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(Fark)   Welcome Fark Artists to your Fartist Friday Contest. To celebrate National Refreshment Day, we'll create odes to our favorite refreshments. Write a poem dedicated to whatever wets your whistle and slates your thirst   (fark.com) divider line
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396 clicks; posted to Main » on 01 Aug 2021 at 4:58 PM (7 weeks ago)   |   Favorite    |   share:  Share on Twitter share via Email Share on Facebook



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2021-07-29 7:54:01 PM  
Welcome Fark Artists to your Fartist Friday Contest! To celebrate National Refreshment Day, we'll create odes to our favorite refreshments. Write a poem dedicated to whatever wets your whistle and slates your thirst.

As always, my awesome sample as an example:

Red wines are red
Beer is a brew
But my favorite is tea
And this isn't a haiku


Contest Rules:

One (1) individual entry item per post please, and a total of three (3) entries posted maximum allowed per person.

All votable entries must follow this week's theme requirements. Posts that don't follow the theme will remain but have Voting disabled. Be sure to check the theme!

Prize: Bragging rights and a mention in the Fark NotNewsletter!

Hearty congratulations to last week's winner Resident Muslim for Lucy and her ingenuity - and go check out all the creative F'Artistes we have.

FFFUQ (Fartist Friday Frequently Unasked Questions):

What?
Fartist Fridays are weekly creativity contests that you can participate in with things you have on hand since many of us are stuck at home right now. If you have an idea for a future contest theme please post it here or send it along to Farkback.

Why? To have fun showing off our skills (or lack thereof!) while we practice socially distancing together, and to vote for your favorite entries.

When? This contest is submitted on Thursdays with entries open immediately to TotalFarkers (membership has its privileges!), then it goes to the Main Page on Friday. Entries close around midnight Eastern on Sunday night. All times are approximate because we're all drunk.

How Does Voting Work? Check the "Enable voting for this entry" box. If you forget, just report it and ask. All entries that meet the contest theme are considered eligible for voting, so please mention if you prefer voting NOT be enabled.

Check out past F'artiste contests by clicking on the Topic Tag and check the weekly Fark NotNewsletter for info on that week's contest theme ahead of time. All skill levels encouraged (as you can see from my sample below) and most importantly: We're all in this together so let's create some F'Arts together - Fark Arts, that is.
 
2021-07-30 1:19:25 AM  
I think that I shall never see
A cola as refreshing as R.C.

A cola whose thirsty mouth is prest
Against the straw's sweet flowing breast;

A cola that looks at God all day,
And lifts her carbonated bubbles to pray;

A cola that may in Summer wear
A sip of fructose in her hair;

Upon whose bosom crushed ice has cupped;
Who intimately lives in my Big Gulp.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only Royal Crown can make R.C.
 
2021-07-30 12:03:07 PM  
"gene yearns for transcendence"

when i asked

how did you get all those

facial lacerations

and road rash burns

gene said

i fell off my motorcycle

he did not say

i drank a big gulp full

of southern comfort and sprite

got on my motorcycle

drove to the middle school

through the soccer field

then through a guys yard

then to my ex girlfriend's house

got off

peed on her moms car

drove away real fast

over past the sack n save

and into a metal fence

then

i fell off my motorcycle

i would not describe gene

as a guy who drowns you

in detail

conversationally

 
2021-07-30 12:30:48 PM  
Scoop hits powder, crunching.
Mix and sip: Neil's on TV
Space Dreams taste like Tang
 
2021-07-30 12:33:23 PM  
Bitter bean
With little sheen
Opening my eyes to its smell

Please glean
If you get between
My cup and I, I'll give you hell
 
2021-07-30 12:34:12 PM  
Bamboo and breezes...
First Trader Vic's Mai Tai;
Don Ho smiles at me.
 
2021-07-30 12:38:02 PM  
Mythos

The taste of blood and spit on the back of my teeth;
The taste of decay. Teeth/Eyes/Fists clenched tight;
                   Arms tight and weak as my veins, enraged,
                                         Try to tear themselves free
                                                     From this "goodbye".
                                                                       Your loss.
                                                             No. Mine alone.
                                        My weakness of heart, yes,
                                 My blood. Now passing the poison
               Of yesterday's gin, of your last "goodnight".
       My perfect poison; my dependency; my love
 Now passing--undependable--passing
To independence. My vision:
Grey clouds, headlights' halos
Behind clenched eyes;
My loss.
Lost breath, caught now
In the shallow carpet
    Of our living room floor. Blood, spit--
              A taste of life in my development.
 
2021-07-30 12:42:09 PM  
When you break down the wall
And find yourself lost outside
Pity the man who never tried
                              Jack Daniels
 
2021-07-30 12:44:39 PM  
"the angel of death has round hips"

standing barefoot

on the red shag

hotel room carpet

with a drink melting in his hand.

he feels odd to be naked

staring out of the floor to ceiling window

in a las vegas hotel.

