Posts Tagged ‘Authors and Alcohol’

Semester Over: Go Right Ahead

Monday, May 9th, 2011

Jane, Jane, tall as a crane!

Did I hear the word whiskey?

A great many people now reading and writing would be better employed keeping rabbits

We will have beer for lunch

The final crumbling of the rusty triangle

Dead, the leaves that like asses’s ears hung on the trees

Huge glasses of sloe gin

Yellow, meaningless, and shrill

I am an unpopular electric eel in a pool of catfish

There is a major problem

No liking but all lust

Old people do have falls

It is Thursday Morning: Go Right Ahead

Thursday, March 17th, 2011

Do you have a respectable suit you could trust me with?

Don’t be too harsh to these poems until they’re typed.

I am sorry Yeats is dead.

A dog among the fairies.

I cycled home in the dark without a lamp of any kind.

Fourteen pints is par.

I went on all over the States, ranting poems to enthusiastic audiences that, the week before, had been equally enthusiastic about lectures on Railway Development or the Modern Turkish Essay.

Our discreditable secret is that we don’t know anything at all.

Then hang a ram rose over the rags.

I am not a country man. I stand for the evening pub.

WOWELS.

Or a lotion of invisibility.

Somebody’s boring me. I think it’s me.

Go Right Ahead: It is Friday

Friday, February 18th, 2011

I broke my life.

But childhood prolonged. It becomes a hell.

My eyes and hearing are supernormal. I weigh 129 pounds. You can see what a diet of beer and light wine has made of me.

Do you understand the stopgap quality of hatred and rage?

The bridge besides the bridge of sighs.

Listening to the prisoned cricket.

And the hissing hair.

To drink dark beer with Mrs. Grant at four in the afternoon, under an umbrella, is a pleasure and a comfort.

Another entire bottle? I don’t know—let me drink on that.

See, it erases memory, as in grief, but arouses desire. So begins the cycle.

Stella spells ill.

To hell with that poem!

Honeysuckle blows by the granite.

It is Friday: Go Write Ahead.

Friday, February 11th, 2011

Brood, I do, on myself naked

She handed me a full glass and said, “This is the last drink you will ever take”

Are you equally unspectacular?

If you love me, as I love you

We’ll both be friendly and untrue

When you go. Go TV spots and skywriting. I mean it

I am surprised and pleased at the recent abundance of the nearly naked

I am not even going to drink. Only beer or brandy

We have reason to be afraid. This is a terrible place

Our friend the owl

Something has been said for sobriety but very little

Smears brandy on the trampling boot

Up to the bar on a donkey!

Blessings on thee, little man

Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan

But helicopters

It is AWP Friday: Go Right the Hell Ahead

Friday, February 4th, 2011

A lot of my life is eating soup with a fork

Huge red dirty wall fog

Oh, sod you!

I’d rather be dead than think about death

Drink chose me

Bars are the only sparks

Spouses, money, James Joyce, beer?

Give me my duff. And pour custard on it from a ladle

Bad publicity? Your own obituary

Ah, I never get no snout

I smoked my way half-way through the book of Genesis and three inches of my mattress

Old potatoes, cold

Go Ahead: It is Friday

Friday, January 28th, 2011

Man don’t drink none ain’t natural.

The beloved may be treacherous, greasy-headed, and given to evil habits.

It makes me feel like I have four legs instead of two.

Like my lemonade funny.

Ridiculed, beaten, thrown into a crowd.

(ravn)

Beer has a nice bitter taste after ice cream. Next to music, beer is the best.

The theme is the theme of humiliation.

Are you a hunchback or an old cripple? Whiskey on the house!

They are the we of me.

So why add orange juice?

Listen: if you want to steal the dessert spoon just steal the dessert spoon.

Are you a lawyer, agent, or friend?

Life is good. But there are problems.

It is Friday: Go Write Ahead

Friday, December 17th, 2010

Reason, Magic, Skill and Love
Frankly, I think poorly of

Taste the drink, add a little more whiskey, taste again, now put the bottle aside

Oh, I’ll stagger

An open can spread frank before the sky

Cheap gin, cheap ginger ale, not much ice

The mere attempt to examine my own confusion would consume volumes

I like to drink and read with my mom

Anyone’s who drunk, I know it myself, they’re likely to exaggerate

Rye whiskey in the green celluloid glass of a bathroom

It’s just the thing for shock

God doesn’t believe in the easy way

Precede into the kitchen

I don’t even drink anymore, just wine

This is one gigantic day

But you’ve got tomorrow to reckon with

It is Friday: Go dye a sled

Friday, November 19th, 2010

I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.

Try a smirk that is not a smirk.

Nothing shall turn me.

What will happen to our odd photos now? We delete them. We delete them. We delete ourselves.

Drunk like house keys handed over to a youngest son.

Of word-play it has been said that those who most dislike them are those who are least able to utter them.

The nose of a mob is its imagination.

Golden bells! Brass rings!

There is an eloquence in true enthusiasm.

Sleep is a slice of death. I hate it.

Drunk as a famous photo.

Look. Convince yourself not to convince.

It is Friday: Go Right Ahead

Friday, October 22nd, 2010

The fact I can write this at a bar is almost like flying cars.

Seated for hours in front of a large glass of beer!

The odor of gin, of tar, of ginger, of leeks and cloves.

Murder the wine merchant!

From one end of the country to another, there exists a freemasonry of alcoholics.

Did you just drop my bishop in your beer?

This place smells of lazy crowds.

Today we should drink four bottles of wine and read the contents of our libraries haphazardly.

Blar.

I arrived from between two of these mountains, I looked at the lake and the moon, and that was it, nothing else happened.