Long Pisses Poems
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I don’t usually talk about a club, in the club
but last night I was chattering breathlessly, at midnight,
about how right the club had gotten its atmosphere.
I’m never quite sure, design-wise, what’s ‘now’ and what’s retro nuance.
My bf Peter said the design was “Warholism,” whatever THAT is.
I gave him a puzzled look and he said. “The Factory?” Like that meant something.
Why is he so much smarter than me? It’s unjust.
Lets wax poetically..
The drinks were priced like artifacts
but we ordered them like essentials.
A club is a machine calibrated for pleasure.
Similar to real life, but with much better lighting
plus their decors are tuned to optimistic escapism.
Last night’s club, was all chrome and blue light
making us feel like we were on a spaceflight
Clubs hit escape velocity around midnight
when everyone’s having their own garish moment
- crowds roll in on the vibe, and things warm up.
When moving on the floor started to feel like work
we escaped the ordinary for the cooler mezzanine
We arrived as our drinks were being freshened up
I tip well and they’re happy to manage my money
It was a good thing. Our generation doesn’t know
how to wait without looking like we’re waiting.
BTW: Don’t you LOVE anti-spiking drink covers?! #justbrilliant
ok, now it’s Saturday morning
My head is pounding, as if someone were striking it,
every thirty seconds or so, with a timpani malot.
“That was the LAST time..” I moan, but I was being ironic.
I know it’s not true, Peter knows it’s not true, I know, he knows,
I know it’s not true - but he gets my meaning - that’s irony.
Peter never seems to have a hangover and at times it pisses me off.
“How do you feel,” I ask him in my smallest voice - lest I awake the timpanist.
“Fine,” he says, with an enjoyable sense of righteousness.
He sips his coffee as if he has not a care.
“You’re only fine because your head is empty,” I lash out in a whisper.
.
.
A song for this:
Can't Tame Her by Zara Larsson
Tears by Sabrina Carpenter [E]
.
[E] = Explicit lyrics
Pain deep in side the eyes,
pain to the core of a once beating love filled heart,
pain to a well knowledged mind, to fixated on the pain and loss inflicted upon it, that it’s become empty of love and filled with despair,
when the love you give to another has left your eyes, heart and head
and been replaced by grief, torment and the feeling of internal loneliness.
we have to ask ourselves what we are left with
memories of our life shared loving, caring and building the strongest unbreakable bonds,
or pain,
unforgiving, heart wrenching, mind torturing Pain.
Because
Pain kicks the door till the hinges snap,
spreads through your head like a loaded trap.
Rips up your sleep, feeds on your fears,
drinks your hope and pisses your tears.
It don’t just visit — it builds a nest,
and laughs while it crushes what you loved best.
Eyes Closed Toward the Light
I close my eyes and see how the night ignites in the colors of morning,
How shadow becomes a transparent window toward gardens of liquid sunlight,
My heavy eyelids are open wings toward subterranean skies,
And my shining blindness is the clearest sight in the world.
In the luminous darkness of my head float islands of green gold,
I see with my ears butterflies singing colored melodies in blue,
I hear with my skin how stars move through my velvet veins,
And the resounding silence whispers to me all the secrets of the mute universe.
My closed eyes are two wide windows open toward infinity,
Through which enters the multitude of loneliness—people made of solid fog,
I see how the past comes from the future like a river flowing upward,
And my absent present is the only moment that exists forever everywhere.
In the glowing darkness of inner vision dance luminous shadows,
Each thought is a stone bird flying heavily through liquid air,
I see the upside-down trees growing with their green roots toward heaven,
And their leaves fall upward transforming into stars of warm copper.
I close my eyes and the world becomes clear as a perfectly broken mirror,
Its glowing fragments gather in my blind and total vision,
I see how time stands still running fast through the inverted hourglass,
And living death shows me my future birth from the present past.
My blindness is a sharp vision that pierces all transparent walls,
I see through the solid walls of reality the impossible gardens beyond,
Where black flowers shine in the white darkness of the nocturnal sun,
And their mute perfume fills my closed eyes with colored sounds.
In the interior night of my eyelids all days burn at once,
I see the blue shore where the child pisses under the molten silver sky,
The copper snake of autumn coils around the future summers,
And the thread of blood from my pocket weaves the light from my closed eyes.
I close my eyes to truly see how my blind sight is clear,
How darkness is the only true light that never blinds,
And in the resounding silence of inner vision I listen to how music is seen,
On that blue shore where everything remakes itself in the hot magical fog.
A slack jawed drunk
thugs his way toward
a down-town bar and grill.
Red lights over sizzling steaks
add flames to his eyes.
Cincinnati on a Sunday morning
trashes its streets
cold winds scatter empty plastic cups,
cigarette butts, sick spills
and the ash of incinerated dinoursours.
Once there were rattle snakes,
now high-rise
mark their once tunneled territory.
The drunk can't find the door
to the bar
he pisses himself
grins through a window
at the beer guzzling diners.
Happy hour
drags itself
through the night,
the Sabbath has to be swept up
made to walk sober,
resurrected.
Sudden as thunder they crack in the night,
the boys in the lane leap over fences,
bottles crashing into stone walls,
and bullets whistle with echoing sound.
