Poetry

Introduction to my poems

I hope you enjoy this experiment as much as i do. Although much of my writing may eventually become plagued with the normal drunk symptoms- you should play along. Drink along with me, hopefully my writing gets better as you get drunker; then we both win.

The Last Flight

Every flight
the question of
death
raises in my mind.
Would the
Person next to
Me,
hold my hand
as we fall to death.
This time
the seat
Is
empty.

-DrunkPoetryExperiment

 

Textual Stumbling

Offensive

Then I start to drunk
Then I start to offend
I don’t give
Two
Fucking
Shits
What you basics

contend.

 

What Do They Even Say

Some call me a doche
Fuck em
Some call me a hipster
Fuck em
Some call me a person
They’re
Wrong.

 

Civilized

Cigars on ice
White wine
In my mind
Classes for the
Class-less
It’s all disposable
Who are we
All to consume
Privilege

 

Puff

I’m lost in
This clowd of
Smoke
Bellowing
From my
Organs
It’s killing me
Life is killing me
You are
Killing
Me.

 

Her #3

I wish we could
Be
Together.
But the world
Hates
Us.
No matter
How we try,
We’re
Trapped.

 

The Last Drop

I wish I
Could be
The last
Drop
In the
Bottle
The most
Craved
After
The most
Sought after
The most
Missed
Essence
Of desire

 

Present But Not Coherent

The pill falls
Into my
Mouth
My thoughts fall
Out of my
Head
The words
Can’t
Come to
Me anymore.
Present but
Not
Coherent
Lucid but
Not
Articulate.
Damned
But still
Dying.

 

The Tide

Foot prints
on the
beach
should never
Have to endure
the agony
of being
Alone.

 

Her #4

She’s a liar
But
I love her
She’s a thief
But
I lover her
She’ll eat me alive
But
I love her
She doesn’t love me
But
I love her.

 

Loneliness

Hopeless romantic
Drunk in the idea
That I could even be
Missed

 

Hotel Bars

The hotel bar
Filled with people
Talking about
Shit
To ignore
Shit
I wonder what consumes
Their souls and if
They are aware.
I wonder what will come
Of them.
I try to care
But find
My self
Resolved of Iquirey

 

Poetic Slurrings

 

Life

I was 21,
so was the scotch flowing through my vains
i couldn’t stop living,
to save the life of me,
I couldn’t stop living.

Whats the point of it all if you
don’t pull the seems,
tear at the edges,
peal away the crumbling wallpaper
of the human before you.

To drink.
To gamble.
To steal.
To fuck.
To fight.
To love.
To
Live
on the thrill of the moment
thats forever escaping us all.

Wouldn’t it be
nice.
If that moment couldn’t bear the significance
we so humbly inscribe upon it

Bare

I get that I’m not perfect
But I’ll always try to be.
Strip me down
To that bare
Honest
Truth.

Hotel bars

Old lonely ducks
Drunk at the hotel bar
Talking only
About their children
A world away.

Her #2

Why do you torture me
With that figurative
Implication your
Dress would assume.

Blacking out

I never go out to
Hit the town
Somehow
always
the town hits
Me.

 

Round 2: The Spirits Are Seeping In.

 

Introduction to this cite.

I think it’s interesting,

The aspect of some

reading;

what I have to say.

 

I’ll explain my process

One sip at a time.

I sip,

I write

I sip,

I fuck up

I sip,

I complete.

This process is mundane

Just as those who read

Not trying to repulse you

Just making sure you know,

what is exactly

I think my method

 

I’m really not sure,

That’s what this endeavor

Is purposed to fulfill

 

 

Perhaps me

Perhaps you.

 

 

Why Drunks Are Pessimists, and I’m an Optimist:

To answer the paradox,

quite frankly;

I am drunk.

 

Ride or Die.

 

If we were giving a fuck;

No one could notice.

It was the early afternoon

When we decided to dare.

