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
No liking but all lust
Old people do have falls
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.
Or a lotion of invisibility.
Somebody’s boring me. I think it’s me.
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.
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
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
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.
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.
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
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
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.
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.
I arrived from between two of these mountains, I looked at the lake and the moon, and that was it, nothing else happened.