Long Liquor Poems
Long Liquor Poems. Below are the most popular long Liquor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Liquor poems by poem length and keyword.
The cob webbed city sticks to my dirty skin,
as I pass through its predator strings.
On the corners are hustlers, men with wigs and worn heels,
selling their wares, fighting with women,
over property rights.
Traffic moves slow, crawling along like a large slug,
melting into the blacktop.
Your eyes get accustom to waves of heat,
rising like dragons from the burning street.
The musky smell of filth singes the air,
while old men linger by drug stores and bars,
smoking old cigarettes they found, coughing.
Hey buddy, do you have a light, some change?
Still, I'm alone.
A wanderer, born from tainted soil,
surviving on wits and will.
Stopping at every liquor store and chili parlor,
searching for pennies.
Knowing each minute as a day,
as I stick on the soles of society's shoes.
A reminder they don't want to see.
That young is old when left to fend for themselves,
and evil is a weapon never born from a gentle touch.
Gray days are constant,
as life becomes motion with unintended reasons.
Stopping long enough to disappear in the city's web.
People passing by see only dirty shoulders and backs,
leaning against graffiti walls,
trying to stay out of the rain,
until the doors open and the soup line moves.
It's there I feel human, before wandering back,
to my rags and cardboard.
I'll try to sleep away despair as humanity passes by,
with their cold collective misunderstanding of misery and pain,
carried on the backs of the unfortunate homeless,
as we lay in the garbage of society's world,
crying without tears, holding on,
until we just let go and fall into the abyss,
where our bodies are then removed as Jane Doe.
contest A Poem Time Forgot
The glass is not a door to peace,
It only teaches noise to cease;
It dims the clocks inside my chest,
Yet leaves the deeper wounds unrest.
The whiskey does not kill the ache,
It teaches pain a softer shape;
The grief remains beneath the skin,
But speaks in whispers, not a din.
A burning river, amber bright,
Flows through the caverns of the night;
The world grows distant, slow, and wide,
Like stars dissolved in a darker tide.
I do not drink to learn to fly,
The bottle never lifts the sky;
It bends the map, distorts the land,
And puts new shadows in my hand.
For every ghost I try to drown,
Returns adorned with golden crowns;
The liquor grants them velvet tongues,
And lets them sing through aging lungs.
The room becomes a drifting sea,
Where memory unbuttons me;
Old loves emerge from salted deep,
The wounds I buried lose their sleep.
And in that haze I sometimes find
The hidden gears behind the mind;
How every joy and every scar
Were always nearer than they are.
But morning comes with honest eyes,
And strips the gilding from the lies;
The bottle never held the key,
It only lent the dark to me.
So here's the truth the glasses hide:
No ocean waits on the other side;
The drink's a mirror, cracked and thin,
Reflecting what was locked within.
Mr Clint Eastwood, one top dollar guy
Other film makers just watch him and sigh
With back catalogues they can sit back and rest on
Our Clint has released a brand new neo-western
Cry Macho’s the title, I’ve not seen it yet
But it will be ‘wicked’ on that you can bet
My wife said that cowboy is ninety years old
He won’t stampede horses he won’t dig for gold
I told her I don’t know what it’s all about
But Hollywood know how will figure it out
Maybe he’ll shoot folk and watch them all die
And then tell his nurse he can’t remember why
That one time gunslinger, occasional singer
Gets on screen come ons from each passing humdinger
There’s cheroots and liquor, yet what he wants most
A box of viagra… he might need a gross
I mean no offence to that great fellow, Clint
Who gets propositioned by each passing bint
If my ridicule seems a tad over zealous
Don’t worry, Clint… it’s just that I’m jealous!
She sprinted through a rugged woods
Away from free loading fathers and filthy no-goods,
Away from tear soaked teddy bears and lungs filled with smoke.
She found herself unmoving, crying in the arms of a weeping willow oak.
She is what remains of a fractured household,
A rotten tapestry of liquor stains, bruised bodies, and secrets untold.
