Gummy Eye Juice
09-01-2007, 08:58 PM
These are the first few in a series of poems; not suprisingly, they were written whilst intoxicated. Any thoughts, reviews, or is it all just a bunch of shite?
The Poetical Ramblings of a Lonely Drunk
---
Sleep deprived for over 24 hours (5:15 a.m.)
Wine drunk, very mellow
Tunes: A Day In the Life - The Beatles
~~~
There is a backwards Tuesday note,
stuffed into the crevice, of the corner,
of the mirror. The stereo tape rewinds
backwardsly through rumblings and ramblings,
of a 60's psychedelic hack, on smack,
with no good sense to be anywhere
but on his back. The hour is both late,
and early. The aroma of coffee ensnares
the senses, this upper counter-balancing
the wine and food, but the coffee is
bitter and the mind tarries towards bitterness.
The cold snap of frost, spider webbing
across the window pane, makes the colors of
the sunrise dance, then sway, hypnotizing
the mind in a fanciful image of color and light.
The reek of booze leaking through pores,
permeates the air. Why do drunks smell like death?
The answer is written on a backwards Tuesday note,
stuffed into the crevice, of the corner,
of the mirror, stained with merlot.
---
Beer drunk, slightly sleepy (1:19 a.m.)
Tunes: New Slang – The Shins
~~~
The dirty clothes pile in a heap
on the floor. The lining of your pockets
dwindle, then empty, leaving you poor.
Your mind stares blankly forwards,
feeling the sights and sounds
of what lies beyond your door;
found in a box, in front of you,
staring through you, making your
true life, a true bore. The tendrils
of smoke drift up from your hand,
rising, floating and breaking on the fan.
The husks of corn, buttered and popped,
gouge your gums that bleed and ne’er stop.
The chord struck by the playing man whose fear
is hapless reels of rhyme; clash in your mind,
leaving just your soul, bent and confined.
Then what must we do, to drift free and unwind?
Must we numb our discomfort with amber drink?
Or make our halves whole in the vestiges of another?
Or do we carry our misery about us like a brother,
a brother most unkind, cajoling us gently to the brink?
But the fearing man’s chords play on through the night,
chords about strife, anger and plight .
Then a shine glimmers on the edge of bright,
derailing our thought train that ran through the night,
our retina’s become scalped by the spite of the light
and it hurts, so deeply, we do naught but fight.
---
Wine drunk, yet still buzzed from caffeine (11:34 p.m.)
Tunes: Mellow Yellow – Donovan
~~~
Howl, comes down from the edge of the wood,
The sparkling blade-edge waits, watching what could,
No, should be an un-day, wet with curdled blood and murky mud.
Fate’s visage frowns, jealous, of the devils and clowns,
Lusty of man’s resiliency, their unbending consistency,
But most of all the luck, of the sweet naiveté of their brevity,
To be still, rest – LAY DOWN.
Now the moral of this story, should you dig for it, as in a quarry,
Shall not bend over backwards, for you.
It will not find itself on its knees, no matter how much, you beg or plead;
It will not spread its legs, it will not lube up,
It will not raise itself, to be just another gold cup.
But sure enough as Sure’s an eunuch,
Many will take meaning without paying due.
So be free, take your meaning and run,
Flog away at it as a pubescent teen, would flog, with his pants undone.
Take your meaning and ‘gasm with it, don’t like it? into the chasm with it.
But come back once your meaning, is thoroughly trashed and spent,
And tell me what my meaning borrowed, to you is now meant.
Then the triangle is complete, between you, me, and what we mean,
So let’s partake in some mean fucking, to that meaning, we hold sweet.
---
Hung-over, sleep deprived and finishing several bottles of wine (10:34 a.m.)
Tunes: Hymn to Freedom – Oscar Peterson Trio
~~~
The memories of the night flow out,
From the mouth of stale smoke, too much wine
And a smattering of blood enriched vomit;
Flowing forth into the porcelain mouth of stale water and
The stench of bodily effluents.
The lack of memories is probably a blessing
But a blessing from a different god.
Not a god of holiness or war
Nor of judgment or segregation;
But a god of the dim jazz bar, where the smoke clings
To the ceiling, like the drunk young girl clings
To the burly bouncer in the corner.
The god of the scratched record,
The listener with the torn throat, forever unhealed
But always treated, by the smooth velvet of a 25 year
Old scotch. The god of black discs with moments
And only moments, captured forever on analog.
The god of smiling faces, of glasses held in cheers,
Of rolling and tumbling fingers across pianos and
Ice over drinks. The simple notes of the jazz, to the crowd
Is just music; but, to its player it’s an ache,
Just above the chest, a tenseness in the wrists,
Bleeding an unseen passion down through the hands and over
The black and white keys of the piano;
It’s a sway of the head, a sway that matches the dance of the soul.
