Long Hangover Poems
Long Hangover Poems. Below are the most popular long Hangover by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hangover poems by poem length and keyword.
Anima balances Animus
In a dance of fathomless rhythm
The hangover reaches the consciousness
The cherry tree goes on blossoming spree beside the sea
I find myself delving deep with the emotions by her hands set free
In the warmly maternal hearth
Are my malted moments of mystic mirth
Never any dearth in perceiving the coffee cup held up
Anima has at all times been most pleasurably giving birth
To a variety of rain and thunder in an awesomely good earth
Anima is generous in beckoning under her brackish breath
A momentary death underneath is euphoric in its affinitive depth
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April 27, 2016
For: Anima – Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Tom Quigley
Monday morning comes alive with the piston train speeding by, thousands of people gather at the gate and crowd the platform before it was too late.
Monday morning full of passion with hangover lingering in the shower, a change of clothes and alcohol on breath the impatient driver is starving to death but a passenger was just in time to save his life with a mug of coffee, spicy donuts, and cinnamon bagel. He has an appetite as big as a lark and when his passenger emerges from the dark he flips the script.
Monday morning stumble through the street and the traffic and city sound disrupt my heart beat; business women and business men tunnel through the crowd and the vendors on the other side bellowing in the air selling merchandise in the early morning.
Everyone with conceited mind presses through the thick crowd and everyone talking very loud and even the quiet one expose his ambitions.
The crowd in the street began to swell and the small school bus and big trucks rubbing side by side speeding down the street trying to outdo one another and the children scream and shout and laugh out loud when the driver pull away from each other.
Cars and van honking their horn as the traffic converge at the stoplight and an impatient fellow came out of nowhere and speed through the crowd and collide in a big tree on the side of the road.
There you go again; the traffic lined up around the bend and
the cops were swift to pick up the dead and the traffic come to a standstill.
The ambulance began to shout with red lights blazing from the hill and busy nurses in the back resuscitating the deceased back to life but it was a feat on which destiny rely.
The traffic began to flow and a radiant light burst through the sky and lit up the entire street.
Across the distant the sound of the Piston train has completed the sixth round and destiny billows through the angry town.
It did not stop at the usual stops and the people were unhappy about that, but the train picks up the speed and continue to barreled down the street.
It got out of control and Monday morning began to roll and the piston train empty its contents in the bush and set ablaze.
And birds in the bushes gather around to give their condolences to the relics scattered on the ground and the Piston train broke in several pieces.
Cancerville
Cancer is completely indifferent to 5K beat cancer runs
and pink fight cancer ribbons and fervent prayers and
candle lightings and novenas and incense and myrrh.
Cancer has no hate or love for us. We're their Earth.
Chemo wasn't a walk in the park nor walking on hot coals.
"good days and bad". It was managed. The "cure" is ironic.
Bring the patient near death. Kill the cells, good and bad.
Let the body recover and scan to look for dead tumors. :-)
In Cancerville we all have ports to pump us with chemo.
Pour in the heavy metals and Mustard gas derivatives.
We all puke and **** accidentally. Think of your worst
hangover times 10. Oddly we want to continue to live on.
Time crawls at a snail's pace in Cancerville; wait and despair.
MRI's and Scans and blood work. Expecting the worst always!
Cancerville is a casino where you can only bet your life.
It's a game of chance in Cancerville. Bets against the house.
Laying down in my queen sized bed
All kind of painful aches
inside my head
Looking up my room slowly spinning
Last night I drank and drank
My thoughts I'm WINNING!!!
Looking around the room feeling so dumb
Can barely move legs
I'm weak & I'm numb
The smell of alcohol
A liquor stench on my breath
Don't know what I was trying to do to myself ..my health
Silly me... in the bed
Losing my sanity
The smell of cigarettes my hair/ my clothes
The smell of Hennessy Vodka and Moscato up my nose
All I know right now my Brain cells dead
Can't say that I was spiritually fed
Time to get up brush teeth gargle and bathe
I have to rollover
This is the story of my hangover
He couldn’t recall an event
Or a time or even a place
Somehow he knew he knew
That approaching smiling face.
A night of flowing drinks
A night of many toasts
A night of copious alcohol
Supplied by generous hosts
A night of drunken wandering
Strange street intersections
Of turning left instead of right
A night off wrong directions.
Welcoming arms
To his surprise
To be replaced
By moans and sighs.
Coming suddenly awake in
A strange love wrecked bed
A fast emerging hangover
Pounding through his head.
Not his house
Not his room
An awful sense of
Impending doom.
The act of quietly dressing
To creep down a strange stair
Unobserved she watched him
Emerge into crisp morning air.
A night of unbridled passion
Of giving and taking
A night of unexpected and
Passionate love making
Silently she’d watched the stranger
As he disappeared from her sight
Contentedly musing on those
Ships that pass in the night.
Now he’d returned her smile
Though not knowing why
And the moment was gone
As they passed each other by.
Take me back to 2003
the world in front of me
at the age of just 18
naive exploratory
athletic grungy
high or grumpy
girlfriend hunting
drink drug slumping
fresh faced and firm
breezy absent concern
working out for the burn
rewarding spliffs in return
Hangover..... what's that?
get smashed, get back,
no course, no track
no thoughts, no facts
Limp Bizkit Linkin Park
Who Let The Dogs Out our bark
Eminem topped the chart
subwoofers rocked the cars
3 Lions on my shirt
penalty shoot out hurt
Red Rose on my shirt
England beat the Earth
2000 hid the beacon
01 my sport was peaking
02 girls heavy breathing
03 now lets repeat it
A week after surgery
my body still thinks it’s on vacay~
lounging in a hammock somewhere
between nap and nope.
