Posts Tagged ‘drunk’

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By David Allen

I walked to your
back door last night
and saw two legs standing
where mine might have been.
I panicked, stepped backwards
down the stoop steps,
retreated to the side of the house
and plotted.
Then I knocked on your door.
“Are you coming?” I asked.
You were confused, drunk,
shaken by his visit —
but smiling.
“How are you?” I asked his beard.
“I’m coming from behind my mask,”
he said. “My ass,” I thought.
You said you’d be along

I waited through the long night
for your scream
or a slamming door.


Posted: September 6, 2014 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , ,

David's Bar 2


Woke up on the couch
Head aches,
Stomach queasy,
Bladder bulging.
Sit up,
Sends my head spinning.
Man, what happened to my thumb?
Feels sprained must’ve jammed it.
And what’s this?
Front of my shirt like cardboard,
Something wet dried.
Takes me three tries to stand,
Feel dizzy,
Stumble to the head.
Ahhhh, that feels good.
You know, you just kind of rent beer.
Wash my hands, look in the mirror —
Right side of my temple’s all bruised,
Nerves send a ditto from my right knee.
It’s all scraped and scabbed.
Must’ve fallen somewhere,
Don’t remember.
Re awakens, comes downstairs,
Tells me I crawled into the house
At 4:30 in the morning.
Kept shouting
“Leave me alone,
I don’t want you to see me
Like this. Go ‘way.”
She says something about a guzzling tequila
Contest with the last holdouts,
Trying to eat the worm.

Hours later,
Cleaning the mess on the porch
I find the worm.
Looks like I won.

 By David Allen


My second book of poetry, “(more)’ is now available on Amazon Kindle. The paperback edition should be available in two weeks. Order your copy today!

Here’s a review:

5.0 out of 5 stars Wanting (more), September 2, 2014
By Jenny A. Kalahar “the_story_shop” (Elwood, IN USA)
Here are wonderful, literate poems of longing, wit, wisdom and resistance; justice, injustice, the absurdities of life and of growing older. There are lines full of sensuality at every stage of our existence, and of the waste and usefulness around us. Tinged with the atmosphere of the Orient, they are as luxurious as legs that go all the way up. Mr. Allen’s years as a newspaper man stain his poems with a rougher ink that sticks to your fingers long after you’ve turned his pages. There are losses – parents, loved ones, friends – but there are poems of finding and creating. Children, grandchildren, lovers, partners in crime and art all swirl throughout this collection, humming like a secret humming song. But unlike most hummed songs, these words do matter. They do. So read them now and sing along.