Even though the memory fades in the meat of the mind,
The soul remembers in the motions of the fingers,
And the notes re-sounding off the walls,
Even if no one plays the keys, and especially if
No one is there, the soul remembers.
The Poetical Ramblings of a Lonely Drunk
---
Sleep deprived for over 24 hours (5:15 a.m.)
Wine drunk, very mellow
Tunes: A Day In the Life - The Beatles
~~~
There is a backwards Tuesday note,
stuffed into the crevice, of the corner,
of the mirror. The stereo tape rewinds
backwardsly through rumblings and ramblings,
of a 60's psychedelic hack, on smack,
with no good sense to be anywhere
but on his back. The hour is both late,
and early. The aroma of coffee ensnares
the senses, this upper counter-balancing
the wine and food, but the coffee is
bitter and the mind tarries towards bitterness.
The cold snap of frost, spider webbing
across the window pane, makes the colors of
the sunrise dance, then sway, hypnotizing
the mind in a fanciful image of color and light.
The reek of booze leaking through pores,
permeates the air. Why do drunks smell like death?
The answer is written on a backwards Tuesday note,
stuffed into the crevice, of the corner,
of the mirror, stained with merlot.
---
Beer drunk, slightly sleepy (1:19 a.m.)
Tunes: New Slang – The Shins
~~~
The dirty clothes pile in a heap
on the floor. The lining of your pockets
dwindle, then empty, leaving you poor.
Your mind stares blankly forwards,
feeling the sights and sounds
of what lies beyond your door;
found in a box, in front of you,
staring through you, making your
true life, a true bore. The tendrils
of smoke drift up from your hand,
rising, floating and breaking on the fan.
The husks of corn, buttered and popped,
gouge your gums that bleed and ne’er stop.
The chord struck by the playing man whose fear
is hapless reels of rhyme; clash in your mind,
leaving just your soul, bent and confined.
Then what must we do, to drift free and unwind?
Must we numb our discomfort with amber drink?
Or make our halves whole in the vestiges of another?
Or do we carry our misery about us like a brother,
a brother most unkind, cajoling us gently to the brink?
But the fearing man’s chords play on through the night,
chords about strife, anger and plight .
Then a shine glimmers on the edge of bright,
derailing our thought train that ran through the night,
our retina’s become scalped by the spite of the light
and it hurts, so deeply, we do naught but fight.
---
Wine drunk, yet still buzzed from caffeine (11:34 p.m.)
Tunes: Mellow Yellow – Donovan
~~~
Howl, comes down from the edge of the wood,
The sparkling blade-edge waits, watching what could,
No, should be an un-day, wet with curdled blood and murky mud.
Fate’s visage frowns, jealous, of the devils and clowns,
Lusty of man’s resiliency, their unbending consistency,
But most of all the luck, of the sweet naiveté of their brevity,
To be still, rest – LAY DOWN.
Now the moral of this story, should you dig for it, as in a quarry,
Shall not bend over backwards, for you.
It will not find itself on its knees, no matter how much, you beg or plead;
It will not spread its legs, it will not lube up,
It will not raise itself, to be just another gold cup.
But sure enough as Sure’s an eunuch,
Many will take meaning without paying due.
So be free, take your meaning and run,
Flog away at it as a pubescent teen, would flog, with his pants undone.
Take your meaning and ‘gasm with it, don’t like it? into the chasm with it.
But come back once your meaning, is thoroughly trashed and spent,
And tell me what my meaning borrowed, to you is now meant.
Then the triangle is complete, between you, me, and what we mean,
So let’s partake in some mean fucking, to that meaning, we hold sweet.
---
Hung-over, sleep deprived and finishing several bottles of wine (10:34 a.m.)
Tunes: Hymn to Freedom – Oscar Peterson Trio
~~~
The memories of the night flow out,
From the mouth of stale smoke, too much wine
And a smattering of blood enriched vomit;
Flowing forth into the porcelain mouth of stale water and
The stench of bodily effluents.
The lack of memories is probably a blessing
But a blessing from a different god.
Not a god of holiness or war
Nor of judgment or segregation;
But a god of the dim jazz bar, where the smoke clings
To the ceiling, like the drunk young girl clings
To the burly bouncer in the corner.
The god of the scratched record,
The listener with the torn throat, forever unhealed
But always treated, by the smooth velvet of a 25 year
Old scotch. The god of black discs with moments
And only moments, captured forever on analog.
The god of smiling faces, of glasses held in cheers,
Of rolling and tumbling fingers across pianos and
Ice over drinks. The simple notes of the jazz, to the crowd
Is just music; but, to its player it’s an ache,
Just above the chest, a tenseness in the wrists,
Bleeding an unseen passion down through the hands and over
The black and white keys of the piano;
It’s a sway of the head, a sway that matches the dance of the soul.
Even though the memory fades in the meat of the mind,
The soul remembers in the motions of the fingers,
And the notes re-sounding off the walls,
Even if no one plays the keys, and especially if
No one is there, the soul remembers.