She imagined what lied beyond the waterfall of misery that cascaded infinitely over her,
For she was stuck observing the world in a melancholy blur
Her blistered ankles fell weak and she crumpled towards the ground,
Peering up at a glistering light that left her wonderstruck, spellbound
She made out the shape of a body descending from above
They gazed at each other, her eyes as doleful as a mourning dove
He whispered in her ear as softly as the whistling wind,
Leaving her once perpetually dark world seeming only to be dimmed
He held out his hand to her and urged her to run away
To a place called Neverland, a world where all somber thoughts are kept at bay.
Though it seemed of her to be giving in to her broken mentality,
She longed for an escape from pain and poison personality.
As they floated above her home town,
She suddenly couldn't hear bottles shattering or doors breaking down.
She felt the pain lift from her small frame,
And the inferno of sadness that burned interminably was but a flickering flame.
They sailed across the second star to the right and flew straight on ‘till morning
She hadn't prepared for the wondrous sight before her that came with no warning
She broke through clouds that brushed her face with cotton candy kisses,
The world of true happiness and ephemeral sunshine was once real only in her wishes.
It was in the land of everlasting childhood that she was freed of all regrets,
And she held flowers between her fingers instead of cigarettes
Her face was flushed with shades of pink instead of black and blue,
And she decided it was time to write her story anew.
That night she traded her tattered nightgown for rags and a dirty fur coat,
She chose put her past in a bottle and set it afloat.
In that moment she could feel her true identity come unbound,
They called her Lost Girl, but in that moment she never felt more found.
Take The Dagger From My Heart, Please -2- Poetry Contest
N/A- 100 in a ROW contest--15 9/24/16
Any night endless, in countless shop doorways.
Down on their uppers, and satanic. strange places.
Spluttering, sneezing, coughing and wheezing,
In old cardboard boxes, rest weather worn faces
Catnapping for hours, gleans little cold comfort.
It's quicker with liquor, in brown paper bags.
A pawnshop's shopwindow, bears witness to sorrow,
Where all is exchanged, for the price of some fags.
Wearing second hand garments, from salvation counters,
No hope without dope, they suffer in silence.
A world where surviving, regrets to forget.
Downtrodden, despised, more often with violence.
The homeless seek shelter, a bed for the night.
Too few, for too many, for too many, too late.
Indifferent to hardship, they just melt away,
Swallowed up by the night-times, irreversible fate.
5/ 23/ 2017.
He breathed his monotonous homely air
And felt it was not his time to be there,
And departed for world-famed distant shores
Where he believed happiness brimless flows.
And true the sundry scenes promised change:
On the bitumened streets were gals of every range
And though the languages were new, all looked fair
And his heart throbbed with the puff of foreign air.
He liked the taste of the liquor folks imbibed there
As well as their willing capacity to dream and dare,
And so he began to think: “My heart’s merry at last”,
And cursed his country and washed himself of the past.
He taught himself the rules associated with foreign codes
And marveled at his capability to adopt unfamiliar modes,
He forsook the old and with feigned piety learned politer faiths
Convinced that his father’s religion was a careful set of myths.
But when all was forgotten and the new seemed ever right
The silent old started to haunt his every other sleepless night,
So he couldn’t take it anymore, and returned after years had passed,
And when he puffed again the native air, he sighed: “I’m home at last!”
Dysfunction in the Denial of Normal
Normal is a bird without a nest, flying through empty minds,
no one has ever caught it in the net of clear reason,
each of us paints it with the brush of dreaming,
with pigments extracted from nightmares and bitter illusions.
Dysfunction is the cradle in which some were born,
stammering in murky waters, without shore, without escape,
they look at normality as a pointless ghost,
a strange monster come from another world, from another horizon.
Who can say whether normal isn't sick?
Whether chaos is the straight line that leads us to truth?
Nature was the only normal one in its sacred spirals,
until man stuck his fingers in the bitter pie.
He searches for the plums insatiably in the world's cake,
leaving behind swamps of tar and suffocations,
the oceans are floating cemeteries of soft plastic,
and the whales drown in thousands of funeral sheets.