The doctors say the anesthesia
left the building ages ago,
swept out by my liver and kidneys
like bouncers who don’t mess around.
But try telling that
to the sloth currently renting my spine.
This drowsiness, this brain fog,
this who replaced my energy with wet cardboard feeling~
apparently it’s not leftover drugs,
just my cells sitting in a staff meeting
trying to recalibrate.
I imagine them gathered around a table:
tiny cellular accountants
shuffling papers, muttering,
“We’ve been through a lot, folks.
Let’s all take five… or fifty.”
Meanwhile, I wander the house
like a slow-motion ghost,
forgetting what I came into the room for,
forgetting what I forgot,
forgetting that I forgot the forgetting.
It’s a surgical hangover they say~
not the anesthesia lingering,
but my whole system catching its breath,
like it just ran a marathon
without telling me.
So here I am:
wrapped in blankets,
moving at the speed of continental drift,
waiting for my cells
to finish their existential regrouping.
Until then,
I honor the sloth within~
my sluggish, sleepy,
post-operative spirit animal~
who refuses to leave
and honestly?
It might just deserve a tiny medal.
Oh my!
Halloween night
Of fun and spooky fright
Moonlight creating flickering
Shadows
Children
Quite elated
Trick-or-treating with friends
Who’s creepiest with make-up and
Costumes
Evening
Getting cooler
Night is getting darker
Children walking with bright flashlights
Chilling
Goblins,
Haunted houses,
Black cats, witches on brooms,
Owls hoot, bats silhouette the moon
Eerie!
Carved out
Spooky pumpkins
Glowing flickering eyes
Watch out for small ghost and goblins
Door sign
Grumpy
Children to bed
Sick with crampy tummies
Halloween candy hangover
Nightmares
10/17/2015
Children Story
My parents didn’t celebrate Halloween so I didn’t have the pleasure of the fun ... I always made my boys their costumes and painted their faces. When Halloween evening came around my friends and I would walk our children around the safe neighbor hoods.
They used to have so much fun.
Back in the eighties, wild and free..
A golden time for you and me.
We'd ride our bikes through streets unknown..
No screens, no apps.. just flesh and bone.
Vinyl spun and cassettes played loud..
Walkmans made us feel so proud.
Sunday sessions, pub lights dim..
Happy hour.. middies brimmed.
Beaches burned with summer’s glow..
Boardies, sunburn, sand in tow.
Bonfires crackled, smoke rose high..
Underneath the star-lit sky.
Dating boys with puffy hair..
Lipstick smudged but didn’t care.
Waiting by the phone each night..
Waiting for a call, he said he might.
No ATMs—our cash was king..
Hard-earned dollars, ching ching ching.
Weekend drives to hunt for fuel..
Breaking our parents curfew rule.
Holden Kingswoods, Toranas too..
Panel vans with wicked crews.
Number Three Carpark.. burnouts spun..
Late-night laughs and endless fun.
Roller & Ice skating, ice so slick..
WAFL games and goal-side kicks.
Live bands shook the pubs at night..
Fake IDs for the bouncer to sight.
Ravenswood drags and bogans galore..
No respect for the rules or law.
Chiko rolls and Fast Eddys feeds..
Hangover cures.. a friend in need.
Fireworks lit the sky so bright..
Parties raged through endless nights.
Australia Day, we stood so proud..
Singing anthems strong and loud.
Sunday roasts with family near..
Good mates laughing, ice-cold beer.
Life was simple, bold, and fast..
A time we knew would never last.
Now we look back, hearts so full..
The eighties had that magic pull.
No likes, no texts.. just love and grace..
Those were the days, our golden place.
We had breakfast on the Champs-Élysées this morning at Café Joyeux. Their croquet monsieur (a breakfast sandwich) was to die for - one bite can cure a hangover. They also serve a deep, rich Yirgacheffee coffee (€15 a cup) that I think God stirs with his little pinkie finger - it’s THAT good.
We took up most of the little outdoor, oval tables on the right side (there are 10 of us) and our little sorority was noisy with chatter - earning us looks. Our European vacation culminates today. We’re flying back to Georgia in a couple of hours. June seemed to drain away like water.
The minion my Grandmère charged with coordinating our vacation, François, breakfasted with us. He’s one of the flock of Sorbonne Université MBAs she recruits each year to infuse new energy into her conglomerates.
He briefed us on our departure and flight. His imposition of definitive order and advance planning allowed us a casual and carefree sense of travel. In an ideal world, he’d coordinate my entire life.
He’s been on-call all month but joined us, off and on - like when we arrived in Doublin, at customs, to smoothly guide us through and again, similarly, in Paris.
He’s 26, very handsome and model looking. He’s perfectly tailored, with an elegant yet minimalist style. He wears dark shirts of admiral and yale blue with long black jackets and gray slacks with no tie. His hair is a hipster straight, blonde fringe.
He’s so perfect that I wouldn’t put it past my Grandmère to have placed him in front of me, like bait, to see if something with us sparked-off.
He’s Frenchly brisk and yet dryly solicitous - as if I have the power to sanction his position, which, in a way I suppose I do.
“How’s François doing?” Grandmère would ask, each time we talked.
“He’s wonderful,” I said, “I think he’s a keeper.”
“Good, good for him.” she would reply - making the comment sound almost sly.