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Men of Booze Clerihews

Dylan Marlais Thomas
To his liver made a promise
With whiskey, I’ll soak you a fright
And not so gentle we’ll go into the night

Heinrich Karl Bukowski
The King of the soused, he
Had a mind both besotted and spry
And said the key to writing? Don’t try
Jean-Louise “Jack” Kerouac
From the booze road ne’er looked back
His headlong slide into moroseness
Was cured by a bout of cirrhosis
—Seamus Dundee

Cabbie

Reading Bukowski in my cab
And it’s like sweet poison in my veins
I haven’t had a day off in 13 days
I feel crusty and psychotic
And I dream of a beer
The way a man dreams of
The nape of his lover’s neck
Smooth and curved
Smelling of hope
With downy hair
like foam
so young…
And god
I hate my fares
with their perfect women
perfect haircuts
perfect suits
and money
That smells of roses and rot
And they grow fat from greed
While I just grow fat
Sitting in my cab
Waiting for one more fare
One more dollar
One more short skirt
And one more dream
That never comes
—Nick Plumber

Besotted Haikus

My glass is empty
The same as my cold, dark heart
Where is the barmaid?

Tanqueray tonic
the breakfast of champions
now that’s good eatin’

Drinking alone now
Is it a cause or symptom?
Do I even care?

The four o’clock bar
Refuge for those who can’t close
One more drink might help

Drunkenness calls me
I tumble headlong into
“Shit, what have I done?”
—Christopher Roger Corwin

Sure, One More

There’s no better feeling than the morning after
the one when the booming sensation has left the center of my head
I can see, I can think
I can talk, I can walk
just like I could two days prior
The mundane is never as welcoming
as it is the day after a beer-soaked migraine
My sober mind says to end this childish behavior—
“Become a man, do yourself right and get home”—
But I can’t listen to bullshit like that
Today I say no more, tonight I ask for another round
Late Night Guy pisses all over Morning Man
Every chance he gets
—Ryan Ritchie

Absolution Through Ablution

To err is human;
To drink is to mete out punishment
and comfort for that error.

The air is noxious
The drink triple filtered
Vodka’s will to fourth dilution

Ascend, O booze-hound!
Righteous bearer of the clouded vision
and take with you these vomitous rags.
I don’t even know why you still wear them.
—Richard Cory

Drunkenderata

Go staggeringly amid the sots and rummies,
and remember what joy there may be in inebriation.
As far as possible, without pause, be on good terms with the bartender.
Slur your truth hastily and vehemently; and listen to others,
even to the dull and ignorant; they too may buy a round.

Avoid sober and righteous persons; they are vexations to your spirits.
If you compare yourself with others, you may lose your buzz.
Even though there will always be drunker persons than yourself,
enjoy your beverages as well as your efforts to catch up to them.

Therefore, be at peace with Booze, whatever you choose It to be;
cheap gin, good scotch, bourbon, or beer.
In the noisy din of the pub, keep pace with your mates.
With all its odors, aesthetic monstrosities, and broken urinals,
it is still a beautiful bar.
Be drunk. Strive to be obliterated.
—Herman M. Ax

The Zephyr

Quintessential Colfax dive;
as cliché as that description.
Filled to capacity
with odors and regulars;
demanding, low tipping
underbelly of Aurora society.
Lousy with cheap hookers,
denizens of the motel out back.
I feel the Ten High creeping back up my throat
when one licks Jake’s neck.
Handyman Jake, tremendous hirsute belly
bulging over barely-suspendered slacks,
t-shirt two sizes too small.
Jukebox battles: country vs. rock vs. Motown
Noisy. Ugly. Smell nigh on intolerable.

Goddamn, I love this place.
—Harpo Agnew

Whiskeyboat

I think they’ve started putting whiskey in the water
so I pour from the faucet
God’s own breath
because my fares are all red-eyed savages,
bloody and bruised
Tattooed with lessons unlearned
from fights with parking meters
and battles with windmills of dirt

like freshly paroled inmates from the whiskey barge
they have breath like dragon’s teeth
And turpentine skin
And speak a language as old as the grape
As old as Babel
As old as Sin
full of slurs and raspberries,
blasphemies and curses

But I understand you
My gin-soaked Quixotes
And I’ll boat you down the river Lethe
To your home
Your street
Your lover

A boatman
in a sea of olives
and broken glass
—Nick Plumber