You cannot distinguish between a drunken man and a mad man until they have slept.
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Dormant Days And Inactive Nights
even if there is no way
for sleep to sleep in the couch
in the bed
the body tries to find
rest... no way, no way,
a whisper is heard in the ear
there is no way out
from here
there is this sound of despair
the music of
hopelessness
you who probably hear it
tonight
in these dormant hours
think that the notes
are divine
you who soundly lies on the sofa
of your
drunken feats
probably cannot distinguish
what is not there
anymore
i am shattered
but there will be no pieces
to piece
to make whole
i fly without wings
like air
you cannot see what is real.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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By what criterion... can we distinguish among the numberless effects, that are also causes, and among the causes that may, for aught we can know, be also effects, - how can we distinguish which are the means and which are the ends?
quote by Chauncey Wright
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Where the law does not distinguish, we ought not to distinguish.
in Legal Dictionary
Submitted by Simona Enache
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My father was predisposed to drunken rages. I would hide under the bed. My sister and I were talking just the other day about the terror a drunken man in a rage can create in a child.
quote by Antonio Villaraigosa
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0127 A Poem About Gertrude Stein
a poem slept
the poem slept
nobody knew it slept
it did not know itself that it slept
it slept like a baby
and that was refreshing
it refreshed itself before it was born
as babies do
it did not then know itself that it slept
but when it woke up it knew that it had slept
while it slept this poem had a dream
it was a good dream
it did not know that it was a dream
it dreamed itself awake
but when it woke up it remembered
that it had had a dream
it remembered that it was a dream
when it was awake
when it woke up
it remembered itself
and dressed appropriately
and told itself to friends and strangers
it told itself the same way to friends and strangers
that was its duty because it was
it did not mind whether they were friends or strangers
because it was a poem
I know
I know this
I know this because
I know this because there is a because
I know this because the poem told me
I know this because the poem told me it had a name
A poem about Gertrude Stein
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Who can’t stop drinking may get drunken three times a month. If he does it more often, he is guilty. To get drunken twice a month is better; once, still more praiseworthy. But not to drink at all - what could be better than this? But where could such a being be found? But if one would find it, it would be worthy of all honour.
quote by Ginghis Han
Submitted by Simona Enache
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First of all, I would like to clear the air on one thing. Alison has slept with more men than Amanda; Sydney has slept with more men than Amanda; I think Matt has slept with more men than Amanda.
quote by Heather Locklear
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Shes My Kind Of Rain
Shes my kind of rain
Like love in a drunken sky
Shes confetti falling
Down all night
She sits quietly there
Black water in a jar
Says, baby why are you
Trembling like you are
So I wait
And I try
I confess like a child
Shes my kind of rain
Like love from a drunken sky
Confetti falling down all night
Shes my kind of rain
Shes the sun set shadows
Shes like rembrandts light
Shes the history thats made at night
Shes my lost companion
Shes my dreaming tree
Together in this brief eternity
Summer days, winter snows
Shes all things to behold
Shes my kind of rain
Like love from a drunken sky
Confetti falling down all night
Shes my kind of rain
So I wait
And I try
I confess all my crimes
Shes my kind of rain
Like love from a drunken sky
Confetti falling down all night
Shes my kind of rain
Shes my kind of rain
Like love from a drunken sky
Confetti falling down all night
Shes my kind of rain
Shes my kind of rain
Oh, rain on me
Shes my kind of rain
song performed by by Tim McGraw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Croquis
The beach was crowded. Pausing now and then,
He groped and fiddled doggedly along,
His worn face glaring on the thoughtless throng
The stony peevishness of sightless men.
He seemed scarce older than his clothes. Again,
Grotesquing thinly many an old sweet song,
So cracked his fiddle, his hand so frail and wrong,
You hardly could distinguish one in ten.
He stopped at last, and sat him on the sand,
And, grasping wearily his bread-winner,
Staring dim towards the blue immensity,
Then leaned his head upon his poor old hand.
He may have slept: he did not speak nor stir:
His gesture spoke a vast despondency.
poem by William Ernest Henley
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The Ballad Of Ira Hayes
Gather round you people and a story I will tell
About a brave young indian you should remember well
From the tribe of pima indians, a proud and a peaceful band
They farmed the phoenix valley in arizona land
Down their ditches for a thousand years the sparkling water rushed
Till their white man stole their water rights and the running water hushed
Now iras folks were hungry and their farms wene crops of weeds
But when war came he volunteers and forgot, the white mans greed
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
They started up iwo jima hill, 250 men
But only 27 lived to walk back down that hill again
And when the fight was over and the old glory raised
One of the men who held it high was the indian ira hayes
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
Now ira returned a hero, celebrated throughout the land
He was wined and speeched and honored, everybody shook his hand
But he was just a pima indian, no money crops, no chance
And at home nobody cared what ira had done and the wind did the indians
Dance
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
And ira started drinking hard, jail was often his home
They let him raise the flag there and lower it like youd throw a dog a bone
He died drunk early one morning, alone in the land he had fought to save
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch was the grave for ira hayes
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, but his land is still as dry
And his ghost is lying thirsty in the ditch where ira died
Call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war
Yes, call him, drunken ira hayes, he wont answer anymore
Not the whiskey-drinking indian or the marine who went to war.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Keep crushing...
