Posts Tagged ‘rum’

they are all down here
including these two
brother and sister
arguing over me
and my opinion

as I write this poem
they go back and forth
and it goes on and on
he defends me and
she calls me an asshole

as she stuffs her face
with a stuffed pepper
and spews her acid
against me

I can feel the hate
and it makes me smile

I am so special
that you get all
worked up about me

that you want to
waste your hate

right now people are dying
from governments and disease
from CIA plots and machinations
but I am above all that

I am special on your list
and you are nothing on mine

enjoy your drama, oh woman
live it out like the best
Maury episodes you’ve
seen on T.V.

I’ll still be sipping on my drink
and living life through
sugarcane eyes

and enjoying it

I sit here
at the laptop
sipping my rum
and coke

I think about her
and the things that
have been and the
things that can be

connections and
absomance by
a virtual means
and 21stcentury modes

digitized images
and imaginations
from a past
long, long gone

an alchemy of
the lost and the dead
of the real and unreal
and those in between

heaven and hell
are the remnants of
the stories we
were told as children

another sip, another
stroke of death’s hand
and I still laugh
at the cluster fuck of it all

the cuntpunchers
and the whoresuckers
the gone from here
and the now of there ahead

we ride and jam
into the great adventure
of no inhibitions
and jungle instinct

I will come to you soon,
my love

Rum and Coke Image Courtesy of

Rum and Coke Image Courtesy of

the wine speaks and I

sometimes it’s hard to understand
we eventually find a way to

usually Beethoven or Mozart
help translate these
strange and terrible

these are the kinds of things
that drive men to

Goya would be jealous

of course we both have had
our visions of

he painted them on walls
I write them on paper
will the world ever
really truly understand

some will say they do
but those people are the same
type who say they understand

they are merely cultists

I guess only the mad
will understand
the mad

while the rest will be
devoured in an orgy
of cannibalism
and hypocrisy

like hungry wolves
fucking the dead

Witches Sabbath by Francisco Goya

Witches Sabbath by Francisco Goya

the heaving
retching, nauseous grip
poison coursing
sweat squeezed
through pores like
orange juice
bile and acid
burning in my throat
its like all of my innards
will shoot out
and splatter all over
the walls
hands sliding on porcelain
knees grinding on tile
visions of hell
and cupcakes
rolling around
in rhythm
with the spinning room
why do I have to
remember the punch line
from the joke
here comes another wave
muscles taut
body locks
the birth of sickness
and vile ambitions
while my skull is pounded
with the pulse
of thunder, granite,
naked pain
the gods kiss the shit
and make it sunshine
thus I am purified

