Full moon moonshine

Drank got drunk stumbling beneath the blurry pair of pale faced moons.

Sip your gloom away the screaming crowd cries swaying.

Slouch down in that old blue lawn chair with your smoke soaked sponge lungs and watch her move so slow above you.

Weeping wine stained lips and tongues paint poetic portraits more precise than presidential speeches, only to wake up aching in the blinding bright hungover morning.

Memory empty like the shattered bottles scattered in the side yard.

Old habits die hard they say, so we drink away another day the same,

Only to wake up again to the next dreary tomorrow.

Patrick Sangeorzan


Ode to a Shit Hole

Your restrooms stink

Your barmaid’s flabby

Your owner’s a fink

Your winos are stabby

Wanna talk about trouble?

Wanna talk about fear?

Then pour me double

And let’s talk about here

So many better bars in town

And I’d tell you to go to hell

But I just sat down

And I fit in so well.

—Tony Patch


Drinking Raw

You dear strange

little souls

bigger than the world

tied to its nods

dreadfully busy

I drink

I laugh

I run away I run towards

my dear true self

blurred vision

not enough hallucinations

to keep my head above water.

There was nothing left to do

but drink on a freezing London night

on the bus and starving for food and truth

I drink not to starve

I drink to fall in love with lies—

society and lovers and delusions

everything is one and I am many.

I crawl up and down some hills

and mud and planets,

Where is my bottle?

Sore throat and empty stomach

I run to the bus nearly sobered up

brief moments of clarity

painful elements of being

I don’t need to be reminded

the rawness of things

I can see the bus my bottle on my seat

nearly saved I decide not to jump

rawness has taken over

I drink from it.

—Ella Valeree



I’d toast our inviter

To this debauched all-nighter

But he was arrested

An hour ago

And I’d raise a glass

To the guest of honor —


He went AWOL

After a shot of pernod

I’d sing praises to the guests

But they’re be praises useless

As I’ve misplaced

Every sodden and miserable one

Is there a single recruit

For an alcoholic salute?

Well there’s the whisky

The gin

And the rum.

­—Max Sparber


Feeling Like Being Dangerous

these fingers read

the braille of knives

on the topside

of the scarred bar

where absent slivers

of memories


with spilt whiskey

these days

i must



i confess

i bite my tongues

all of them

teeth to fist to liquor-limp prick

count yourself lucky

here in this gin-dim lamplight

this balled fist holds

a beer

and not any number

of sharp fuck yous

i’d love to stick in

your ribs

—Taylor Gould


Double Vision

Two of you

is more than enough

for inebriated eyes.

—Chris Butler


A Place at the Bar

I spurn your tables

Those grim islands of exile

Those echo chambers of assholes

Frail ships afraid of the shore

It’s the bar where I belong

Broad and true

The beachhead of heroes

Beer taps like tank traps

And bartenders booming:

“Follow me! I know the way!”

Until you get wounded

Then the fuckers push you

out to sea

like a broken Eskimo.

—Tony Patch


Seasonal Drinking

The Rieslings and mulled merlots

Of Christmas make me blush.

The scotches of deeper winter

Blur me beside a friend’s small fire.

The clear rivering beers of spring

Pour a lazy hour in the breeze.

The juniper daze of gins bring

Summer, and its long, sad light.

—Ernest Hilbert



Your mother asked me to find you.

She was dressed in that old housecoat,

coughing up huge gobs of guilt.

It was pointless to argue.

The new fallen snow impeded me not

since a booth at the nearest bar

was occupied by yourself.

I saw that you were unhealthy,

had the dimmest of prospects.

You offered to buy me a drink

but the look in your eyes said

you had given up perhaps as far back

as the eighth grade when Miss Clark

asked you to name the largest continent

and you said, “Australia!”

—Colin James