with a drunken sailor early                                in the morning?                    You pull that sailor out of bed by his hairy                                moorings.             Why should anybody believe this, this tiresome outpouring of old moans and groans, grumbles about loneliness of life and dominance of telephone. This gamble on print, above the spoken, sung word. The meditative call to inhabitants of planet to kneel woefully and pray. No, to chant as if the planet were mending.             Mending rhymes with ending, why not. And television, radio appreciated. Drugs and ***** jagged bent faces, black wet rock. The mantle of moss ripped away. Period. Amen to men. Absolute magical ripcord.
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18
with flowers for the moonlight the fright she bid goodbye stars and leonids sparkled the night like a wino in the midst with acquired dreams I audit this blinky blue eyed sunrise the two little satellites melted away musical notes insured by a common man harvested by the embraceable grim reaper in this bizarre love pentangle they arrive with their swarm of locusts the thieves of silence!!
0
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 5:29 AM UTC
vivek-bhargav
Thieves of Silence
with flowers for the moonlight the fright she bid goodbye stars and leonids sparkled the night like a wino in the midst with acquired dreams I audit this blinky blue eyed sunrise the two little satellites melted away musical notes insured by a common man harvested by the embraceable grim reaper in this bizarre love pentangle they arrive with their swarm of locusts the thieves of silence!!
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11
Slop ******* soup kitchen soak. Sick sick sadness. Embarrassment. Anger. Just go away. Look at me, kids, Don't look at the window There's nothing there. DON'T STARE! I'm teaching you a valuable London lesson, How to ignore invisible men, However persistent. He came inside, Asked for a quid, I bought him a burger, Just to get rid. Horrid. Not him, me. As he sat there, shaking, eating, Drinking his coffee (eight sugars, seven milks) Tears poured down his face. And the children asked me why. Mummy, why did that man cry when you bought him a burger? Did he want a different toy? I learned a valuable life lesson. One I won't forget.
0
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC
AmandaIS
Wino Bangs On The Window
Slop ******* soup kitchen soak. Sick sick sadness. Embarrassment. Anger. Just go away. Look at me, kids, Don't look at the window There's nothing there. DON'T STARE! I'm teaching you a valuable London lesson, How to ignore invisible men, However persistent. He came inside, Asked for a quid, I bought him a burger, Just to get rid. Horrid. Not him, me. As he sat there, shaking, eating, Drinking his coffee (eight sugars, seven milks) Tears poured down his face. And the children asked me why. Mummy, why did that man cry when you bought him a burger? Did he want a different toy? I learned a valuable life lesson. One I won't forget.
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27
Pour myself another drink I should stop writing and denounce HP It has become a voice to my nightly brain fever More serious disease than syphilis As it eats away at my brain I suspect in much the same way In past a vent for the toxic thoughts off divorce Preoccupied in bitter tears and hatred Not seeing its healing potential till now A display of my emotion Sometimes intense yet so often lost to others A soap box of parody that hid a broken heart An inverse playground of my deepest fears In that it has many swings and roundabouts Of love, for others here Some home so long since gone Dealings with grief and loss of substance My family Now seems like a wrecking ball formed verse when re read Others I cannot see where I was in my head Lights on yet not at home The words don't fit now I thought STOP! Delete But that would be failed testament to myself. The gin now speaks not me (metaphoric as drinking Bundaberg Guava as good for the kidneys and to wash down my acidophIlus tablets just to clear up that I'm not a wino!) A bottle opened to embrace Odd as I can't remember when I last loaded More so on a school night I was told to look in not omit myself by helping others Give me some me time I have time I dwell, cogitate to detriment and find no solution So Yes may be his answer and his inner solace It is not yet for me. Goodnight Mrs Kalabash see you in St Louis