 

We pulled out the brown paper

Wrapped so tightly,

around nature.

 

Sweet relief surrounds

The thought of escape is always

Ever present.

 

Three puffs in and its

Already smelling

Like what freedom really

 

We ride like kings

Down the boulevard,

Puff, puff,

 

Then, this pudgy bitch

Walks out into the streets.

Shirks with disgust

That we could be driving down the road.

 

“Entitled bitch” I think,

“She would have fucked my car up”

he said.

 

I laughed at his first thought.

 

Can God Wink?

 

As I sit alone and wonder…

What am I but

a spec?

Is it something grand that has made up this riddle

of civil society?

Is it a trick?

 

The most pleasurable illusion

Which is also most reasonable;

the one that turns mice to men,

at the drop of the hat.

 

Who can solve the puzzle?

Discover the deception

Figure out the

Capital T,

In truth?

No.

I don’t think there is a life

Beyond manageable.

Nothing to grasp, tangible to

The unreal.

It becomes dramatic,

The conclusions and delusions

we live through.

The horror we inflict

and

inscribe upon

Vulnerable bodies.

Beyond my cognition I find the real

The unwanted,

The touched;

by society

The reclamation would be

insignificant;

the ethics of disavow remain

complete

The UNsanctity of now

Remains the concrete.

What can I grasp?

How do we operate;

 

The god wink is the gamble we all face,

The Social is ruthless

No matter how fair chances become.

We all hope

It’s fairer for us.

 

The god wink is the solution we all hope for.

What is it really?

the lottery,

the paycheck,

the beautiful girl,

the magnificent car;

The proven materiality.

Nope.

I disagree,

I contend its something more real

Something we cannot see.

God never winked at me before,

God winked when she walked by.

 

Typewriter

 

The best gift I could

Ever imagine.

Would be the pause

That requires

I think

The consequence

Of my

Character (s).

 

 

Dinner with 3.

 

I walk into the restaurant thinking,

This could all be fine

The world is disconnected place;

I was wrong.

 

The consistency of women.

Everyman can beg to differ

Some prefer

Like wine into a glass.

To consume at preference.

Some prefer

To preserve their delicacy

As a trophy of accomplishment

Some prefer

To have their own.

That was to my liking

 

However, my own decisions

Put me in the position where

Oddly enough, when I sit for a meal,

My preference is not mine.

 

I see her quickly,

Pretend to act normal.

The usual strategy,

I think about the shitter?

She see’s her.

Should we just fucking leave

I asked.

The answer was obvious—

We left.

I stand up; tuck my chair away,

Turn conspicuously.

Out the door, into the car

We Drive.

She Speeds.

She Smokes

She won’t speak.

We race past the cops,

I would normally care.

This wasn’t normal,

Nor could it be.

 

Silence dulls the senses

Tension consuming the rest.

The quite was sort of profound,

How,

I could not articulate

The failure

In the American

Man.

 

This problem at hand was my doing.

The link between

Her and her

Was me.

 

That will

forever

be

my Cross

to

 

 

An Argument

 

A Poem is an argument

Between me

and the world.

Our prophesized

prescribed

Acceptable

Standard of truth;

small to large.

We are all voices

Shouting into oblivion

Hoping someone will

Hear;

Here.

 

We are all steeped in

However our movements

Become articulated by

 

To speak,

To write

To scream

To compose

To appropriate

To deconstruct

To articulate.

 

(Uncollected)

 

 

Today Is Yesterday, With You.

 

Time is so finite,

That’s why this moment is rare

With I’m with you.

The world is complete.

 

Today is yesterday,

In a sense

Because I cannot

Determine the difference.

 

You make my time fluid

So that I don’t care

Its finitude

 

That’s my investment to make;

In everlasting love.

Lasting for a moment,

Lasting for today.

Lasting

Untill.

Tomorrow.

(Uncollected)

 

What Charles taught me?

