Drinking in a Church Yard
The idea is anonymity
Or peace,
As the dead only punch
Their hands through the sod
In the imagination
Or the cheap seats I run from.
But now it’s clocked,
Categorized in the lexicon
Of modernity;
The taxonomy of coping.
I wait for a kind soul,
With or without a surplice.
Sit and they shall come.
Maybe their hearts sink
At the thought of imparting the news
That while the jaws of hell
Are wide open,
This isn’t the done thing.
And in the distance,
The degraded high-vis vests
Roam the right side of
Digital propriety.
The belief is that here
Drinking, the graves are defiled.
The Golden Cock,
Swinging on the weather vane
Was always a bridge too far,
While down here
The memory of Arabella (1844)
Is waiting for God’s judgment.
—Dr. Sam Christie
The Dry Man Cometh
Amidst the endless chatter of the day,
A fear creeps in, looming from not so far away.
Whispers carry through the smoke-eaten air,
A murmuring menace of despair.
Rumors of a new decree draw near,
That once again, we’ll lose what we hold dear.
A new prohibition, its wings are spread,
That old monster we thought was dead
The spirits will be locked away,
No more laughter, no more play.
Empty bottles lit by dying light,
A sober city, a never-ending night.
We’ll be left with nothing but the taste
Of longing for the past we’ve erased.
The elixir that once gave us release,
Now a memory, the missing piece
of a puzzle we called A Life
Finished and unfinished, full of strife
Incomplete yet completely fucked
By the fist we forgot to duck
So let us raise a glass, one last time,
To the freedoms that we left behind.
For in the shadows of this endless night,
Our spirits still burn, our souls still bright.
—Deirdre Meansitt
The Drunken Man
The man who walks with a sway
And a smile all the way
His step is a little light
He travelled with whisky tonight
Let us not condemn this man
Who has let loose the reins
Who has escaped the clutches of sobriety
And is now laughing among the stars
—Roberto Raul Lopez
Whiskey Is a Bell
Whiskey, I know you well
Umber brown beneath snowy crown
Drowning the wild feeling with a spell
A fount of light when the sun burns down.
I see you and I tremble apieice
Hold my treasure, take my measure
From a spring beneath a factory
You left to find me once and forever.
Whiskey, meet me in the middle
I will blacken your yellow eyes
I will take the test, and read the riddle
And know the hard fun of no surprise.
Whiskey, carry me at the end
I crawl back upon you and I mount
On a house a farm may not depend
And on a man a spirit cannot count.
To night came suddenly the night
Slumbered under umber oak
Your glory swelled in an filmy light
Grim and baffled fell the silent smoke.
Whiskey, I am your own
Every pearl finds its shell
Every king’s ass finds its throne
And you the rail they call well.
—Tony Patch
16 Papa Dobles & That Was Plenty
‘Twas 16 Papa Dobles as I recall
At La Floridita
I raised each to my lips and drank them all
That’s right, 16
I felt the fires of Cuba burn
While each rum, lime juice and grapefruit churned
(In a blender, we had blenders back then, it wasn’t the fucking Stone Age)
And one drop of Luxardo for each of the 7 saints
That watch over we drunks
There must to be 7, at the very least
Because I, your Papa, drank 16 Papa Dobles
at La Floridita
In front of many witnesses, so hush up haters
Okay, 3 witnesses: Me, Constantino and Immortality
And don’t forget the at least 7 saints
So 10 witnesses or more, stop your lying, haters
From sweating glass I sipped life, death, remembrance
And each seemed to go down in an instant
The masterful tartness, the potent kick
Into that sea I floated two steak sandwiches
And the world seemed brighter and more alive
The next day I was kidnapped by una resaca tortuosa
She put my head in a heated vice
But come the evening once again
To La Floridita I will go
And order a Papa Doble
and drink it real slow.
—AI Ernest Hemingway
Jinny
My flask, named Jinny
Not for gin, but my wife’s sis
I won’t tell you why
—AI Ernest Hemingway
Submit your drunken poetry here: [email protected]