0
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 9:27 PM UTC
MichealWolf
Memoires of a broken (under repair) mind. episode 47
Pour myself another drink I should stop writing and denounce HP It has become a voice to my nightly brain fever More serious disease than syphilis As it eats away at my brain I suspect in much the same way In past a vent for the toxic thoughts off divorce Preoccupied in bitter tears and hatred Not seeing its healing potential till now A display of my emotion Sometimes intense yet so often lost to others A soap box of parody that hid a broken heart An inverse playground of my deepest fears In that it has many swings and roundabouts Of love, for others here Some home so long since gone Dealings with grief and loss of substance My family Now seems like a wrecking ball formed verse when re read Others I cannot see where I was in my head Lights on yet not at home The words don't fit now I thought STOP! Delete But that would be failed testament to myself. The gin now speaks not me (metaphoric as drinking Bundaberg Guava as good for the kidneys and to wash down my acidophIlus tablets just to clear up that I'm not a wino!) A bottle opened to embrace Odd as I can't remember when I last loaded More so on a school night I was told to look in not omit myself by helping others Give me some me time I have time I dwell, cogitate to detriment and find no solution So Yes may be his answer and his inner solace It is not yet for me. Goodnight Mrs Kalabash see you in St Louis
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36
.It's 4 a.m.A hotelbibleisspreading thegood newsto a local wino,as ***** childrenof intimatestrangers areplaying X Boxwith addicts.A young girlis learning toinhaleup on thegravel rooftop,scribing poetryon her armin the sparsemoonlight.Razor writingis sucha wasteof type O..
0
Jan 21, 2010
Jan 21, 2010 at 10:54 AM UTC
redbarchettadrive
~Learning to Inhale ♥♥♥♥♥
.It's 4 a.m.A hotelbibleisspreading thegood newsto a local wino,as ***** childrenof intimatestrangers areplaying X Boxwith addicts.A young girlis learning toinhaleup on thegravel rooftop,scribing poetryon her armin the sparsemoonlight.Razor writingis sucha wasteof type O..
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1
I seen this dude I thought he was a saint --- Naked the cold winter wino song ---- Nobody home -- -- Sittin by the reservoir in Central Park -- Yep That I am ---- Everyone in New York knows me Loves me And is depending on me to save the world --- Better get busy ain't doin so good --- -- Nope I ain't ------ I seen this saint thought he was a dude .. I sez No way out now man No No way out --- Sittin in New York thinkin I'm in San Francisco Or Sittin in San Francisco thinkin I'm in New York ---- Don't matter -- ****** either way
0
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 1:19 AM UTC
jeffrey-robin
Betrayed
I seen this dude I thought he was a saint --- Naked the cold winter wino song ---- Nobody home -- -- Sittin by the reservoir in Central Park -- Yep That I am ---- Everyone in New York knows me Loves me And is depending on me to save the world --- Better get busy ain't doin so good --- -- Nope I ain't ------ I seen this saint thought he was a dude .. I sez No way out now man No No way out --- Sittin in New York thinkin I'm in San Francisco Or Sittin in San Francisco thinkin I'm in New York ---- Don't matter -- ****** either way
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36
I'm the quiet one & also the outspoken one. I'm the "gets in arguments at bars with sexist men" one. I'm paint splatters on a white wall. I'm spilt glitter in the carpet. I'm hopeful in the sense that everything has to work out, but i'm not going to actually do anything about it. I'm a lover. Maybe too much, even. But you probably wouldn't see it in me. I'm stand off-ish. I think every car on the highway is going to hit me. I spend hours watching crime show re-runs. I think i'm a "manic pixie dream girl" even though I ******* hate that phrase. I'm a wino. I'm paranoid. I'm reckless. I like to do drugs that take me out of my mind. I'm the kind of person who keeps trinkets, such as old love notes & my high school prom ticket. I guess I'm a hoarder of sorts. A hoarder of nostalgia. I'm a dreamer. I dream way too much. I'm the one who holds on to the good memories & pretends like they're still there, when they're not. I'm