Political war,
Tribal war,
Gang war.
The boys fight with one another for the release of "the Don"
they rampage in the little town,
and round up all the informers.
Night comes alive,
doors open wide,
then suddenly,
"Lord, someone shot Sammi Joe!"
Lights bang!
and everyone rushes to look at the innocent one
lying peacefully in her pool of blood.
"Sammi Joe is dead!"
Her frightened mother yells.
Gunshots cracking in the night,
smashing glass,
and chiseling walls,
the burning night heat,
people scatter in the street.
Mr. Crow pisses his pants when the boys spot him as the informer
Dragged in the streets,
Crow's face flushed with the wall,
bullets puncture his head.
Further down the road,
the innocents grip tightly to their beds,
trembling,
wondering who will be next.
Bullets dances around the walls,
wailing heightens,
The massacre begins.
Blood washes the street,
dead bodies blocking the gate of the little town.
©2013 Christine Phillips
"All men and woman created by you know, you know the thing"
You know... the thing from which it actually states "all men are created equal."
You know... the thing from which "we hold these truths to be self-evident."
You know... the thing from which "that they are endowed by their Creator."
You know... the thing for which blood was shed and we died for "with
certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."
You know.. the thing where it says "That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed."
And you know... where the thing also says "That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government"
You know... the thing... the thing.
The thing that established what you swore an oath to defend... the thing.
The thing for which oceans bled red on foreign shores to remove flags of red like fascism, communism, and imperialism... the thing.
The thing called blood, that soaked dirt so through and through, that it created mud that stained our sons and daughters so deep that it penetrated their mind and soul with PTSD... the thing.
The thing...
Yes, that thing...
That thing we call God
That thing we call Country
That thing we call Family
That thing we call FREEDOM
Yes, that thing.
That thing we take so much for granted.
That thing that we should hold so dear, that for which we would die.
That thing that we should love so much, that we would send our sons and daughter to die to defend.
Yes! That thing.
That thing that pisses us off, that you would elect a person who would simply call it "the thing," you know... "the thing."
Yes! That thing... that thing, Americans care about.
---
JOE BIDEN FLUBS DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE AND GETS BELLIGERENT: ‘YOU KNOW THE THING!’ 3/2/2020
Poem by Martin Braun, 3/4/2020
I want to write
I want to feel free
I want to take this regret and let it pass
I want to be happy
I want to look right past all my flaws
I want to hold close what 46 years has given
I want to see past that person that pisses me of that day
I want to forget all this fear
I want to live life like it was meant to be
I need to break free of these chains I've locked myself in
I want to not fear what you are going to think of me
I want to believe in myself for once and coast on through
I want to believe i am good enough for all of you
My heart hurts
This struggle is not my own
We all deserve love
We all deserve redemption
But that road is curved the control is in us
I want this world to see me for me
But my question is who am i?
Sometimes my son is calm
Sometimes he is ballistic
I can tell you where it’s from
The doctors say he is autistic
He hums all day long
Even in the middle of the night
His arms and legs are so damn strong
Because he likes to fight
He screams at loud sounds
And he likes to eat raw noodles
He sniffs like a bloodhound
And he cuts the hair off poodles
He pisses in the bed
And he likes to play with string
He has bruises on his head
Because he runs into everything
He’s intelligent with computers
And he has common sense
He can’t recite his ABCs
Because it was never meant
My son is aware of himself
And he knows he’s not a girl
He doesn’t try to be no one else
He’s created his own little world
The doctors have given him medicine
That causes him mighty falls
But his autism is all forgiven
Except when he punches holes in the walls
O Grappa, goddess dregs of corpus grapes,
Distillate "digsetivo", whole must press,
Fond draught that spirits my carnal escape
From temperate gods, religions of less.
Your cruel "corretto" beguiled my hand
That morning to revel’s most fowl besmirch;
To suffer more grapes, you told me your plan
And the monks found me "morto" in church.
Turns out your proof laid me far less than quick
On the moors now banished to soiled quaffs,
Where claims I vanished in a pomace thick
Pisses my usurers quite rightly off.
Ah…to steep in more of her woody shoots
I do whilst eschewing the bastard brutes.
So a lifetime went by
watching the silver screen
or just hanging about in the foyer
waiting for the right movie to start,
or fooling around on the back row
groping thrilling morsels of joy,
and all the time
denying God, or forgetting God,
or just running away
into more interesting distractions.
Then the moving pictures burn out,
there’s a big singed hole
in the static film slide,
it’s then that you realize that the whole time
you have been the only projector in town.
The cinema has changed over the years,
new digital ways to up
but still, it has always been about you.
‘O God’ you exclaim – ‘it’s all over.’
You beg some omnipresent force
you never paid much attention to
for forgiveness and grace,
then a voice in the emptying theater
of your darkening brain
say’s -- Sure.
Angels appear at various exit doors,
they have flashlights
you are handed a pass, a card which reads:-
‘Go to the light, it’s the second door to the right.’
some of the befuddled audience
exit through the wrong door
and get lost in another movie plot,
but you (by chance) go through the right door.
On the other side
people you once knew cheer,
some old friends of yours
good naturedly jeer.
The dead dog you once
had to put down
yips happily, then pisses
on your leg.