Best Dribbling Poems
Daylight is greeted with the horrific stench of food chunks
swimming in stomach acid, dribbling onto bed sheets.
Accompanied with the embarrassment of
brown syrup puddle stains.
Head is pounding
like a hammer - hammering nails into the skull.
Cumbersome movements drag drowsy flesh to the mirror,
as bloodshot eyes with yellow hue, glare in reflection.
Exhausted hands rub dense stubble,
as heavy eye lids struggle to stay open.
A cocktail of coffee and a cold shower
comfort this somber slumber.
Mouthwash and mints help disguise
the fragrance of yesterday's session with Bourbon.
Continuous sips of water, attempt to quench sultry thirst,
but the blandness cannot douse untamed flames.
Especially as days consist of sitting
surrounded by monotonous blank walls,
and staring at cracks on a vase -
silently watching wilted flowers crumble.
Struggling to defeat temptation from fermented demons,
summoned by cravings for that burning sensation,
the tongue cries for mercy.
Infiltrates the mind luring it to
lust for sour liquid passion
that infuses the bloodstreams.
Hands trembling, parched lips quivering -
only golden nectar can ease the pain.
No need for a glass, as bottle is devoured,
with momentary pauses of 'aaahhhhh.'
So begins the daily quest,
to suffocate every sorrow.
To feel numb upon request,
with no care for tomorrow.
Favouring fantasy over reality,
each drop kills the pain.
The bitter sweet taste is a lethal injection,
but the numbness helps to feel perfection.
In a place where nobody notices -
alcoholic symphonies lead to intoxicated sympathy.
To deal with being alone, to forget the world,
to forget the name.
Envious eyes can be a crime,
leading to jealous tendencies.
Hiding secrets can lead to becoming a victim
to a self inflicted demise.
An empty bottle leads to remorse.
Bitter sweet tears roll with shameful giggles.
Now the cracked vase looks perfect with flowers blooming.
Inebriant melodies mock the mind.
Attempting to dance, legs stumble and crash to the ground.
Laying there on the floor - laughing.
Then crying hysterically.
The heart has no desire to be sober,
only to remain intoxicated until death.
The Silent One
20 October 2017
Bloody rude drunken pen has enjoyed a nib of ink or two, reminiscing on a few
Bad and ugly times, we both admit at times things were, a bit of a mess,
All kinds of intertwined, confused but along the way making some progress
On the grand masterpiece of all masterpieces – writing bliss
At first polite, we take in turns, to interject with collaborative words,
Until the air hits us hard, take a breath, where’s your etiquette, manners and respect,
My turn pen, I command, continue on to write, scribbling like an erratic bird’s nest.
Pen resists and spits its ink, a dirty blob from its nib…how rude
All smudged and slurred is a dribbling rambling of everything crude
Across the page leaking its ink, clearly from excessive drink
Dancing on thin ice, my drunken pen decides to try and entice
Inviting me to envelope, his muscular body with smooth fingers
Such fraternisation you drunken sleaze, how do you expect to please
The love of your life, giving you permission to write and express your ink with ease
Drunken pen is at a loss as reflects on his drunken state, its very late
Blubbering relaxed words across the page, deep within and obscure
Then I realise that my drunken pen is sometimes a little insecure
He has a way of making me melt when I think of his 50 shades of blue
Each drink of ink that fills his nib, that prints our words, that stains my skin
Is in every way the partnership of creative bliss and my perfect hue
2nd October 2012
Written for Drunken Pen - Part 2 Contest
7/9/20
"Sickening"
This is sickening
And quickening
Not at all, what I was envisioning
Nobody listening
Most chickening
Fidgeting
And limiting
Themselves to the point of being crippling
The effects rippling
And tripling
On top of it, we've got social distancing
Still dribbling
I've been chiseling
And scribbling
No matter what has been incoming
Pivoting
And occasionally grimacing
The temperature freezing, cold, mild or sizzling
The weather icy, windy, calm, scorching or drizzling
Clowns continue giggling
Petty people are still belittling
Over every little thing
Not all that riveting
It's becoming uninteresting
Sometimes I sip, sometimes I swig
Sometimes I flip the script
Even though sometimes it's rigged
Before opportunities are shriveling
And dwindling
Got to get it quickly
And differently
Meanwhile all senses are tingling
The bats in the steeple were feeding on people
By sucking the blood splattered wood
That came from the coffin a vampire dropped off in
When he’d drunk all the blood that he could
Here in my basement, my permanent placement
I lurk since the day that I died
At rest in my casket, my skull in a basket
My hideous grin gaping wide
Rats and mice squeaking a rusty hinge creaking
A slither of light from outside
My long severed head was rotted and dead
But gasped as the door opened wide
I lifted my lid as some hooded kid
Crept sneakily into my crypt
He soon spun about and he might have run out
If only he hadn’t have slipped
As he hit the deck he shattered his neck
I thought he was bound to be dead
But then as he stood, he lowered his hood
And then he un-swivelled his head
He gave me a wink as a hideous stink
Came gushing with smoke from his ears
He then started hissing through teeth that were missing
He looked like he’d been dead for years
I climbed from my tomb and stood in the room
Where demons would hide out all day
Until in the night they’d screech their delight
And frighten the vicar away
But this little fellow with skin that was yellow
And nails that were long curly claws
Let out a howl, an unholy wail
Then went back and bolted the doors
Like rattles at Wembley, my bones were all trembly
My teeth were all chattering too
My wee wee was dribbling and let’s not be quibbling
I thought I was going to poo
It’s usually nice that we can’t die twice
So people down here dwell forever
I then realised that everyone dies
And now I’m not feeling too clever
For my turn came first, to enter the hearse
My beautiful love left alone
In these years apart she’s been in my heart
But hell’s darkest hole has no phone
So how could it be this thing before me
Could desecrate my sacred rest
I needed it banished, It had to be vanished
Along with the worms in its chest
I watched every worm wriggle and squirm
I jumped at the twelfth hour chime
In life we take knocks through the ticks and the tocks
But we can’t fight the passing of time
So...