clueless but i'm learning (I read that somewhere) I'm the one who watches a movie & afterwards pretends i'm the main character. I'm like sour milk. I'm a jealous person at times. I'm a good soup maker. I'm an even better pen pal. I'm not good with money, but I am good at wasting it. I'm really good at wasting things. I'm a great party hostess, ask anyone. I'm a record lover, a music lover really. I'm the one who has a "Suicide song" and jokes about it. I'm offensive & blunt. I curse too much, but I think people kind of like it. I'm somewhat of a narcissist. why else would I still be writing about myself? I'm a good person. A solid gold oldie. I'm the girl of your dreams if you want me to be. I'm stubborn like my father, who was in a Italian mob, or so he says. Which reminds me, I have "daddy issues" (I also ******* hate that phrase) I'll never tell my secrets. I'm an interrupter. God that must be annoying. I bite my nails. Ever since I was a kid. I look up plane tickets & Airbnb's for fun. I'm teaching myself French. I usually sleep until 1pm. I'm the oldest child, yet need my mom the most. I'm a collector, But nothing of value. I'm magazine clippings & unfinished projects. I'm bad at remembering to take my medicine. I'm impulsive. I'm always on the run. A girl with a plan. Girl, uninterrupted. I'm just me. Whoever that really is.
0
Sep 8, 2020
Sep 8, 2020 at 12:50 AM UTC
girluninterrupted
Who am I?
I'm the quiet one & also the outspoken one. I'm the "gets in arguments at bars with sexist men" one. I'm paint splatters on a white wall. I'm spilt glitter in the carpet. I'm hopeful in the sense that everything has to work out, but i'm not going to actually do anything about it. I'm a lover. Maybe too much, even. But you probably wouldn't see it in me. I'm stand off-ish. I think every car on the highway is going to hit me. I spend hours watching crime show re-runs. I think i'm a "manic pixie dream girl" even though I ******* hate that phrase. I'm a wino. I'm paranoid. I'm reckless. I like to do drugs that take me out of my mind. I'm the kind of person who keeps trinkets, such as old love notes & my high school prom ticket. I guess I'm a hoarder of sorts. A hoarder of nostalgia. I'm a dreamer. I dream way too much. I'm the one who holds on to the good memories & pretends like they're still there, when they're not. I'm clueless but i'm learning (I read that somewhere) I'm the one who watches a movie & afterwards pretends i'm the main character. I'm like sour milk. I'm a jealous person at times. I'm a good soup maker. I'm an even better pen pal. I'm not good with money, but I am good at wasting it. I'm really good at wasting things. I'm a great party hostess, ask anyone. I'm a record lover, a music lover really. I'm the one who has a "Suicide song" and jokes about it. I'm offensive & blunt. I curse too much, but I think people kind of like it. I'm somewhat of a narcissist. why else would I still be writing about myself? I'm a good person. A solid gold oldie. I'm the girl of your dreams if you want me to be. I'm stubborn like my father, who was in a Italian mob, or so he says. Which reminds me, I have "daddy issues" (I also ******* hate that phrase) I'll never tell my secrets. I'm an interrupter. God that must be annoying. I bite my nails. Ever since I was a kid. I look up plane tickets & Airbnb's for fun. I'm teaching myself French. I usually sleep until 1pm. I'm the oldest child, yet need my mom the most. I'm a collector, But nothing of value. I'm magazine clippings & unfinished projects. I'm bad at remembering to take my medicine. I'm impulsive. I'm always on the run. A girl with a plan. Girl, uninterrupted. I'm just me. Whoever that really is.
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72
I remember vividly, Thanksgiving, 1999. I asked my mother for a sip of her wine (Pinot Grigio). She hesitated, then laughed, and let me press my small lips against the rim of the long stem glass. The cool liquid stung the back of my throat as it went down, and I furrowed my brows in disgust. "Why would anyone drink this?" Adult laughter erupted around the table. I didn't smile. I wondered what they knew That I did not. Flash forward. Present day wino with a strong preference for red but a known policy of indifference. I enjoy it now. But every once in a while, I take a sip that stings the back of my throat. And as I furrow my brows in disgust, I remember That I still don't know anything.