Man has killed God in every empty net,
in every bird greased with oil and agony,
created in the divine image, but without the heavenly soul,
he destroys the sacred garden for a paper coin.
Dysfunction is the normal of a species that turns
against its own blood and its own home,
perhaps our disappearance will be the holiest miracle,
Earth will bloom again when the last man fades in the distance.
And then, in the silence without fingers that tear everything,
nature will breathe healed from our madness,
normal will return like a crystal-clear liquor,
without us, without the chaos we carry in our skulls.
I fell in love with a Drunken Poet
When with light My Grail He fills
Lyrical Creativity intercourse with pen and paper spill
With Rhymes and reasons salutations
Filled so full, Colorful My imagination
Drunken poetry obliteration
He drinks sooo much, his touch Intoxicating
Slurry words with breath of sweet Rum
Penetrating and Pouring light until I succumb
He woos with words and stirs Me up
I have gotten addicted to his Liqueur syrup
Transporting my mind to Celestial Bliss
Overflowing with every Drunken Kiss
Drunk in Love, my heart Enshrined
Top shelf Libation pours, He wants me to Shine
He slurred" let go baby, I'm yours, You're mine"
I got sooo drunk, couldn't hold My liquor
Fondled My Pen, vomit on paper
He slurred, " Go on baby, it's best for your liver"
Now my speech is liquored sweet ingredients to my potion
Drunken poetry creative recreation.
Shout out to Elliott Bowe>>>creator of drunken poetry.
It's funny, because I've vacuumed under your bed
a hundred times in the past two years
I've dusted the black bedside table
picked up your Scotch and Soda pants off the floor,
still jingling with belt attached
All of your belts and shoes are brown
My father told me as a child, that homosexuals
were identifyable according to the colour of their leather
- Brown meant straight - black equalled gay - simple!
It was an odd jolt seeing your face for the first time
Framed in slim silver, large laptop screen size photo
A typical care filled composition
Brunette, proud as puch five foot five, linked her arm
Through your blue shirt arm, her grin was relief saturated
She had to be a Christian, your family is devout Christian
Appearing 25, she no doubt felt a first sexual encounter
was long overdue
But catered for entirely by God's intention
Anyhow, Aaron, I'm sorry I digress, - you're a busy man
Hence I've never seen you on a Friday when I clean there
You haven't yet moved out of Mom and Dad's s home, it must
make it easier to keep life in order, avoid giving in to urges
1920's movie star you are, in glinted silver screen frame
Minus Charlie Chaplin moustache
Plus ten pounds, giving your face cherubic cuteness
Kewpie eyed expression unphased
jowls harking harmless ventriloquist puppet
Don't be upset
If I described myself it would be similarly unorthodox
Vacuum zooming (according to aggressive motor noise)
I gazed at your lax lipped purple tinged face
- it has to be the most obvious unspoken secret in your family
- Aaron, sweet child of God.
Your world won't have a bar of who you are
Your Mother had just returned to position a large vase
showcasing three dozen orange roses behind your frame
Plus a cellophane covered hamper of high end liquor
God, Aaron - your upbringing has enclosed you
aligned with their strict beliefs
You'll need to put that cellophane over your mouth
Wrap it tight around your heart
- You have a congregation to consider
you'll be alright
Night falls in showers
of neon, and the blacktops spark electric.
The town takes to its cars
and pulls into fast food joints.
People just sits there
in the lots smoking and razing
or just crying quietly and alone.
Other's gather in backyards to drink;
In the lulls between the talk-talk
they tune-in to the distant scuffle
of criminal minds
getting chased around
by sweating cops in their buzzing blues.
When the summer night seeps into our skin
it sings a thousand sad songs,
a velvety shine heals
lonely hearts and the joyful.
The liquor stores glow bright
long into the sleepless night
because we need them
even when we don’t need them,
but we like the way they
carry folks in and out of their
fitful dreams
like cups of cool water.