Wifey Boozer

I know what it's like.
To hurt when you smile.
When it's 82 degree humidity,
and you're freezing fucking cold, shaking like an orgasm,
with none of the pleasure.



I know what it's like.
To step into a hot shower, a caliber of hell,
and it feels so good to burn.
Because you think you deserve it.



I know what it's like.
To hurt yourself on the outside,
to try and kill the thing on the inside.



I know what it's like.
When your heart bleeds.
For your own lost cause.



I know what it's like.
When people look at you like you're crazy,
stuck at the bottom of that well.
And you can't climb out, for your life.

I know what that's like.
Do you?


~

* second stanza edit credit to PaperHurricanes

__________________


... Stalin had a FANTASTIC moustache.

Formerly known as the Prime Minister of Spain.

[backintheubbr]

PaperHurricanesAndPlanes

Both the three line stanzas are cliche and add nothing to the poem.

I'd change the first two stanzas like so:

I know what it's like.
To hurt when you smile.
When it's 82 degree humidity,
and you're freezing fucking cold,
shaking like an orgasm,
with none of the pleasure.

I know what it's like.
To step into a hot shower,
a caliber of hell,
and it feels so good to burn.
Because you think you deserve it.

Normally, fucking wouldn't go in a sentence like that, but I like how you use it and then reference orgasming right after, it works.

This is a very good poem aside from the things I mentioned.

__________________

Wifey Boozer

A like what you did with the 6 line stanzas... I agree with you about the 3 liners, but I explained that on AIM. Thanks hon :]

__________________


... Stalin had a FANTASTIC moustache.

Formerly known as the Prime Minister of Spain.

[backintheubbr]

Wifey Boozer

A Piece About A Piece of Ass

Booze him on the floor,
booze him until he's thrown-up on a whore,
booze him until he's sore.

Booze him until you can lure him,
out of the uptown bar,
get into his luxury car,
hear the wheels screech on the tar,
and stick around until he calls you a liar.

(The Days Of Wine and Roses)

When you're on the game you feel like yer fuckin' Moses.
But most of them are losers and we hate you, like the hooker at the Crazy Horse Too.
After all, that's where we get you.
When you're down and out in your Armani suit,
drowning your sorrows at the black-tie bar,
fucking high-priced, four-legged hookers,
matching luggage near your patton-leather barstool,
doing lines off the cocktail waitress' tits and ass,
wondering who the fuck you are on a Friday night,
who's the guy staring back at you in the glass?



We can't help but laugh.
You're pegged like your third leg, you stick out like an erect cock -
you're ours already and you don't even know it -
we only know it because we
show it



To pay our bills and get our cheap thrills,
buy our pills and a sock or two,
get new tits,
get our hands in the deepest part of your pits.



Tie-up your mits if you're inclined that way,
hey, it's just another pay-day - what's a lousy lay, anyway?
You think you have a say, what a narcissist you must be to think in such a way.



We are the pros of con.
We are the movers and the shakers,
the Moneymakers.
The turtle doves of unrequited loves.
And when the push came,
to the shoves

We found ourselves determined.
We can love you, hate you, tie you up and
make you
love us
hate us
Tie us up and make us.



All of it for the almighty buck.
This is why, afterall, they call it
A Fuck.

__________________


... Stalin had a FANTASTIC moustache.

Formerly known as the Prime Minister of Spain.

[backintheubbr]

Wifey Boozer

No crit for crit?

__________________


... Stalin had a FANTASTIC moustache.

Formerly known as the Prime Minister of Spain.

[backintheubbr]

PaperHurricanesAndPlanes

I'll crit for clit...oh, not what you meant :-P.

__________________

Wifey Boozer

You make me smile, Lansky.

__________________


... Stalin had a FANTASTIC moustache.

Formerly known as the Prime Minister of Spain.

[backintheubbr]

Wifey Boozer

7 Stanzas for 7 Orgasms

First Thought, Best Thought
Those kind of people...
Who love French whore houses
or just the smell of them,
or the panties.
Especially the panties.
And call the French whore
their Angel.
That's the type of person
Who turns me on
At quarter after one in the morning
to Ginsberg.

Allusion to the Bluebird
But the type of person, the recovering alcoholic and the junkie,
Who brakes down laughing with him at the preface and crying with the prologue
At 20 after one (in the morning, the noon, the night)
That's the type of person.
Who makes a man
Weep.
Do you?

Having A Dry Drink With The White Rabbit
The type of people
Who hang around in derelict, dimly-lit bars
At no known hours of the morning, the noon, and the night.
And don't drink (weep).
Just talk.
About sexy little beat poets
and Their sexy little tatas.
Mork and Mindy in the morning, with the breakfast they don't eat in bed
(We don't eat food, wink)
Alluding to books no one's read (those are the best)
Films no one's seen,
Records no one's heard.
Admirable drunks, Jews, and gays.
Those are the type of people
With past suicides in vain,
Nineteenth nervous breakdowns,
Who are clinically schitzomanic, crazy
Sons and daughters of bitches.
Who make love like rabbits on speed.

A Hell of a Worth-While Phone-Bill
The type of person
Who makes proposals with ring-pops.
And knows my words,
like "allusion", "debauchery", "impervious", "synonymous", and
"Carrot".
That's the type of person
Who's serotonin leaks out his iris'
On my bare breasts
While I fall him to sleep
With a sweet smoker's voice
Through various cable wires in Upstate New York
That's the type of person I'd marry,
After one week point five.

The Dead Poet's Society Concluded
The type of person
Who's blood-alcohol level
Was a permanent double-oh-seven
Seven days ago today.
And if she came blood then,
would've bled-out
Hydrocodone.
(And you would've ate it anyway,
So I didn't feel my own self-induced illness).
That's the type of person
Who thinks she's lost her edge
Because she can't drink near Bukowski's grave
But kind of has it
Because, well, like the gay Jew said,
Someone has to talk
For our Dead Poets.

The Holy Grail of Uncompeting Mobsters
The type of person
Who can make me come
Seven times
In an hour
Or less,
Just from his voice.
The type of person
Who actually has a voice
(In this day and age!)
Astounds me.
Because he thinks
I am
A good person.
Despite that we murdered Al Capone,
and did lunch with Lansky.

A Pretty Good Read
The type of people
Who make love all of the morning, the noon, and the night
And call it exercsie.
And fast
Because they can't stop fucking
And pass out (sober!) for two days
Because of it, worth it (first thought, best thought)
Who fall asleep on eachother,
While one's insomniac reads one's Ginsberg and chain-smokes in beautiful, unplastic agony.
Subconciously rubbing the sleeping man's head (which head?)
With undone, come-red nails (fingers).
And despite the agony, despite the physicians, despite the sobriety, despite the clinic, despite the manic, despite the angst, despite the living-situation, despite the family-situation, despite the blood, despite the pain, and everything.
She smiles.
Puts the cigarette out in the soda-filled wine glass, puts the pen down, turns the lights off, and goes to sleep with him, naked and happy, next to Cosmopolitan Greetings and our glasses.

And despite the happiness and sobriety,
Well, hell,
I think we're a pretty good read.

__________________


... Stalin had a FANTASTIC moustache.

Formerly known as the Prime Minister of Spain.

[backintheubbr]

PaperHurricanesAndPlanes

You're welcome. Lol. MWAH.

__________________

Wifey Boozer

Haha. I love you sweetie. MWAH<3

__________________


... Stalin had a FANTASTIC moustache.

Formerly known as the Prime Minister of Spain.

[backintheubbr]