Short Alcoholics Poems

Hark! Loudly sounds th' ill-advised trumpets...  
Dance thou Addicts! Dance thou Alcoholics!  
'We Dance Sickly' as though helpless puppets;  
Do all addicts and alcoholics....

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Chicago's like a box of alcoholics
you always know what your gonna git
gang bangers and amateur rappers
pick pockets and sidewalk crappers
trolls guzzling homebrew under a bridge...

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In Vietnam, Korea, and China, it's a popular treat
To slaughter your dog at summer solstice and eat the meat
It brings luck and frolic
Included are alcoholics
Quite a celebration as well as many tears as they eat...

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iconoclastic poets
with no evidence
of skill or polish
in the existing 
system of boredom
violence of love
unmasked and naked
splashed on the rites
of the system
threatening and powerless
risking anarchy for freedom
disfigured finds solace
in the clutches of
fermented purple grapes
we call them alcoholics...

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my sista
a woman with a good heart
she acquiantances alcoholics,haters and psychos
all in her big house
Debby,to me you are an image 
of how a black woman should be
i love you more than what they can tell
and i'm more of a man than what you hear
but i guess
it doesn't really matter what they tell you
'cuz to me
you never cease to be good...

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2:36 AM
2 am is for the poets who
cant sleep because their 
minds are alive with words
for someone who isnt there

for the alcoholics drinking
themselves into amnesia to
forget someone who left

2 am is not for the lovers 
asleep in each others arms

it is for the lonely, the ones
who are in love with the
loved, but are not 
loved in return....

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Drop a rock into a still pond,
and the ripples echo.
A large enough rock,
and a pond sized tsunami,
waves echoing beyond the edges.
Every step I take creates ripples.
Sometimes, a tsunami.
After all, I'm not screaming in outer space.
And the trillions of steps before mine
that gave me the ground I walk on,
need to be acknowledged by the care I take with every step....

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If You Never Met
By Franklin Price
2/22/2017

If you never met John Doe
It would be too soon
A heartless, rotten, silly man
Who had a pet baboon

Treated his pet miserably
Screamed 'til he turned pink
Verbal assault was not enough
So he taught his pet to drink

Both were  alcoholics
In the Lazy Dog Saloon
John Doe and his special pet
The ring-tailed drunk baboon...

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An opened fifth of hangovers
rests beside his dried driveled arm
(drug used by underachievers.)
Out cold, head resting on forearm
Unconscious in a dreamless world,
a portal often frequented:
an alcoholics netherworld
and mind most disoriented.
A parched throat forces arousal
And miasmic exhalations
rekindle once more pitiful
repeated, inebriation.
A morning swig begins his day
and ends the same as yesterday....

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Cigarettes are addictive,as hard to quit...
Hooked by those who are without much of a
wit.

Alcoholics drink to relax and unwind...
Alcohol tends to numb the mind.

Drinking and driving should not be done...
For the taking of lives is not too fun.

Getting hooked on God is definitely 
right...This is an idea,that is totally
bright.

Believing in God is what should be done...
This is where our direction in life should
be steered and run!...

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Crushed peanut shells are
scattered all over the floor

Beer bottles smashed
while blood drips from the roof

A body hangs from the rafters 
while loyal patrons play
a vodka filled game of Russian roulette

Piss stains plastered all over the bathroom floor
cockroach's and rats run rampant  
all while raging alcoholics throw fist 
and set fire to bar stools

Drunker stupors, and stain glass windows rule
people call it martial law but I call it a regular Monday night......

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Once I threw a mouldy bread
into the dumpster
and when I went for groceries 
I saw a Gypsy boy taking the bread
and being content about it.

A tear dropped down my cheek.

I was always surrounded by
immoral people;
drug addicts, alcoholics,
small thieves, the poor.

Perhaps they see me as one of them
or they like the fact I don’t see them 
as immoral. Or they see me as a saviour.

Yes, that is who I am.
Mother Theresa for drug addicts.
Mouldy bread for hungry Gypsy boy....

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The shop 
at the corner of my childhood
has stopped selling Danish pastry
and coco macrons
milk and cheese.
The room is bare
The cheese cutter is no longer there
And the old-fashioned weight
Doesn’t pling.
There is no butter
And no one asks why?
The bell that rang when opening 
The shop's door
Doesn’t ring anymore
The shop is overtaken by time.
Perhaps someone will buy the shop
Make a wine bar
Making us into middle-class alcoholics
I have sudden hunger for Danish pastry....

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