Poetry competition CLOSED 9th February 2013 3:58am
WINNER
Indie (Miss Indie)
Indie (Miss Indie)
Page:
Hangovers
While Dreaming of Bacardi
All it takes is a moment where instinct fails
and stupidity prevails - a drink toasted
against my traitorous lips, to drag me languidly
back into the gutter where tears always fall
after the laughter dies somewhere high
in my chest cavity - suffocated by the beating
of my heart that seems to think love
has a cock attached to the end of it
(as though I’m living in Disney’s Aladdin)
and if I rub it hard enough a genie will pour forth
its ageless wisdom and grant me three wishes
one of which would be heterosexuality
that always ends with the dawning
of tomorrow’s hangover
All it takes is a moment where instinct fails
and stupidity prevails - a drink toasted
against my traitorous lips, to drag me languidly
back into the gutter where tears always fall
after the laughter dies somewhere high
in my chest cavity - suffocated by the beating
of my heart that seems to think love
has a cock attached to the end of it
(as though I’m living in Disney’s Aladdin)
and if I rub it hard enough a genie will pour forth
its ageless wisdom and grant me three wishes
one of which would be heterosexuality
that always ends with the dawning
of tomorrow’s hangover
Cracked Bottles of Drink and Leftover Scraps
Forcing my eyes open
with no recollection,
of where I am.
Bottles of Johnny
and JD.
crash to the tiled floor
as I drag myself
off the couch.
The crash,
jolting me awake.
The TV's still running
it's some repeat of becker
on TV1.
Foxtel ain't worth
it's price.
Picking up a bottle
still a few drops of scotch
leftover bowls of vegetarian spaghetti
set on the table
Stumbling along,
forearm against the wall
I step on a crushed can of VB
cheap piss..
With a faltered gaze
beginning to assess my
surroundings, I'm at Quinn's place.
I trip over the chuck bucket
as i'm staggering to the sink,
to wash my face clean.
Thank Christ, I held my guts.
as only water etches across the tiles
Decent effort? I think so.
With a crack of my neck
I notice the clock's at 6.
The sky outside tells me
It's morning.
Pretty damn hungry
as I microwave left over
the leftover vegetarian spaghetti.
still sitting on the table.
Minute and a half should do it
makes a good brekkie.
I think to myself
Quinn's a damn good cook.
I notice my wallet,
keys and phone.
Still on the lounge room
table. Thank christ for that.
Head still ringing..
I wonder what I said.
A sober man's thoughts,
are a drunk man's words.
As they
so often say.
Forcing my eyes open
with no recollection,
of where I am.
Bottles of Johnny
and JD.
crash to the tiled floor
as I drag myself
off the couch.
The crash,
jolting me awake.
The TV's still running
it's some repeat of becker
on TV1.
Foxtel ain't worth
it's price.
Picking up a bottle
still a few drops of scotch
leftover bowls of vegetarian spaghetti
set on the table
Stumbling along,
forearm against the wall
I step on a crushed can of VB
cheap piss..
With a faltered gaze
beginning to assess my
surroundings, I'm at Quinn's place.
I trip over the chuck bucket
as i'm staggering to the sink,
to wash my face clean.
Thank Christ, I held my guts.
as only water etches across the tiles
Decent effort? I think so.
With a crack of my neck
I notice the clock's at 6.
The sky outside tells me
It's morning.
Pretty damn hungry
as I microwave left over
the leftover vegetarian spaghetti.
still sitting on the table.
Minute and a half should do it
makes a good brekkie.
I think to myself
Quinn's a damn good cook.
I notice my wallet,
keys and phone.
Still on the lounge room
table. Thank christ for that.
Head still ringing..
I wonder what I said.
A sober man's thoughts,
are a drunk man's words.
As they
so often say.
Anonymous
“Simple Things Like Raindrops”
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/images/uploads/poemimages/84915.jpg
Last night, I was in an experimental mood.
I wanted to go deep inside myself,
find out what makes me tick,
answer questions that bother me so, then
sit myself down alone to write about it.
To do such a thing, I needed to relax, get into the mix.