In spite of the stink, I started to think
Which gave me the fright of my life
I had to make room in a new double tomb
For that hideous thing was my wife!
Entered October 2021 in Your Personal Favorite No 2
Sponsor L Milton Hankins
"Uncircumnavigated"
Just Around the Corner ...
How did you write
your way
into my story?
A Wolf
and
a Fox
Blitzkrieg.
The rompers
romp in…
This is unprecedented, unwanted,
Silence is Golden
I walk to the beach
and back breathless
cool
you;
me,
debating always debating
internal
within
the uncircumnavigated tracks,
feral white rabbit
marks his mark
Clocks His time
in
Time
the city skyline,
recalcitrant, shading, delicious
Light in Dark Night
winks back
ridiculously knowing
winks back
How did you write
your way
into my story?
When I had already written
keys and locks into
the Chinese Puzzle Box
locked
locked
locked
and then,
unheralded
inconsequential
YOU
bourgeois
gauche calculating intellect
breeze in…
Hornet bites
honey bee
Gold
dribbling
(LadyLabyrinth/ 2019)
"When" / Elysian Fields
(for The Beloved and in honor of Arthur Rimbaud)
… the magnolias are far away – still, I sing, begging
them for bridges to
brood with stanzas of butterflies
in the suffocation around and
heat mocking the sea where once we walked the shore
beneath the cruel commas of hawks
showering seraphimic curses,
pink roses upon storms
flung upward from spotted, inverted baskets, northern Iranian
mountains
aching
praying
wandering
the cavern between the olive-minuet of your eyes and
mine absconding their color from above and knitted by
anguished waves stumbling, floundering
into lunar mercury,
the slant of scouring rain
throwing blue into our faces
in cadences
dribbling from
lemons and leaves of tea, strong with riots
of black peppers hurting our tongues
along the central street
of our knowing, speaking
silence
without riddles
yet wrapped about our shoulders
with brazen mysteries hovering above
the staring magnolias
which now have crowded in...
… though I still sing
and always will...
… of you...
She’s as dry as a woman can be
No longer wet from dribbling wee
She’s got 'Tom' in her pants
She can run, she can dance
No more leaks, she is now so carefree
30th March 2015
That was the summer...
Of watermelon fields, and hot, humid days
Of suntanned traces, and mosquito-bit faces
When the purpose of knees
Was to be skinned
Of running down a country road
Bare feet on hot asphalt
Criss-crossing across an open field
Helping ourselves
To thick pink crimson chunks
That melted cool on sun-parched tongues
Dribbling from chins
Leaving the best part
The black bullet seeds
To be spit out in rapid fire
Against the wind
Against the dusty ground
Against each other
And when the ammunition was spent
A pillowed head, among the vines
To dream on clouds that whispered by
In the blue afternoon sky
That watermelon summer
___________________________________________________________
For Skat's Contest: Summer
Yesterday when I stood before him, he spoke my name
Today, I still stand, but the floorboards are cold
and he no longer knows the color of my eyes.
With each spoonful of the steaming grey I lift my arms,
Up, then down, again and again, a repeated motion – weeping,
My arms are trembling with the weight of the spoon
that holds in its cupped womb my raw, injured soul.
Father, I say, in a voice cold from straining not to break
I prod away the soup dribbling down his chin, gently.
The wrinkled hands are limp at his sides, lost.
What should be mad and free is caged within me; fluttering
feebly, thumping about in a circle of broken pieces
The look in his blank eyes has labeled me a stranger
But when they are closed my name is written on his face.
Today is a dank day
veiling a sullen sun;
cloudy and overcast
with shifting shadows as
breezes blow hard and fast.
