The Bartender

The law’s an ass.
I cannot serve an intoxicated person at the bar.
The fine is $550.
But why do most people come here?
To get blind.
To get full.
To get fucking out of it.

There are too many grey areas here.

What constitutes drunkenness?
Slurred speech?
Staggering?
Talking in an aggressive manner?

Drunks hate being refused alcohol.
That is why they are here.

Many threaten to kill you.
‘I’ll come back with a gun
& blow you away’, being the most common threat.

Or, ‘I know where you live, you cunt’.

Is a beer worth a life?

by George Anderson

Promotion: Win $25 iTunes Gift Card

Hello poets!

The goal of this site is to promote poetry and poets.
It's unfortunate that I can't compensate poets beyond assisting them in getting their poetry out there for public consumption.

So as a promotion and as a thank you, I'll be giving out a $25 iTunes Gift Card on July 1st. It will be given to a poet that has had poetry posted on Censored Poets. I will merely be picking a favorite and I don't have any particular guidelines or rules.

So start submitting poetry and you may win a $25 iTunes Gift Card.

Thanks everyone!

the slow throb of night

the slow throb of night wearies the humble blood
by innocent repetition, the disciplinary eroticism
latent in the naked vein, and each drop of sex that falls
dead from the exotic flesh we have forgotten,

wee wee and ignorant orgasms and heaven's arrogant
nexus there, dirty water and decadent pleasures
and nothing forever. we are dead then
and do not care, eternities so elsewhere

by David McLean

The Hawk

Why are you doing this to me again
I'm destroyed here inbetween your sins
hanging on to the papercut
it's what I could never give up

Why do you kiss me again
Physically in mentally my mind
Your the one thing crushed by design
Hated am I
Manifestation
Of every constellation
End the sky

Why do you hate me so
The seed should rot
and drown in the air
seed is never grow
plant the seeds
and watch them believe
everything
Contemplated in your thoughts

Dead by air
Life- My Fair
I wish
Silk wrap my kiss
Bliss

This thy smother
Lies
Thy skin
Again

by Tyler Kennedy

learned a few things

sitting at
the kitchen table
a glass of water
reposing like Buddha.
i look out the window
at the white winter sky
over the rooftops.
a smoking chimney.
the silence of the white air
after getting fired,
wondering what to do
now. so much white air
filling my head. i remember
wanting to be a cop
when i was 5. it was either
that or a fireman. everything
was simple. now i’m thinking
maybe i should become
a drug dealer.

by Ross Vassilev

A LesBiGay Litany of Thanksgiving

We thank you, creator,
for penises and vaginas,
for breasts and chests,
for mouths and teeth,
for pre-cum and tubular lubrication,
for heads cut and uncut, with and without cheese,
for clits slow and fast, high and low,
for nipples hard and nipples soft,
for nipples hairy and nipples smooth,
for navels, innies and outies,
for rectums,
for slits galore and slippery places,
for nerves in ears and toes and wrists,
for blinks and winks,
for sperm, for eggs,
for legs and arms that squeeze,
for scrota and wombs.
For the first person to kiss us with open mouth,
for the first person to whisper or nod or pant,
for our first hot dream,
for our first wet and sticky sheets,
for the first person to stay overnight,
for the first person to lick lips,
for ejaculation, for spasms,
for involuntary lust,
for sweat, for pubes between the teeth,
we thank you, creator.
For those who have suffered for our love,
for every lesbian murdered as a witch,
for every male burned at the stake, shot, or drawn and quartered,
for every "dishonorable" discharge,
for every job stolen, every career smashed, every dream deferred,
bless us, Just One.
Bless the victims of rape and child abuse,
Bless the persons with AIDS and ARC.
Bless those who have died.
For every dyke, for every sissy,
for every quean, for every dagger,
for every butch, for every femme,
we thank you, Creator.
For gay male clowns and lesbian priests,
for bisexual surgeons and hairdressers,
for lesbian truck drivers and scholars,
for every LesBiGay waiter in the world
and for every LesBiGay student,
we thank you, Creator.
For gay imagination, for bisexual joy,
for lesbian excitement, for arousal,
for the kindness of strangers,
for LesBiGay art, music, and poetry,
for LesBiGay prayer, quietness, and peace,
for LesBiGay gentleness and courage,
for LesBiGay scientists and designers,
we thank you, Creator.
But especially for all lesbians, bisexuals, and gays dear to us,
for ........
[Here the congregation will name those dear to them.
When done, the officiant will continue...]
We thank you, we thank you, we thank you. AMEN
[The congregation responds:]
We thank you, we thank you, we thank you. AMEN

