One of the dumbest things ever penned. . .
that flows in gentle lines toward tapered waist
while gently swirling fluids lie within
your crystal figure waiting for my lips.
But protocol demands a new way to rejoice
than sucking out or licking from the mass
that holds within inebriated voice
to place my hand upon your rounded glass.
Then pour I must yourself to vessel wide
or narrow raised to waiting moistened lips
then sip with delicate and balanced urge
to savor essence of your ruddy flow.
Only you and I will ever know.
The sweetness lingers long, though brazen, slow
dulling sense of my reality
a pall upon my vision cloudy, dim
reactions harnessed lie dammed up within.
Each time that lofty glass
I lift up lipwardly
blurry eyes grow blearier,
bulge outward more
a foggy, froggy gibbosity
that sees more doubles
than twins see ametropically,
and rolling paradigms
appear like nickel spheres
and words slip out without control
with sounds like no one hears
who drinks no more
domestic wines, liquours and foreign beers
The drink I more, the hear I less
the think I less, the need I more
the wine you are, must I confess,
most tastefully what I adore.
By now I waver half you gone
for cheers and toasts are done and said
while friends and strangers all and one
have left you drunk in wasted bed.
Now dripping droplets pink and red
mix bloody content alcohol
I cannot fathom deeds I said
to one or more, or none at all.
One by one they fly the coop
who long have drained their glasses dry
and you I hold still by the neck
not knowing how nor even why.
Your cousins stand by nations all
Courvoisier and cognac too
in bottles brown or green and blue
some clear and strong, and others weak,
some younger new with names untold
along with Galeano's gold,
ahh, pardon me before I leak –
and waddle I to room of rest
(me thinks me bladder says it best)
barely seeing Hiss and Hearse
no matter which, it could be worse
if I don't open up one door
and not release upon the floor
what used to be a drink or two
romantic break for me and you.
I came not here to drink nor dine
eat something not nor taste the wine
that rested past this bottle neck
which still I grasp in shaky hand
a foreign name more distant land,
an empty flask, and close my eyes
to dream of better nights and days
no more the shouts of "Yea, Surprise!"
when sotally tober were my ways.
Oh, flask of old, I hold you dear
an honored place of high esteem,
where eyes can read and ears can hear
these drunken words in sober dream.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 503 times
Written on 2007-02-27 at 02:41
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Ode to a Bottle of Wine
At ease, I peer upon your narrow neckthat flows in gentle lines toward tapered waist
while gently swirling fluids lie within
your crystal figure waiting for my lips.
But protocol demands a new way to rejoice
than sucking out or licking from the mass
that holds within inebriated voice
to place my hand upon your rounded glass.
Then pour I must yourself to vessel wide
or narrow raised to waiting moistened lips
then sip with delicate and balanced urge
to savor essence of your ruddy flow.
Only you and I will ever know.
The sweetness lingers long, though brazen, slow
dulling sense of my reality
a pall upon my vision cloudy, dim
reactions harnessed lie dammed up within.
Each time that lofty glass
I lift up lipwardly
blurry eyes grow blearier,
bulge outward more
a foggy, froggy gibbosity
that sees more doubles
than twins see ametropically,
and rolling paradigms
appear like nickel spheres
and words slip out without control
with sounds like no one hears
who drinks no more
domestic wines, liquours and foreign beers
The drink I more, the hear I less
the think I less, the need I more
the wine you are, must I confess,
most tastefully what I adore.
By now I waver half you gone
for cheers and toasts are done and said
while friends and strangers all and one
have left you drunk in wasted bed.
Now dripping droplets pink and red
mix bloody content alcohol
I cannot fathom deeds I said
to one or more, or none at all.
One by one they fly the coop
who long have drained their glasses dry
and you I hold still by the neck
not knowing how nor even why.
Your cousins stand by nations all
Courvoisier and cognac too
in bottles brown or green and blue
some clear and strong, and others weak,
some younger new with names untold
along with Galeano's gold,
ahh, pardon me before I leak –
and waddle I to room of rest
(me thinks me bladder says it best)
barely seeing Hiss and Hearse
no matter which, it could be worse
if I don't open up one door
and not release upon the floor
what used to be a drink or two
romantic break for me and you.
I came not here to drink nor dine
eat something not nor taste the wine
that rested past this bottle neck
which still I grasp in shaky hand
a foreign name more distant land,
an empty flask, and close my eyes
to dream of better nights and days
no more the shouts of "Yea, Surprise!"
when sotally tober were my ways.
Oh, flask of old, I hold you dear
an honored place of high esteem,
where eyes can read and ears can hear
these drunken words in sober dream.
Poetry by NotaDeadPoet
Read 503 times
Written on 2007-02-27 at 02:41
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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Zoya Zaidi |