Today is a dank day,
dribbling droplets of rain
water a thirsty earth;
nurturing Nature and
hastening Spring's rebirth.
Today is a dank day
melting white into green,
dabbing it on the trees;
and promoting sprouting,
the soil starts to unfreeze.
Today is a dank day,
drizzling April showers;
yet, it's a sign that Spring
is indeed on Her way;
to teach songbirds to sing.
On that rainy night
Near her home,
At the distance,
A lone electric lamp shone;
Raindrops dribbling ,seen
Flickering in its light.
She might have been sleeping then.
I was driving my car
In the rain
towards my distant home
in the city.
I stared into the mirror today.
I saw you -
a needled zealot
hovering around my left shoulder;
Adolph Hitler dressed in
opium-perfumed swatches.
You smelled like her.
You acted like him.
You looked like me.
Swastika tall and evenly abhorrent.
Syringe-insured yet,
never sharp enough to
successfully stab
outside the 50-point cork.
You slithered like a quadroplegic,
into my stratum.
Pointing and probing
a crooked finger -
never healing
the martyr's wound.
A broken grimace leaves me
ugly flesh to ponder.
Your tentacles:
toothless cleavers eclipse
black-dilated pupils,
servicing our
boomeranged arms
with dingoed malice -
peppermint leaves and peroxide boil
as the living corpse cackles.
Mussolini removed
thirteen quieted quills
from his heart
shortly before the noose was tied.
Into square knots.
Into napkin pleats.
Into a poet's silence - where
our self-induced stupor
was dragged upon
spiked cobblestones -
and for that,
my dear Stalin beauty;
I sew my spit into
vile words -
dribbling purposely
upon this diseased
cotton-swabbed
canvas
for you
and I
to clean.
Humpty Dumpty was in fact a selfish king. A narcissist with a harem of women, many who were under the age of sixteen. He was quite large and disfigured, due to his royal ancestors marrying siblings to preserve their blood. His mum was also his aunt and his dad was also his uncle in relation. He was a hunchback and could hardly walk. He was bold and had a pale complexion with a very small neck and drooping cheeks. He spoke with a lisp and stuttered, always dribbling. He was very cruel and treated his servants very bad. One small mistake like too much sugar in his tea would result in having their heads chopped off. Despite having many wives, he was unable to have children, so he executed six of his sisters, but one remained. Was she the one who pushed him?
King Humpty Dumpty
was a bit of a prat.
A narcissist numpty,
really ugly and fat.
An evil psychopath,
who loved a good bloodbath.
Those afraid of his wrath,
would stay clear from his path.
He was such a rotten egg -
put a foot wrong and you're dead.
Loved to see his servants beg,
all he gave them was some bread.
Unable to have a kid.
He was empty down below.
All fun he would forbid,
or a tantrum we would throw.
His mum felt so much shame,
his behaviour was insane.
In dishonouring their name,
she wanted to end his reign.
Murdered six of his siblings,
but failed to kill the last one.
She was sick of his quibblings,
so she went on the run.
Humpty was a bit small,
servants had to move him around.
Loved to sit on that wall,
to watch kids in the playground,
but no witness would tell,
about that fateful day,
when he stumbled and fell,
nothing - no one would say.
Now Humpty did not die,
but the damage was severe.
He couldn't speak nor cry,
braindead he would appear.
His sister now returned,
to rule the land as queen.
With all the lessons learned,
she promised to never be obscene.
I'm a raindrop on the window pane
Running here, there, nowhere but down.
Lost in the cool flurries of rain
As the storm dons its liquid gown.
Deep in my soul a reflection of you
Magnifying the memories and grief.
The years we had now seem so few
Our rainbows seem so very brief.
I raindrop down the dark abyss
So futile seem the echoes of fun.
I pool in how sorely I miss
Our liquid laughter in the sun.
Raindrop, raindrop going nowhere at all
Dribbling slowly down memory lane.
I drip and droop and languidly fall
In stagnant pools filled with pain.
In my heart the memories lie,
Your rainbows dance and sway.
So many storms have passed me by
Since you left and went away.
Upon a sullied slate sky
of alabaster and aquamarine,
floats a formidable flotilla
of charcoal-colored clouds.
And on this mild, melancholy
mid-March day;
they dawdle, dribbling drops of rain
in sporadic Spring showers.
Winter's white wonderland
seasonally salted with brindled blotches,
magically melts away;
revealing rough-woven, ragged patches
of grassy green.
When Winter's weakened grip gives way,
bulbs freed from frosty tombs;
are awakened by the tap, tap, tap,
of April's tepid tears.
And straightaway,
snowdrops, crocuses, and tulips
suddenly start sprouting;
simultaneously sending shoots skyward.
Color taunts the blandness of this dull day
as a robin redbreast abruptly appears;
defying drizzling drops of grey
with its crimson chest,
ornately on display.