Imbibing copious amounts of mind-altering
elixirs (drank a shot or two or maybe more),
my mind went into a coma-like stupor,
an ethanol blitz if you will,
its effect was enacting silly tricks,
one right after the other.
It wasn’t long before I gave up the writing part.
I remember eating a worm,
dancing to a cockroach song,
stripping naked,
eating burnt toast,
inhaling stale pizza,
bouncing quarters,
dying my hair blue,
shaving my legs,
howling at the moon,
quacking like a loon, and
listening to Simon and Garfunkle, loudly.
And, if that wasn’t enough fun stuff,
I awoke in the bathtub cradling
a jar of Noxzema, half used.
Despite the frolic and fun,
it was a cosmic experience
I’d soon like to forget.
My troubles were magnified by a
splitting needle pain in my tortured brain.
I was majorly under the weather.
The gentle sprinkling
outside my window
soothed my aching mind.
Who would have thunk
such beauty exists in
simple things like raindrops.
Drunk poets.
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/images/uploads/poemimages/84915.jpg
Last night, I was in an experimental mood.
I wanted to go deep inside myself,
find out what makes me tick,
answer questions that bother me so, then
sit myself down alone to write about it.
To do such a thing, I needed to relax, get into the mix.
Imbibing copious amounts of mind-altering
elixirs (drank a shot or two or maybe more),
my mind went into a coma-like stupor,
an ethanol blitz if you will,
its effect was enacting silly tricks,
one right after the other.
It wasn’t long before I gave up the writing part.
I remember eating a worm,
dancing to a cockroach song,
stripping naked,
eating burnt toast,
inhaling stale pizza,
bouncing quarters,
dying my hair blue,
shaving my legs,
howling at the moon,
quacking like a loon, and
listening to Simon and Garfunkle, loudly.
And, if that wasn’t enough fun stuff,
I awoke in the bathtub cradling
a jar of Noxzema, half used.
Despite the frolic and fun,
it was a cosmic experience
I’d soon like to forget.
My troubles were magnified by a
splitting needle pain in my tortured brain.
I was majorly under the weather.
The gentle sprinkling
outside my window
soothed my aching mind.
Who would have thunk
such beauty exists in
simple things like raindrops.
Drunk poets.
The Hangover.
Alcohol induced
self inflicted situation
tearing strips
from my mental order
my weak stomach in battle
with my pounding skull
oscillating I hold on tightly
to the bucket
disgorgement cascades
into my only hope
acid burns the channel
of the night before's escape
yesterdays pleasure
now my today's suffering
hanging by the thread
of was it really worth it
arguing with my
disorientated consciousness
nailing another projection
into the faithful bucket
giving myself over to the
demon of hell just to be free
omnipotent forces
leave me so incapable
vomited all out
I succumb to my two day fate
enveloped in thoughts
of wonder about the night before
regretting that there
is not much of a recollection
forlorn the mirror screams
at me in protest
rankled by the neighbours
banging in my head
or is that just my head
teaching me a lesson
mouth parched and
impersonating sandpaper
hopelessness befalls
my heavy eyes as I
entertain the realms
of hangover free sleep
Alcohol induced
self inflicted situation
tearing strips
from my mental order
my weak stomach in battle
with my pounding skull
oscillating I hold on tightly
to the bucket
disgorgement cascades
into my only hope
acid burns the channel
of the night before's escape
yesterdays pleasure
now my today's suffering
hanging by the thread
of was it really worth it
arguing with my
disorientated consciousness
nailing another projection
into the faithful bucket
giving myself over to the
demon of hell just to be free
omnipotent forces
leave me so incapable
vomited all out
I succumb to my two day fate
enveloped in thoughts
of wonder about the night before
regretting that there
is not much of a recollection
forlorn the mirror screams
at me in protest
rankled by the neighbours
banging in my head
or is that just my head
teaching me a lesson
mouth parched and
impersonating sandpaper
hopelessness befalls
my heavy eyes as I
entertain the realms
of hangover free sleep
Anonymous
Congrats Miss Indie. Thanks Zinger.
Write on...and have a drink on me!
Strider
Write on...and have a drink on me!
Strider