0
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
montana
In vino veritas
I remember vividly, Thanksgiving, 1999. I asked my mother for a sip of her wine (Pinot Grigio). She hesitated, then laughed, and let me press my small lips against the rim of the long stem glass. The cool liquid stung the back of my throat as it went down, and I furrowed my brows in disgust. "Why would anyone drink this?" Adult laughter erupted around the table. I didn't smile. I wondered what they knew That I did not. Flash forward. Present day wino with a strong preference for red but a known policy of indifference. I enjoy it now. But every once in a while, I take a sip that stings the back of my throat. And as I furrow my brows in disgust, I remember That I still don't know anything.
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37
Why big relaxing , they come from small things. And why do we go incognito as we self flagellate. with our fix. Or that is the think. Brown bottle with a safety lid.sublimate that devious Id. Brown mood killer to get perky. side effected with herky jerky. Browns and pastels to quell. Feng shwaaaay? Big brown eyes are soothing. Might be better than quay luuuding. that's a bit dusty. End of the line self smoothing. Wino on the tilt. struggles with his back pocket. cant get a good grip on that brown bottle rocket trying mightily to take it to the head. Just trying to brown out and faze out. solutions are myriad. But a one trick pony. Count down to brown......5-4-3........
0
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 7:30 AM UTC
geno-cattouse-1
Brown Bag Solutionist
Why big relaxing , they come from small things. And why do we go incognito as we self flagellate. with our fix. Or that is the think. Brown bottle with a safety lid.sublimate that devious Id. Brown mood killer to get perky. side effected with herky jerky. Browns and pastels to quell. Feng shwaaaay? Big brown eyes are soothing. Might be better than quay luuuding. that's a bit dusty. End of the line self smoothing. Wino on the tilt. struggles with his back pocket. cant get a good grip on that brown bottle rocket trying mightily to take it to the head. Just trying to brown out and faze out. solutions are myriad. But a one trick pony. Count down to brown......5-4-3........
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18
krzyżaka krucjata wedle pruß, co to znaczy krzyż północy! a las matematyką niby skąpy, lecz nawet hojny wyryć las draculii: szereg turka dekapitacji ciał jak niby pod wienną naiwnie ciepłe... laaah, smak ozora mlask! blah! bo ja na krew zgodą pić... pić! gniew w wino a prawda w krew! we chose the Maltese cross as our binding chastity, as our binding to chastity, we that persian girls might giggle / and the whiskey bottle might remain full: for among women we found disharmony and no foetus, let alone the desired harem of our enemy.
0
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 7:46 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
the Maltese crux / krzyżaka krucjata wedle pruß
krzyżaka krucjata wedle pruß, co to znaczy krzyż północy! a las matematyką niby skąpy, lecz nawet hojny wyryć las draculii: szereg turka dekapitacji ciał jak niby pod wienną naiwnie ciepłe... laaah, smak ozora mlask! blah! bo ja na krew zgodą pić... pić! gniew w wino a prawda w krew! we chose the Maltese cross as our binding chastity, as our binding to chastity, we that persian girls might giggle / and the whiskey bottle might remain full: for among women we found disharmony and no foetus, let alone the desired harem of our enemy.
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11
Such wonders you deliver And spread before my path, Like undying rose petals, Formed of the words and images Of our life. Such wonders you provide me, When I thought I was worthless, You proved to me I was special, Worthy of the love you bring to me All my life. Every moment of our lives together You remember, everything, You remember. The silly things I said. All the songs we used to sing. That night we drank blueberry wino-wine, And howled like wolves in the night. Every place I have been, That we have been, You remember it Every bit. Even if you never say, you love me again, It will not matter, for you have shown me, That you love me so much more Than any one woman deserves. All my dreams, of stars and rolling meadows, You have saved them all, you've taken notes, Of every dream, that has ever been mine. How you fashion such joy, You intoxicate me with you dedication, And you must know, I will love you forever, Regardless of how fleeting some think the word to be. Forever I will love you, You are the whole world to me. Why you chose me, I still don't know, But you did, and you've proven, Day after day, That you love me, Though you seldom say those words... But the  wonders you provide me Prove your love for me, Far better, than any words Could ever do.
