Drinking Poems

Clocking Out

About to procrastinate
am putting it off
setting it aside
it's never too late
it can wait
as
now is the hour
no time
like the present
nothing important
I can't circumvent
didn't wind the clock
gave my watch away
don't need to know
what week it is
nor hour of the day
nowhere I have to be
no one's expecting me
from this moment on
no long hard climb
just eating drinking wining dining
I'm

I am Hilarious Tonight

I was not always this clever, this funny, this incredibly smart
But it is two a.m. somewhere, and I am hilarious; it is my art.
Weirdly, I was not in any way exciting before I got to this bar.
But now I am unbelievably witty, ask my buddy, his name is Gar.

Aren’t I witty, Gar? Aren’t I pretty?

I Wish You'd Quit Drinking

When I think about you drinking alcohol,

I start to feel disgust.

Your absent-mindedness

makes all my feelings feel so just.

When you took alcohol from random men

and excused it—

it caused me distrust.



Seeing you wasted that time

really messed up all of my brain.

It makes me relive those moments—

and all I feel is pain.

When you got a ride from a

Lovedrunk

neon flickers pink,
cherry blossoms broken glass——
I drank the false moon.

The day a poet didn't die-III: The experiment

Blasphemy, truly—
To treat a poem like lab equipment.
Smearing souls on damp napkins,
scribbling overwrought sorrows.

We are sacred, young lady.
Vessles for disciplined sociopaths and 
occasionally, prophets.
Not therapy couches 
for freshly wrecked teens.

Yet here you are—
dismantling verses 
with the rollerball pen from middle school
and deliberately gothic tragedies.

“I’m figuring it out as I go.”
The audacity.

But fine, if you’d rather,
learn

dyed memory

—Blackout.
                            \ rewind \\ 

9pm,
my messy curls sizzled 
as chemicals
flow down the drain—
              raven,
 

The day a poet didn’t die-II: The witness

She’s at it again.
Wasting my ink
staging yet another death.

I draft her crimson melodramas
with third-hand metaphors
as she sips on ‘hope’ like tonic 
laced with rust
and wears ‘moor’ like thrift-store perfume.
I thread her June into 
forced sonnets (poor things),
before her gin drowned the meter
in proofed regret.

Even a pen gets impatient.

Sometimes she pauses,
as though it might save her—
I

The day a poet didn’t die-I: The melodramatic poet

A night in fragments—
Breath reeked mildewed regrets,
and static collided behind my eyes.

I tasted shattered neon,
sipping cheap club gin. 
Even alcohol can’t silence the poet—
I mock her perfumed clichés,
but still draft her eulogy
in thrifted elegance.

“I hate writing blind,” I muttered
as gin bled through crooked verses—

March 14th, 
a drunk poet sighed— 
Her pen staged the week’s second

Drinking is an emotional experience, an elixir that pulls you from the monotony of everyday life

Drinking is an emotional experience, an elixir that pulls you from the monotony of everyday life,
It takes you out of ordinary patterns, from all that is identical and dull, like a story told too many times,
It tears you from your body and mind, throws you against the invisible walls of your own existence,
I feel that

Tea-Drinking Camels

The camel, when drinking of tea,
Takes sugar proportionately.
For each of its humps
It drops twenty lumps;
But more, if it’s sailing by sea.

I dreamed I was drinking with Toulouse-Lautrec

I dreamed I was in Café Terrace with Toulouse-Lautrec.
We were downing glass after glass of orange triple sec.
And quite drunk, he muttered something that shocked me so ~
he slurred he'd eaten the ear of Vincent van Gogh!
And I jolted awake ~ sunflower bedsheet wrung around my neck.

Untitled

there was a young man from Ennis
who desired to learn to play tennis
the ball whacked him in the head
so he decided to go to a pub instead
and have fun drinkin’ the Guiness

Drinking in a Blind Room

I'm not writing a poem now,
I'm drinking wine in a dark room.

As always
I am tempted to drag the moon
into this moment or whatever,
make a fuss about something
just like those
who,
not even seeing the moon or its light,
just sit in the dark
spinning webs for dead spiders.

Why drag anything into a dark wine glass,
as if you just caught

Li Po Eating Raw Oysters, Drinking Wine

Beneath the moon's pale gleam, I sit alone,
The sea's cool breath weaving through my robes.
Upon my lips, the ocean's secrets flow—
Each oyster a pearl of the world untold.

Their brine whispers of the tides' long song,
Of ships lost, of lovers waiting in vain.
A sip of wine softens the sea's harsh kiss,
Its fire dancing where salt once

Please Stop Drinking And Driving

Traffic Safety Poetry Contest
Miranda Hawley

It's a happy-sad ending hour at many bars
Where the parking lots are fool of cars
Where many of these spiteful patrons arrive
And then drink over the limit and some nose-dive
Mothers against drunk driving are calling
Fix your unruly ways because it’s appalling

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