Shift It...baby.Yaaasss.Shift...It.

the itch, the bitch, the witch, the beholden, emboldened, crazy, lazy, hazy, someone said, forever naked foogazy, but still, we play, we stay, we agitate the fray, we want the foam, not the wave, we take back, what once, we freely gave, vomit in the street, is a mark of our glee, and in the last shot, the weak had not, marked time with all of us true cowboys, well, she told me…

knowing men is a curse.men are such cowards.they speak of brave actions,all the while doubting their worth.

disproven.

Let’s look at it in reverse, drinking at 2 a.m.. I got here on foot and backed into the bar on accident trying to locate the coat rack and wandered down the stairs to the other bar, darker and more likely to house, at these hours, our fair neighborhood flowers and coughed hard so that they should see my arrival upon this drunken sea and actually made it all the way to a chair, without…

tears in the rain pouring so hard, but the gods don’t mind,seeing things in flashes – the thunder rattles the china where I stand,calling her wicked name, seeing spots in the rain and such is life,such is pain.

Chrysanthemumsruby red,the color of her period,she famously said, but I pointed out the deadsmell, sweet,of October’s fallen leaf,and she cynically smelled the open air as if to tell,and I told her chrysanthemums,are East Asian in origin,like India ink and the abacus too, and she stroked my face andadmired the view,and kissed me hard upon the mouth, for red chrysanthemums, no doubt.

She groaned upon her throne, And ground down her mound and round she rose, again Her hair dampened with guttural woes, The ceiling closed upon her throes, Fan repeating circles, Expanding as the room rescinded, widening farther, growing harder, her going-sounds winding down, until at last, she shook and trembled beyond her winded gasps.

writers who strike it,have an understanding,but not really, they would claimignorance,of such things, and shit upon theirown work,which has elevated a name from soilto sky,upon fronds of sunlight see how,those short lives burn,so much like cordite.

turtle muddling,among leaves, crinkling,under it’s slow steps, i could hear themin the open summer window, under/over my grandfather’s pious, baritone. underneath his winded sermon,those who had no windowwere rendered unlucky, no turtles.

Daily writing promptWhat’s the story behind your nickname?View all responses Dean Martin. The rat pack drunk. A crooner. A boozer. The guy who drove everyone home. Yeah. that guy The one who knew how to drink. a professional drinker. the rest, pretenders, belly up to the bar is an homage to the professional drinker, whom ice is optional, who covers those in full blown work…

defined as “the act of purifying” distillation, apart from it’s synonym,Love, seems esoteric,the few, remembering Love,like acid, not purifying, but burning,peeling away without regard, sole purpose to dissipate,the flesh, at least distillation,implies a remainder, but love, it does not forgivein this regard.

and they they said things in their silly ways,framed, like Picasso, like some fake versionsome A-eye render thought,of what the truth used to be, ve\beees,code is sacre=====sacrimonious,acrrimonious, to the truth,we spell this correcltly?correctly. truth is sacromonious,ha, see?see it is laughter, an emotion, yet no one even notices, we are become the beast,we are now here,who or…

My brilliance wakes on sorrow, and sets the type for me, My brilliance is fleeting, but here now, implores me, My brilliance is a dance, Step light and lacking worry, My brilliance is a drink, So set, before me.

Think upon your pain,It never looks upon the same nightas same, dull sparks of stars aloft,raindrops then,falling and upon you soft, then at once again,when thought the same,raging against your skin as flame, think upon your pain,it never looks the same,night upon night you toil, thinking of all the faults you blame,blaming all of the acts at boil,you never see twice the single pain, think…