 

The question of how he learns me;

Not what to say

Nor,

how to say it.

Not what to think

Nor,

how to think it.

 

The perspective

of the

deep

truth

in humanism.

The human in myself

The human;

Inside of you.

 

I’d hope to be able to grasp

the complete imagination.

However,

I’d rather not imagine

Because that places

an Unreasonable

faith

in disillusion.

Rather,

I desire to articulate the

unreality

of

mine,

yours;

our

reality.

 

 

The Modern Man.

 

I’ll finish this beer,

And then I’ll be out.

The Shits

 

Poetry consists of Shit

So do we.

I feel it right now

We all feel it

We don’t talk about it

To this day I’m still in denial

Girls even

Shit.

How you Shit describes more intimate

Details that

We wouldn’t tell our therapists;

And frankly its rather weird if you would tell anyone else.

The composition of your shit,

If deconstructed

Figuratively, of coarse.

Is able to tell everything about a person.

Where they’ve been

Where they’re from

If they’ve given a fuck to their lively hood

Or to a women.

How much beer you drank the night before

Or if you moved to scotch.

If you are alone and your Shit is latent with frozen dinners

And have been that way

Maybe always.

If you’ve been supported with home cooked meals

By a family

By a home

By a wife

By love.

If you’ve lived a hard life

And maybe sometimes

Eating

And

Shitting

Is a privilege.

Maybe your life is so fucking unfathomably chaotic

That the toilet

Is your

Temple

Of Shit centered Peace.

 

Shitting is the necessary evil of human operation.

I think it’s interesting the way we have

Appropriated the most basic human function

To articulate the

Worst

Situations

We put our selves in.

Shits all around us,

It just keeps coming,

We’ve all gotten it on our hand

At least once.

 

Take 1: Pour it up, drink it down, repeat.

 

Beg the question

Society,

Open to some, exclusive to others

Breeding on the competition of oppression.

When it begs the question of freedom

The only answer is gratuitous.

It becomes drenched in guilt.

The Pure society, becomes drenched in criminality

Because who is the real criminal

The solemn never sleep

But that’s usual.

 

What is a curse.

Drunkards are a curse

I say they are a gift

They give the unconditional

Which we will never respect

But its something worth humanity

The joy, the fell, the life…

Drunkards are caught

They are not to find,

They cannot find themselves,

They cannot find me.

But I guess the point of the drink

Is to find what exteriority is.

To find is to fail.

To jury is to arbitrate, such a holy task

All jokes aside we must start anew

Rubrics to kid nothing matters anyway.

This is all shit,

Because drunkards are a curse.

 

Why do I write?

Poetry is a voice, a kin?

Something I have never known

Something to find my own

Sounds so clique.

I could care less

Because less is more.

That paradox I live

Where my lifes is surrounded by such value

The length I will never

 

What men call fun

Fapping in the bathroom

The publics absurd

The reasoning is libidinous

Why should they try

Why should I pay

The decision is universal

The existence is that which moves gravity

Exists in the universal self

The resurgence of the self becomes

Inevitable. Spurt, spurt, spurt.

*Fap Fap Fap

 

Tradition

What the fuck is  hi-Ku

Who the fuck cares

Syllabus matter to some

Most to none.

That’s the problem today

The tradition, the culture

Its based on shit,

Shit people love

Shit people rejoice

What the fuck is going

Wrong with today because

Trying itself dies.

 

?… Ex-fucking-actly.

 Creation is bleak

Some never beg the question

That’s the answer.

 

Ashes

Ashtray

Is something disposable

Who even cares.

They throw there ash in it

Metaphor for the earth-

Do you get it?

I don’t.

 

 

The stripper

Who wanders the ally way

Is the man, lost on his luck

Down with society.

The man who know one cares about?

Is it man

Is it a child

Is it a woman

Is it everyone

Why do we care the world way for the untouchable

Just the life of the moment

Why is the culture we live

Just based on the moment

Which we will never be able to grasp

The untouchable.