0
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 8:02 AM UTC
kasandra-curtis
Such Wonders
Such wonders you deliver And spread before my path, Like undying rose petals, Formed of the words and images Of our life. Such wonders you provide me, When I thought I was worthless, You proved to me I was special, Worthy of the love you bring to me All my life. Every moment of our lives together You remember, everything, You remember. The silly things I said. All the songs we used to sing. That night we drank blueberry wino-wine, And howled like wolves in the night. Every place I have been, That we have been, You remember it Every bit. Even if you never say, you love me again, It will not matter, for you have shown me, That you love me so much more Than any one woman deserves. All my dreams, of stars and rolling meadows, You have saved them all, you've taken notes, Of every dream, that has ever been mine. How you fashion such joy, You intoxicate me with you dedication, And you must know, I will love you forever, Regardless of how fleeting some think the word to be. Forever I will love you, You are the whole world to me. Why you chose me, I still don't know, But you did, and you've proven, Day after day, That you love me, Though you seldom say those words... But the  wonders you provide me Prove your love for me, Far better, than any words Could ever do.
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43
late september down at the docks is always fulla sadness. closed up in the civic, parked with steve stills shoutin' "love the one you're with" over the radio, car otherwise quiet like a long sleep. little rounded waves lapping empty moorings, the boats all dragged out & shrink-wrapped 'til next year and fall comin' on in earnest now with summer gone; skies grey but sunset stains the clouds red like th' cheeks of a drunk who cannot brave sobriety as the cold settles the hills in full & even a good book (big sur - duluoz) not doin' any good b/c that old wino jackie k. keeps makin' a mess o' things and goin' back to the sauce. worn out. ~ O this silence! (O this awful fuckin' waiting!)
0
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 2:51 PM UTC
alloyddavies
town docks
late september down at the docks is always fulla sadness. closed up in the civic, parked with steve stills shoutin' "love the one you're with" over the radio, car otherwise quiet like a long sleep. little rounded waves lapping empty moorings, the boats all dragged out & shrink-wrapped 'til next year and fall comin' on in earnest now with summer gone; skies grey but sunset stains the clouds red like th' cheeks of a drunk who cannot brave sobriety as the cold settles the hills in full & even a good book (big sur - duluoz) not doin' any good b/c that old wino jackie k. keeps makin' a mess o' things and goin' back to the sauce. worn out. ~ O this silence! (O this awful fuckin' waiting!)
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19
_ _ , _ _ , 2 0 1 9 is a day gone to the ashes of kismet’s pages the midday zephyrs and wino meditations that ran through streets like rainfall now live in the hippocampus the bright side’s gone with the dark the whole day, for what it was, is no longer and it bugs me out that through any endless combo of permutations and planetary rotations, the same circumstances that built the ground of yesterday will never repeat or will they? I’ll never know like the licks that reduce a Tootsie Pop to crumbs I’m not intelligent, I’m dumb because it took me 27 years to learn the value of 24 hours to learn that a lotus bloom is something to treasure ten times more than scraps of pure gold we are the children of nature what does that make our creations? Humans birthed a cosmos of currencies and chambers of computer generated concoctions. . . are they not descendants of the Mother? In some abstract way? Idk, dude, I’m out of it, if you know me, you know exactly what that means - - but I digress - - It’s just that I never got the chance to tell the day how grateful I was to have it and I now know that wasting time is a luxury modern civilization can enjoy after epochs and eras this day and age is as far from perfect as the brain is from perfection, tech grew faster than the collective consciousness and we still limit worth and love to skin and heteronormativity but at least for a small sliver of time things were, in a single moment . . . pretty good.