Throwing Up Girl by Fabian Marcaccio

Throwing Up Girl by Fabian Marcaccio

it was a cold one
in white plains that night.
I had plenty of time,
no place to go,
and a bottle of rum
so I just wandered around.
it was a Friday night
and it seemed like the
whole city was out that night.
I drifted from place to place
stopping here and there
for a sip or two to
warm my tired bones when
through the thick crowds
and howling wind
I heard music being played.
it was a lively acoustic guitar
and I followed its raucous
melodies and the wailing
harmonica that accompanied
the distant jam.
I came closer and closer,
moving through people
like a ghost amongst
the dead and buried.
I was hypnotized by what
I heard and as I came upon
the source of the music, the
rest of the world faded away.
it was just me and him.
he was standing in the entrance
of an old mom and pop
store that had closed
down not too long ago.
Another casualty of the newly
arrived Donald Trump empire.
the player was singing a song,
strumming away and blowing the
harp with everything in him.
he sang about a girl
that rejected him after all
the romancing he’s given her.
the song reminded me of
a Bob Dylan tune.
It was a good one until
the guy (who was reading
his lyrics that were taped up
to the window of the store)
messed up the lyrics.
but he kept going and I
kept drinking, swaying to his
beat, his madness,
and his passion.
there was some
drunken whore walking
her beat back and forth
and she’d pass us by
yelling, “yeah, keep at it
bob dylan! maybe I’ll give you
a freebie later, honey!”
she said that every time she’d
pass by, sometimes
with a john, sometimes not.
in any case the musician
would smile and keep playing his tune.
as he played out the last
few chords, and blew the
last few notes, I threw some
change into his opened guitar case.
“thanks man,” he said.
“no problem,” I replied.
“it was a good tune.”
“thanks man, glad you liked it,”
the musician said
as I took a swig of my rum.
I held the bottle out
and offered it to him.
“oh thanks, I could use a
little something after that!”
he joyfully exclaimed as he
put his equipment down.
he took the bottle then took
a good shot to the head.
he handed it back and asked me,
“so did you get the song man?
did you understand the words?”
“I caught some of the words,
about some broad right?”
“yeah man, she was a great girl
but she broke my heart.”
“they tend to do that,“ I said with
a knowing smile.
just then I though of all
my disasters with that thing called
love over the years.
“man I used to come over her
house, bring her KFC, she loved
KFC man, and flowers, chocolates,
“I hear ya,” I said.
“then she got a restraining
order against me, that damn
15 year old cunt!” he said.
“she was 15?” I asked.
“yea 15, beautiful girl too,
like a model,” he said.
“nice,” I said with another sip.
“yea man, she said I was stalking
her,” he said. “I says to her, ‘I’m 44
I don’t need to stalk nobody!’”
“I hear ya,” I said.
“women, man,” he said
shaking his head. “what the
fuck goes through their heads
these days?”
“who the fuck knows? nice
guys like us can’t seem
to catch a break,” I offered him
the bottle again, and we started
passing it back and forth.
“you’re right man, we can’t
catch a break man,” he said after a
big gulp of the golden rum.
“all they want are guys with
nice cars and money and all
this other shit.”
“you got that right,” I agreed.
“yea but you know what man?
you know what happens?
those guys turn out to be assholes,
jerks that treat them like shit,” he
spit on the ground and took out
a pack of cigarettes.
he took one out and lit up.
he offered me one but
I declined.
I don’t smoke cigarettes.
“we can’t catch a break,” I said.
“none,” he said with a drag.
“what are you going to do?” I asked.
“find me another little
piece of apple pie,” he said.
“maybe a 12 year old, teach her
how to really love a man
with all her heart,” he said,
looking out into the swarming
masses of people.
“I’ll take her somewhere secluded,
somewhere where the world
can’t judge us.”
I pondered this as
I finished off the rum.
“maybe you should do that,”
I finally said.
“yea man, I think I will,”
he said.
“well I wish you luck,” I said.
“I better get going, its gonna get even
colder and I gotta find
a place to sleep.”
“I know how that goes
brother,” the musician said.
“good luck.”
“thanks,” I said.
we shook hands and
I turned around and
walked off into the
night, wondering what
kind of song
the troubadour pedophile
would sing next.

Mamaroneck Avenue, White Plains, New York image courtesy of

Mamaroneck Avenue, White Plains, New York image courtesy of

My eyes slowly opened
As I exited the bizarre and ideal
And entered
The strange but true

I could not breath
I was being crushed
By the intense weight
Of life

Disappointed family
Ruined lives
Cheap wine and hot dogs
Dinner for 1

What the fuck
Happened to me?
I think the deck
Was stacked

Doomed from conception
So what happened
I mean really happened
Was that I happened

A drunk with shit stained eyes
Lashed out from
A rum soaked tongue

A thief, a liar, a cheat
Scheming and deceiving
Not giving a damn
About anything

The pressure increases
As the thoughts
Invade and pillage
My guilty conscience

I feel it in my chest
My heart crumbles
And I fall apart
Like an old Roman statue

But please, one last drink
Before I go
Even if it’s the last drop
From the bottom

One last drop
For one last drunk
Who breathes his last breath
From the bottom

it’s been six months
since I last held
a job.

now here I am,
stumbling about
in the early morning.

there is a hangover
waging war in my
worn body.

the wind stirs the nausea
as the world spins
and clashes against my eyes.

I’ve vomited twice
and feel another
coming at any moment.

I am fragile in the

the train ride isn’t
any better.

swaying with people, perfume, cologne
newspapers, coffee.

I silently pray for
the train to crash
so this could all be over.

sudden death would be
preferable to the sickness
but I don’t get my wish.

I try to think about my woman
but the poison stops me
without any mercy.

I arrive in White Plains
and make my way
to the bookstore.

each step is a struggle
to stay alive.

no more, please.

let me just turn back
and lie down.

I make it to the store
and see the manager
for my training.

she is explaining
store procedures
and policy.

all I can hear is
my guts trying to
explode inside.

all I see is
a dead person
speaking words
that fall like death.

I am shifting
between worlds
reality and not,
heaven and hell.

first day of work.

another day of death.

we’ve been here
before and will
probably be here again.

until then…

Sisyphus by Titian (1549)

Sisyphus by Titian (1549)