The incontinent

The unstripable

The stripper.

The disposable

The vagrant

The villain.

What fabric do we operate

What operation do we prefom

Is it a dance?

 

4 Stars (Tribute to Netflix? Whoooowhaaaa)

Do we live by the stars?

The ones who shine?

The ones who glare

Upon our TV screens

Upon on night sky’s

Upon our dreams

Do we live by the real

The one to robs us

Of our freedom

Of our choice.

Do we live by ourselves

Or by our Netflix screen

That contains our pacivity.

Do we live by a code

Or do we know?

I am lost.

 

 

When I started to Write Poetry

When I started to write

Nobody cared

I looked to my father

He wouldn’t dare

I looked to my brother

He was far to dismissive

Yet my words were permissive

To lend me to inclusive

Towards a grander perspective.

 

The liar

When the world becomes complex

The curious seek truth

However the path cannot be far; thus

The near become sacred

To never loose.

The hopless

 

The Spider

I lost my soul ten years ago

When I first met the spider

I though we could be friends.

That was my though

The spider and I were advisories

The relation ship was concrete

The patter was ritual

The ceremony had to be complete

I struck him down quickly

Justice was met

I smoked his soul handedly

Justice was met.

 

Special

They said this special

I was curious.

I though it could be

Existential

That I was sure.

This could have a question for the future

However,

The time was now

I was to see,

Was special was.

 

 

4

The unluckiest number

That I was sure

Why would they name it

After a whore.

It makes no sense to

But that is irrelevant

The number computers

But I have no relevance.

Who even cares about math these days

We’ve pocket wages

That calculate ages

The number four begs question

No numerically

But of the asker.

Man…fuck I say

Who really cares in the end of the day

I thinks absurd that were regulated by math

Its robs value to live as a matter of fact

Empiricism is flawed by human kind

That will be its eternal demise

The number looks so neutral

That, I will be a fool of.

 

Gourmet

What the fuck do you mean?

I said its gourmet,

Its coffee.

What the fuck do you mean?

Its fine,

Its imported

Its roasted.

What the fuck do you mean?!

I mean, its fancy

Its delicate

Its correct.

 

Uncollected *(Coffee Takes like shit)

 

Gangster

Who do you think you are I said?

No deserving response

What is the responsibly of the vagrant

Know one knows.

They know.

It’s a response that lies in the common foundations of justice

What ever lie that is.

That’s what they tell you makes the bad the bad.

Who is the ritchous?

The cleaner

The mechanic

The teacher

The factory worker

The slave.

 

 

M&M—to katie

The little pieces

No matter what organization

Are ways perfect

No desecration

The fun size

King size

Any size

They are what I could never be.

 

Respect

What the fuck is respect

I act fact

I make choices-

Whoe cares.

Is it who you know

Or what you know

Can I even act in this world

Why am I even here

I don’t fucking know the assumption is absurdism.

This whole thing is abusrd.

Fuck this whole fucking system…..

My shouts fall on deaf ears

Im am a product of an establishment

I am a prduct of myself

I am a produt of you.

Fuck your respect.

 

Cloths

I get it

They seem useful.

But global warming though?

Serious.. we adapt

But for what

To wear more cloths and stay warm

Or drive more car

or use more lights

 

 

Next

My composition is manly

I cannot escape it

Its my demise

Why should I escape it

The reasoning is sound

All ways around.

Except for mine.

That’s the least expected

Nor projected

The

Uncollected

 

 

Dabz

 

There,

That’s when it happens,

You know.

That moment when you cross over

That moment when you sync

Not with humanity,

But with the universe

But on some level.

You already knew.

 

Try or die.

 

You got to be strong?

How do you surive?

It becomes a question of

the unquestionable.

 

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We'll see where this ends; It begins with me inside a bottle

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