The Frontier.

his socks are folded over a pair of black wingtip shoes

which are sitting neatly together

below his suit pants

hanging from the

closet door.

there's a long black cigarette burning

in an ashtray with a gold horseshoe on it.

the freezing cold, chemical scented air

makes even the smoke smell clean.

all down below

people are crowded onto rooftops,

looking at the sky

expectant

hesitant.

glist​ening sunscreened shoulders,

shiny sweltering frictions.

secretaries from anaheim and twenty nine palms,

with eyes that can never get full,

are trying hard to build a memory

they can be proudly

ashamed of.

the desert radiates quietly

like a rattlesnake sleeping

with its eyes open.

the window is too hot to touch.

he brings his face half an inch away

and smells burning.

if he listens hard

he can hear ringing bells

from the slot machines downstairs.

if he closes his eyes he can see

the sick eyed gamblers

leaning over the hard tables

on swollen elbows.

and the women,

lacklustered second hand

american dreamers,

all float away

like money.

he didn't come here for any of that.
and it is time.

he stares hard at the horizon.

and in the heat warped distance

a millimeter sized flare

of green helic light,

a blastocyst of

birthing rage,

smaller than a keyhole

larger than the sun,

flashes across the arid wastes,

splits in two across the sharp bridge

of his nose

into both eyes

then bounces hard

against the back wall of his skull.

like a bullet into a blackboard.

the floor begins to throb,

the air gets thick.

then

sixty five miles north of the vegas strip

a black mass blooms

into a towering cloud

the shape of a toadstool.

angry red and purple,

gorging itself on pure oxygen

and lunatic science.

it erupts like a sexual sore

and climbs into the chalk hazy sky.

an overheated climax of erotic weaponry.

fark cum win die

the chrome toothed heart of a nation.

his erection stands in silent tribute,

flying the flag of no nation.

the thick pulse of a distorted compression wave

rolls across the sand at eight hundred miles per hour.

it takes five minutes before it slams

into the twelve story hotel casino.

he feels the tall black window flex inward

and touch the tip of his nose.

his stomach full

of bloody gin

begins to

boil.

the cloud is changing now.

turning into something else

that will be seen a thousand ways

by a thousand pairs of curious eyes.

a billion tons of postmodern wrath

wind walking across the desert

like a shape shifting

navajo witch.

when the sun sets

the sky is the color of a punched out eye.

and that night he sleeps like a man

free from any fugitive thought,

under snow white sheets.

he wakes the next day

wet, newborn,

and leaves without paying any bill.

 
2021-07-30 1:35:19 PM  
My most favorite fattener? It's a
Swedish veggies-and-pineapple pizza,
With ingredients galore
That Italians abhor.
Roman Yoda says, "Blasphemy, it's-a!"
 
2021-07-30 3:17:55 PM  

It'sMorphin'Time: Cardamom, peppercorn,
Star anise, cinnamon,
Green tea, all thrown in carelessly--

A healthy farm produces a surplus,Many healthy farms produce more,The food we eat,The spices in my tea,Kings would have killedTo gain their subjects this kind of freedom.Our food is seasoned;Our food is free of disease;Our food is bigger, heartier, stronger.The taste is different. An apple,Grown from the tree in my backyard when I was small,Was much tastier than store-bought--But smaller,Weaker,Most of them riddled with bugs.These spices probably don't tasteAs our ancestors tasted them--But they are shared,Safely,And that is worth the loss.


FAAAAARK MY FORMATTING GOT ATE

Cardamom, peppercorn,
Star anise, cinnamon,
Green tea, all thrown in carelessly--

A healthy farm produces a surplus,
Many healthy farms produce more,

The food we eat,
The spices in my tea,
Kings would have killed
To gain their subjects this kind of freedom.

Our food is seasoned;
Our food is free of disease;
Our food is bigger, heartier, stronger.

The taste is different.
An apple,
Grown from the tree in my backyard when I was small,
Was much tastier than store-bought--
But smaller,
Weaker,
Most of them riddled with bugs.

These spices probably don't taste
As our ancestors tasted them--
But they are shared,
Safely,
And that is worth the loss.
 
2021-07-30 9:14:04 PM  
Fark user imageView Full Size
 
2021-07-31 5:58:08 PM  
White wine with ice cubes
Never thought I would fall so low
Squeezing the damn box.
 
2021-07-31 5:58:38 PM  
Hey man, take
The pancake
It's perhaps the finest thing to breakfast on while the morning birds chirrup
But to scoff I'll
Take a waffle
Because the little square dimples in the top can hold a lot of syrup.
 
Al!
2021-07-31 6:16:38 PM  
Beer is a beverage
designed to be drunk
By dad bros, irreverents,
hipsters, and punks,
and teens with some leverage,
and even some monks.
Plastered and pissed
and wasted and crunk:
all words for the same,
so the thinking's been thunk!
A cold one while seasick
can dissuade the chunks,
But not for the captain,
lest his ship be sunk.
 
2021-07-31 8:11:22 PM  
Snowflakes fall slowly
The surface ripples gently
A cup of sake
 
2021-07-31 9:28:49 PM  
Whiskey. How to cope.

Hung over day after day

I am the liquor.
 
2021-08-01 5:09:47 AM  
SashImi bites in sushi dives,
As wasabi clears my sinuses.
 
Al!
2021-08-01 1:50:57 PM  
Not particularly about wine, but rather about raising a glass in salute to our friends and family or whoever we may drink with:

I drink till the morning
'cause the morning's when it hurts me the most.
And I dream about a woman, beautiful,
of whom I can boast.
And I dream of packing up my car
and driving far away down the coast.
But neither will ever happen,
so I drink my fill
after I toast.

I toast to friends and family
and memories of laughter from the past.
And I toast to future fortunes,
although in that race
I always end up last.
And I toast to foolish fantasies,
but what I toast to the most
is a dream inside my own head
where I'm happy and
not wishing I was dead.

'Cause happiness is fickle,
it can fall apart in moments;
lost to time.
But dwelling on those moments
isn't going to help me
finish this wine.
So I make one more toast
today, and smile as I down this
final glass.
Tomorrow is another day, and
life goes by way too fast.
 
2021-08-01 7:42:02 PM  
Drinking a lot is an art
Once or twice I've failed at the part
After filling my pants
I've now got a new stance
To make sure it's really a fart.
 
2021-08-01 8:21:48 PM  
Roses are red
Violets are blue
When that Farker is drunk
He just might squirt some poo
 
2021-08-01 8:41:04 PM  
Roses are red
Candles are lit
Eat lots of Fiber One
And take a big ... nap
 
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