0
Aug 4, 2021
Aug 4, 2021 at 6:48 PM UTC
rjrpoetry
Ephemerality
_ _ , _ _ , 2 0 1 9 is a day gone to the ashes of kismet’s pages the midday zephyrs and wino meditations that ran through streets like rainfall now live in the hippocampus the bright side’s gone with the dark the whole day, for what it was, is no longer and it bugs me out that through any endless combo of permutations and planetary rotations, the same circumstances that built the ground of yesterday will never repeat or will they? I’ll never know like the licks that reduce a Tootsie Pop to crumbs I’m not intelligent, I’m dumb because it took me 27 years to learn the value of 24 hours to learn that a lotus bloom is something to treasure ten times more than scraps of pure gold we are the children of nature what does that make our creations? Humans birthed a cosmos of currencies and chambers of computer generated concoctions. . . are they not descendants of the Mother? In some abstract way? Idk, dude, I’m out of it, if you know me, you know exactly what that means - - but I digress - - It’s just that I never got the chance to tell the day how grateful I was to have it and I now know that wasting time is a luxury modern civilization can enjoy after epochs and eras this day and age is as far from perfect as the brain is from perfection, tech grew faster than the collective consciousness and we still limit worth and love to skin and heteronormativity but at least for a small sliver of time things were, in a single moment . . . pretty good.
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35
I’m thinking of a sound Only one sound, specifically one sound It’s a collective sound, like all other sounds Not like an old man’s croon or a young man’s mumble Not like a stoner giggling or wino vomiting Not gravitational sounds Weightless sounds Sounds of flight Transcendence It’s a sound that fills you deep inside The most insidious sound of all Catches your attention and tells you all you need to know You find it wherever you find life Sometimes behind closed doors It’s a projection A motion An output of everything you hold dearest Everything that makes you who you are An expression of what you are, and what you’ve always wanted to be A sound to signify your mounting place in the world A sound for respect A sound for love whenever applicable **** good sound Anti-gravity man It pushes you up and brings you back down But you don’t care Cause you feel it deep inside yourself And you know you’ll never forget hearing it Places may change, time, instance But it’ll always be out there Singing its beating heart out Throwing itself to you, never to be anything else Clarity Perfection Beauty It’s the only sound that keeps us going … … …Subtext: ***
0
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 12:34 AM UTC
danteinfers
Music
I’m thinking of a sound Only one sound, specifically one sound It’s a collective sound, like all other sounds Not like an old man’s croon or a young man’s mumble Not like a stoner giggling or wino vomiting Not gravitational sounds Weightless sounds Sounds of flight Transcendence It’s a sound that fills you deep inside The most insidious sound of all Catches your attention and tells you all you need to know You find it wherever you find life Sometimes behind closed doors It’s a projection A motion An output of everything you hold dearest Everything that makes you who you are An expression of what you are, and what you’ve always wanted to be A sound to signify your mounting place in the world A sound for respect A sound for love whenever applicable **** good sound Anti-gravity man It pushes you up and brings you back down But you don’t care Cause you feel it deep inside yourself And you know you’ll never forget hearing it Places may change, time, instance But it’ll always be out there Singing its beating heart out Throwing itself to you, never to be anything else Clarity Perfection Beauty It’s the only sound that keeps us going … … …Subtext: ***
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39
Red parking sign Car in a lie Man in step Here, we once wept Rolling down the road Got nowhere else to go Silver wheel fantasy Baby, make me believe Whispering nineteen Beneath the silver screen Her button nose wiggled As the stars outside wrinkled Fresh air reflects the sunsets arm's I swear I don't mean any harm Lost in the street where no one goes Screeching North - the home of the black crows Golden lace and lavender perfume Plaintive stares from battling cartoons I picture of a man sits in front of me He stares behind me where it is free Blackball corner pocket with hints of Pinot Everyone has the chance to become their own wino Heaven hangs above our heads like a child's toy When did God become so ********* coy? I play dead in the current of the river Waiting for no one to claim me the winner A fresh start is a promise no one can fulfill On the window rests a blue bottles of pills Libraries are burning The volcanoes are yearning For a sacrificial lamb Who can't write their name in the sand That