ATTENUATE
A wee dram of malt whisky is savoured neat ~ attenuated with ice cubes for those petite.
8 / 11 / 2026.
I wish I was your bottle of whisky
So that being a heavy drinker you are
You would consume me every time
She says she wants to be consumed
But I dare not drink her
Because I am already doomed
Maybe she was intrigued by some words that she read
Maybe she wants just a glimpse into the darkness hidden in my head
Maybe she gets turned on when I write and scream and cuss
Maybe some day her and I will just become us
Maybe... just maybe
Some day we will see
If you really want to be consumed
Then take my hand and come with me.
Collaboration with VID3O_GAMER
I wish I was your bottle of whisky
So that being a heavy drinker you are
You would consume me every time.
Rules of the Game
Before you open the bottle
You need to lay down the rules
What’s in and out of bounds
But don’t spend too much time
Because once the game starts
There are no rules
And that’s why we love to play.
(9/8/25)
a whiskey stained silhouette outlines your figure
and the spiced smell of your breath lingers in the air
drunken lies in the late hours of the night make us both forget about how bitter, our lives taste
filling your soul with fire and regret every sip you take
swallow the flame, it sets fire to the heart
the burning sensation takes away the heartache
at what cost is this okay?
you’ve lost yourself
a mere lifeless clone of your body
walks around without a care in the world how his actions affect somebody
“An Old PhotoOf You“.
I just found…. A photo of you,
The photo is old,
but my memories of you… are new.
These are the days.. that just fade away,
Never know what to say, or do.
I stay in bed all night and day,
Shots of whisky to make me…
but I’m just counting sheep
And lying here wide awake, … just.
Staring at that photo of you.
And.. the emptiness of life.
Haunted by an old photo of you.
And the sheep painted on your cute little red shoes.
Before that drunk driver……. killed you.
And.. the emptiness of life.
With just An old photo of you,
And the white sheep painted on your cute little red shoes.
© London F. BuSS
The amber liquid, smooth and warm,
A sweet vanilla scent, a sigh,
Whispers of sorrow, a brewing storm.
It coats the tongue, a gentle balm,
A fleeting comfort, then goodbye,
The amber liquid, smooth and warm.
Blue hues dance in the fading form,
Of memories lost, a tear-stained eye,
Whispers of sorrow, a brewing storm.
Each sip a journey, a silent norm,
A fleeting solace, a whispered lie,
The amber liquid, smooth and warm.
The world fades out, a muted norm,
As darkness falls, a mournful cry,
Whispers of sorrow, a brewing storm.
The glass empties, a silent form,
Leaving a void, a hollow sigh,
The amber liquid, smooth and warm,
Whispers of sorrow, a brewing storm.
Hey Tom, you look well cared for and well fed,
Sure you longed to sleep in your own bed,
You must've had pain, hope they spoiled you,
More medication, preferred a whiskey or two,
Which nurse did you like best, which one a dread.
Earth, with her fertile ground used all year round
Strong and consistent and new growth persistent
A yield from a field, and a brood of oakwood
Fire, he strikes a match, we start a new batch
Set smoke in a kiln and give life to a still
Begin the real process and start to excite our noses
Air sends a gust that bares a friend, anaerobic right till the end,
We lay it down with care and let the angels have their share.
Let’s give it some time, meanwhile I’ll write this rhyme
Water is here so pure and clean, always from the “world’s best” stream,
Drop-by-drop dilution, phenols and booze in solution
This ancient refreshment takes us closer to perfection
Spirit, In the base of a glencairn, it’s time for my tastebuds to learn,
I’ll give it a smell, a wee sip, and I can tell
That this for me, is exceptional whisky
Elements of a Dram
Earth, with a fertile ground used all year round
Strong and consistent and new growth persistent
A yield from a field, and a brood of oakwood
Fire, with the strike of a match, we start a new batch
Set smoke in a kiln and give life to a still
Begin the real process and start to excite our noses
Air, a gust bares a friend, anaerobic right till the end,
We lay it down with care and let the angels have their share.
Let’s give it some time, meanwhile I’ll write this rhyme
Water, so pure and clean, from the “world’s best” stream,
Drop-by-drop dilution, phenols and booze in solution
This ancient refreshment takes us closer to perfection
Spirit, In the base of a glencairn, it’s time for my tastebuds to learn,
I’ll give it a smell, a wee sip, and I can tell
That this for me, is exceptional whisky
Her boobies hung outside the white lace cup.
Blending pineapple and whisky closeup.
Blender was not fully closed,
Everything inside exposed.
Woohoo, smoothie boobs to sit down to sup.
What I wish to speak,
every endeavor would dilute
the essence like Plato’s forms.
Can a shadow imitate heat?
Lost in translation, best to keep
simple, lucid as a hand
stroking cheek.
But hands slightly tremble
in the slightest of moments,
shadows you can’t help but witness
in your vision’s corner,
however brief.
I crave to show what I can’t speak
in purest form, then collect
all potential meanings
as if each held the key
to all secrets beneath
every star that gleams.
If time’s an illusion, what of me?
Simple queries hold the key
to grand possibilities.
Everything’s trembling now..
We can only touch what seems.
He touches her, she touches he.
What is there but revelry
in unkempt distribution?
The patterns of art,
songs of new and old,
mock solutions and whisky
in a cup of tea.
But there in silence we see
the thing in itself.
Softly tugging your sleeve.
Kiss me harder,
and softer.
Hold me tighter,
and longer.
Dream.
A huge room not denied luxury,
The rejected in it: Misery
Of fine glass up to the bookshelf:
If one was close to it saw oneself:
The weight of a thousand Christian Books
And at what the smart owner looks;
Glasses for whisky but no whisky:
To have whisky displayed risky:
"One can't defend in a voice husky
What surely makes the keeper frisky".
His callers would sit in a cushion
Owner of the room lives for true fashion:
Man can serve Lord God and some passions
And this not prompt long quizzing sessions...
The clean-shaven in a clean cassock
He had vowed he would never forsake.
above the pagodas
eagles fly high
sharing with angels
You cannot begin to write a book on a Wednesday
especially this week that has its own tales to tell,
there being no room for more.
Between those snowy pages, let silence wait
for its voice,
for now keep a date with a timeless mind.
A story may rise up before you;
become awake before your eyes open.
Let it decant, download, ferment,
while you mull your spirit a little.
For a while be a stone Buddha,
with a soft listening heart.
Pour some ice into warm liquor,
watch Wednesday arrive and pass
as mute as evening snow.
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