How can a crash and a crush happen here in the carpark
i'm supposed to clench my fists in the dark
But now i'm intrepid, ever as much
Holding hands are safer, something between lovers
Inside the private car sitting a human and a shadow
When they're drunken,
a crash happens in an instant moment, involving only one car
When they're drunken,
a crush happens all of a sudden;
even
i haven't even start the engine.
poem by Garland Jodie Jeen
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0259 Who am I not?
I started to write about how
I love you
but then the mind couldn't distinguish
which was I, or you, or love...
I started to write that our love was like
diamonds falling like raindrops in the sunlight
or raindrops falling like diamonds in the sunlight
but then the mind couldn't distinguish
which was rain, or diamonds, or sunlight, or love...
I started to write about
a star as bright as love itself,
watched as it appeared
in a boundless universe
but then the mind couldn't distinguish
which was the brilliant star, or boundless universe,
or I the watcher.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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O What Shall We Do With These Drunken Men?
1
Oh what shall we do
what shall we do
with these drunken men -
like my very own darling
Mike Hammer?
Last night
I picked him up
from outside the pub
where he'd been drinking
with his mates
And in the car
almost near our home
he says: I love you
And I say to him:
Is that you talking
or the beer?
And he says
like lightning:
It's me talking.
I'm talking to my beer.
2
Oh what shall we do
what shall we do
with these drunken men -
like my very own darling
Mike Hammer?
I locked him in the car
doused him with effluent water
let him sleep there
till he turns sober
But it's 11am now and hot
and sober or not,
he's still asleep
in the car
and when I try and wake him up
he's still mumbling about love and beer
Oh what shall we do
what shall we do
with these drunken men -
like my very own darling
Mike Hammer?
Maybe I should dunk him over a hill
car and all
till he turns mature, till he's sober
poem by Raj Arumugam
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A Drunken Cow Hand
A Drunken Cow Hand
a drunken cow hand
is going home
in a pickup truck
with no shock absorbers
or whatever is left of them
he likes it that way
bouncing up and down
on the lone country road
as if riding
a demented horse
as if riding
an old demented horse
farting
backfiring
boom
bang
-Epiphany Magazine-
poem by Suchoon Mo_
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Voyage Through The Night
He says he has not slept for five years.
Every night through the window hole
He has escaped to the night sky
To mingle with the teeming stars!
He says he has not slept for five years.
Every night he has ridden a comet
To reach the farthest sky and beyond
And cartwheel on shooting stars!
He says he has not slept for five years.
So that not one night goes amiss
In his cell of suffocating walls
With an iron crown and chained feet
On a spiked bed shedding endless tears!
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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Drunken Lullabies
Must it take a life for hatful eyes
To glisten once again
Five hundred years like Gelignite
Have blown us all to hell
What savior rests while on his cross we die
Has the Shepard led his lambs astray
to the bigot and the gun
Must it take a life for hateful eyes
To glisten once again
Cause we find ourselves in the same old mess
Singin' drunken lullabies
I watch and stare as Rosin's eyes
Turn a darker shade of red
And the bullet with this sniper lie
In their bloody gutless cell
Must we starve on crumbs from long ago
Through these bars of men made steel
Is it a great or little thing we fought
Knelt the conscience blessed to kill
Must it take a life for hateful eyes
To glisten once again
Cause we find ourselves in the same old mess
Singin' drunken lullabies
Ah
song performed by by Flogging Molly from Drunken Lullabies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Inspired by Issa - Spring Butterfly
spring butterfly
that drunken dance
spring too much for you?
spring butterfly
the only time that matches up
to your colours
spring butterly
this party, such a colourful spread
i would too be drunken
spring butterfly
every colourful cup
a drink from heaven
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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A Song. Fair, Sweet And Young, Receive A Prize
1.
Fair, sweet, and young, receive a prize
Reserved for your victorious eyes:
From crowds, whom at your feet you see,
O pity, and distinguish me!
As I from thousand beauties more
Distinguish you, and only you adore.
2.
Your face for conquest was design'd,
Your every motion charms my mind;
Angels, when you your silence break,
Forget their hymns, to hear you speak;
But when at once they hear and view,
Are loth to mount, and long to stay with you.
3.
No graces can your form improve,
But all are lost, unless you love;
While that sweet passion you disdain,
Your veil and beauty are in vain:
In pity then prevent my fate,
For after dying all reprieve's too late.
poem by John Dryden
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Eccentric Or Pathetic
Eccentric or pathetic,
it is hard to distinguish them at times.
I once knew a woman, who every morning
when she went to work,
would get down on her hands and knees
and sniff the carpet for any offending smells.
Recently I have heard of a man
who goes around the toilets with a magnifying glass
lifting up the toilets seats to see underneath
if he could find a minute spec of dust.
He then gets out is disinfectant wet wipes
and rubs ferociously until the offending minute spec of dust is gone. Are these people eccentric or pathetic,
it is hard to distinguish them.
So all I can ask of you
is to make up your own mind.
29 January 2009
poem by David Harris
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