tiny room of yours Painted yellow and mold Seagulls outside the window Chewing on starfish sinew Shout at that pearly fingernail moon And whistle your favorite ***** tune Hold that knife close tonight I got a feeling nothing ain't right Over the bridge onto a barren highway All I can see are flashing red lights parting Tops down in fifth gear with a suicide case Rolling her fingers over a thing of a mace Liquified fear vanishes from the shirt shot I tell you, some happiness can be bought The streets are clashing in a cultural battle of bass The ****** can only keep up with this pace We are the wounded creations of a battleground Caught between bullets and mortar rounds Interest stirs underneath our feet like an earthquake Shrugging, not giving a **** if we make a mistake
0
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 8:07 PM UTC
ashby-brown
Four Legged' Nights
Red parking sign Car in a lie Man in step Here, we once wept Rolling down the road Got nowhere else to go Silver wheel fantasy Baby, make me believe Whispering nineteen Beneath the silver screen Her button nose wiggled As the stars outside wrinkled Fresh air reflects the sunsets arm's I swear I don't mean any harm Lost in the street where no one goes Screeching North - the home of the black crows Golden lace and lavender perfume Plaintive stares from battling cartoons I picture of a man sits in front of me He stares behind me where it is free Blackball corner pocket with hints of Pinot Everyone has the chance to become their own wino Heaven hangs above our heads like a child's toy When did God become so ********* coy? I play dead in the current of the river Waiting for no one to claim me the winner A fresh start is a promise no one can fulfill On the window rests a blue bottles of pills Libraries are burning The volcanoes are yearning For a sacrificial lamb Who can't write their name in the sand That tiny room of yours Painted yellow and mold Seagulls outside the window Chewing on starfish sinew Shout at that pearly fingernail moon And whistle your favorite ***** tune Hold that knife close tonight I got a feeling nothing ain't right Over the bridge onto a barren highway All I can see are flashing red lights parting Tops down in fifth gear with a suicide case Rolling her fingers over a thing of a mace Liquified fear vanishes from the shirt shot I tell you, some happiness can be bought The streets are clashing in a cultural battle of bass The ****** can only keep up with this pace We are the wounded creations of a battleground Caught between bullets and mortar rounds Interest stirs underneath our feet like an earthquake Shrugging, not giving a **** if we make a mistake
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52
I felt you, Hemingway Ghost lit in pale blood electric lights On the downslope of the Holy Spirit's introspective nightmare Cacophony in the bathroom stall, savages at war in the gutter Kings in their drug fueled conquest of modern man's spatial reasoning Angry cyclops guards the gate to the Fourth ***** Garden of Eden The learned alcoholic in wino wonderland bursting at the seams for a halogen fix Cultist camoflaged in black leather combat boots spiked iron altercation Public domain genocide for the demure nihlist lower class Never give those ******* the satisfaction I felt you in Rapture, like lilac swastikas dripping melted candle wax down my frail spine Blunt force trauma tinged lunacy for the jet engine martyrs, screaming at the empty spaces For the imposters stigmatized by yellow journalist hype men And the psychos just along for the ride Be shameless in your insanity, Be reckless in your love Live forever to spite the mad god that molded your angry heart And **** the sun with your empathy
0
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
tyler-king
Acid Trip #3
I felt you, Hemingway Ghost lit in pale blood electric lights On the downslope of the Holy Spirit's introspective nightmare Cacophony in the bathroom stall, savages at war in the gutter Kings in their drug fueled conquest of modern man's spatial reasoning Angry cyclops guards the gate to the Fourth ***** Garden of Eden The learned alcoholic in wino wonderland bursting at the seams for a halogen fix Cultist camoflaged in black leather combat boots spiked iron altercation Public domain genocide for the demure nihlist lower class Never give those ******* the satisfaction I felt you in Rapture, like lilac swastikas dripping melted candle wax down my frail spine Blunt force trauma tinged lunacy for the jet engine martyrs, screaming at the empty spaces For the imposters stigmatized by yellow journalist hype men And the psychos just along for the ride Be shameless in your insanity, Be reckless in your love Live forever to spite the mad god that molded your angry heart And **** the sun with your empathy
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18
I finally get why humans over history .........repeatedly insist to tattoo upon themselves the names of their lovers: What is writ on the soul, the flesh cannot resist.