by H. M. Quean Lutibelle

Regret Of The Drunken Text...

Agnostic fears believe faith is a
Love not able to be torn from. The innocent
Houses lined in the park deceive the
Scripts written by a
Homeless sensation. From coast to coast,
To the avenues of sorrow, mistaken foods are sold on
Circumstance, tattooing the sensitive
Voices on the opposing spectrum. Abrasive pigtails send
The ill fated intentions of souls suffering
The harm to hurt. Informal attires of the poets sadness
Is to forever confide in the hope of another. She
Foreshadows the loss through the sensation of
Desolate theories. Dripping from the pipes of my
Stomach, burns are lathered with oils of hostile
Scents. Thus Pain is cured with the flexible arm of
A single-handed solitary aid. Consider the oceans filled
With perished liquors stimulating the fluids of imagery.
Indecisive Florida shores observe the indulgence. Glossy
Eyes do not intrude on chances,
Only the original daring plead.

by Brian Hardie

REDNECKS

The Squidbillies are
On late night TV
A subculture of
Comedy
They personify
Rednecks
Granny with her walker
Pink
Wearing glasses
Old girl
Different and same
Tragedy
Ecstatic riches
Laughing.

by Candace Sturtevant

burning womb

night is the burning womb of nothing
and smells like the slit throat of memory
where all the mothers deserved to die,
skull-fucked by all the mass-murderers

they turned into children, ignorant nipples
waiting for salvation, and absolution
trickling down all the seedy faces
where nightmares were waiting.

we killed them because we were dead men,
we killed them, so there were memories again.

by David McLean

Feeling The Fickle Fake Funny Femme Fatal

Skin lathered oil lubricates softly, in a

Rain shattered mind collapsing, under

Rocks activating dim China light.
Individual

Separation provides meaning, and sits awake with

Caffeine ghosts present to trailer park memories. To

Cut the luck struggling to become is to be pure in humid
Battles against being alone, undone. No light

Traces soft insight. Talking lips murmuring madness away.
Bed rides engaging bad days, forcing to stay. Honesty
Gleams in the spot light exposing all accompanied.

In the few lives that I cry, genuine eyes blink in a
Tension alive with guilt and indecision. There, is a
Throat that swallows truth massaging my heart through

Exhaust and partial romance. I cannot fix inability,

Only smile upon you all that have not failed. Purpose
For the shape is where holes are dug into a stale,

Native shore, coating the fins of youth onto

My canvass of psychosis. Makeup runs erotic,
To the bottom of faith in church, to the bottom
Of my heart, escape attempted.

by Brian Anthony Hardie

I hate Tuesdays

Sometimes I get mad at myself for being behind larger objects.
What if someone I didn’t know was looking for me but they couldn’t see me? (then move)
How will they know I’m there if they don’t have x-ray vision goggles?
I should order them x-ray vision goggles.
I think the mailman is afraid of me because I wait for him every day and I try to give him a gift. (today I made him waffles)
I think he avoids my house the most and I get sad so I go to sleep.
I wish everything was transparent and I could live in the space between your legs and cry without feeling embarrassed. (you’re always embarrassed.)
Then we could watch a movie and laugh when people get shot and cry when they sing songs about love.
And then I'd put shards of glass in your wine and you would bleed and say
"Get the fuck out of my house"
And I would be embarrassed again.
God that would be amazing.

by Gianni Magpantay