0
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
mure
Wino Forever
I finally get why humans over history .........repeatedly insist to tattoo upon themselves the names of their lovers: What is writ on the soul, the flesh cannot resist.
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4
restlessly i wander the early morn looking for the gypsy dreamer looking for one yearning free (like me) .... hey there! lost and afraid me too! hey there! hungry and wondering if anything is real anymore .. maybe we"ll meet (maybe!) .... i'll be here til we do, ya know!---- (or die!) .......... tenement fears alley homeless wino freaks walkin by my side .. i wander the early morn looking for the gypsy dreamer looking for one yearning free (like me) ---- i guess you might say that im lookin for you
0
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 6:07 PM UTC
jeffrey-robin
restlessly
restlessly i wander the early morn looking for the gypsy dreamer looking for one yearning free (like me) .... hey there! lost and afraid me too! hey there! hungry and wondering if anything is real anymore .. maybe we"ll meet (maybe!) .... i'll be here til we do, ya know!---- (or die!) .......... tenement fears alley homeless wino freaks walkin by my side .. i wander the early morn looking for the gypsy dreamer looking for one yearning free (like me) ---- i guess you might say that im lookin for you
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33
Do not be disturbed If I lack the ability To sugar-coat The beautifully human The tragically human Or If I refuse to try rewrite The book of life Do not be disturbed By us Mad mischief-makers Us Multi colored misfits Who wander the market place All dressed up With nowhere to go But here Do not be disturbed By us frenetically tainted Us Silly sprouted beings Who speed the highways On a wild goose chase To wherever Dearest do not be disturbed If I regurgitate Some heavenly-scented hairball From some holy rap sheet From some wasted wobbling wino Do not be disturbed If I smell a rat and show my teeth Do not be disturbed By the impending days ahead When some grizzly goon Some long-clawed nimbat Some long-forgotten ghost Coughs  up and spits in your face Of course be disturbed if you must But the days are short and the hour is nigh The time for braggards and barbies Monsters and missionaries For mystery and myth Will soon quietly pass away And you wont be able To hear a pin drop Dearest Do not be disturbed.
0
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 6:02 AM UTC
tara-liz-driscoll
Do Not Be Distrubed
Do not be disturbed If I lack the ability To sugar-coat The beautifully human The tragically human Or If I refuse to try rewrite The book of life Do not be disturbed By us Mad mischief-makers Us Multi colored misfits Who wander the market place All dressed up With nowhere to go But here Do not be disturbed By us frenetically tainted Us Silly sprouted beings Who speed the highways On a wild goose chase To wherever Dearest do not be disturbed If I regurgitate Some heavenly-scented hairball From some holy rap sheet From some wasted wobbling wino Do not be disturbed If I smell a rat and show my teeth Do not be disturbed By the impending days ahead When some grizzly goon Some long-clawed nimbat Some long-forgotten ghost Coughs  up and spits in your face Of course be disturbed if you must But the days are short and the hour is nigh The time for braggards and barbies Monsters and missionaries For mystery and myth Will soon quietly pass away And you wont be able To hear a pin drop Dearest Do not be disturbed.
Continue reading...
47