brown and think, like molasses. the peat and the stench takes me to a place where men carry axes instead of suitcases and only shave at their own funerals.
brown yummy and it makes my thoughts crazy. i like it so much i usually blackout and loose my mind or so Im told because i don’t remember what i said. I really like to drink it in the winter, but I am grounded from Burbona nd not allowed to have it any more.
Oh yes, well that’s a good one: I LOVE it. I don’t think I need to write any more. Though actually, do you mean the whiskey or the biscuit? Not that it matters, I love them both, though I immediately thought of the spirit. I love the instant warmth, the lovely glow it gives you. Mmm. Is my minute up now? I think I’ll go and pour one. Cheers!
want to go to the store get some more piss on the floor break down the door to the sorrow maybe die tomorrow then the whiskey will be frisky and i cant forget the way it makes me feel. kind of unreal the grains start to peel the skin and i can feel again. my only friend isn’t gin.
He poured himself another glass of bourbon. Great, she thought to herself. He will be getting very drunk tonight. She knew that he had a girlfriend and he made it clear to her that he was not interested in becoming more than friends, but she knew that once he was drunk, maybe he would reconsider. Maybe she could be his little secret.
The story of bourbon, a man who loved bourbon drank lot of it until one day someone came over to stop him, the bourbon then poisoned, killed the man and he was lamented over in a elergy. No one remembered the man, and his bourbon was enjoyed by others.
Bourbon. What ist bourbon? The liquid stirrs in the bold glas. It looks golden and brownish. The smell is nice, a bit wooden maybe. The taste is strong at first, then softens into the wooden kind you already smelled.
His breath smelled of bourbon. Strong enough to sting my eyes. The ground he walked on was gelatinous and unstable, but his thoughts possessed a crystalline sharpness – in his mind, at least.
Her hair was the color of good bourbon: brown with a rich reddish tinge. I wanted to bury my nose in it to see what it would smell like; grasp it in my two hands to feel its texture.
“bourbon,” she said with a demanding voice. the pianist hit wrong chords. i stayed, after all i was meant to be here, that was my firm belief. i stayed even though i had promised to stay away but when her bourbon words tied me up.
“Bartender, refill.” This was a hell of a case. The kind that made an investigator chase his tail before he could get a decent lead. How did he get mixed up in all of this chaos?
He gave a snort and knocked back the fresh glass of bourbon. He knew exactly what got him into this mess. Toughts of chasing the doe eyed skirt who sauntered into his office with a sad story and tear in her eye. There was probably an onion slice in that silk hanky.
He motioned to the bartender for another. “Make this one a triple, Maybe you should just leave the bottle. Old Jim here and I need a long conversation about a dame.”
My mother’s favorite drink is an old fashion made with Marker’s Mark Kentucky Bourbon. For years, she’s had my father bring her one after dinner. He makes them just right: bitters, cherry juice, orange peels and slices, club soda and extra cherries in the bottom that soak up the special liquor.
Alcohol soothes the pain like balm. Just a sip more and the pain reduces and you’re less tired and more unaware. One more sip till the pain is forgotten and all that’s left is emptiness.
You forget. I forget. We erase. Get erased. Disappearing as ice does in a warm glass of bourbon.
She swirls the burbon and coke in her coffee cup and stares out the window. Rain pelts the glass and thunder rumbles behind the whistling wind. She peers out from the prospective of her state of mind.
There was only one way this conversation was going to happen and it was if Rick slid out from his booth and walked up to her. He did. The words gurgled in the base of his throat. She laughed at whatever that dick Bryan was saying and Rick threw his arms onto the bar instead. He could talk her tomorrow, when he was sober. He didn’t want it to happen this way anyway.
He sat drinking a half empty glass stroking his moustache. He knew there was a book missing but he couldn’t figure out which. He smelt cooking coming from the kitchen. It was teriyaki chicken. It was the BBC cookbook.
The streets were washed in bourbon that day. Fat Tuesday, a day to remember for most, and a day to try to forget for a few. For him it was still to be determined, but for her it was the later.
fancy chocolates melting on the tip of your tongue and other fancy French desserts even if that’s not what it is. Sometimes a word makes you think of many other things than what the word means, and to me Bourbon is a fancy French chocolate. Though it may mean other things to other people. It may be the sound of rain on a black umbrella, it may be a growing tree who’s shadow grows each day, and maybe bourbon is the smell of freshly baked pastries wafting from the nearest bakery.
A nice glass of bourbon the rocks. Just what I need to get over what just happened. My hand shakes slightly as I uncork the bottle and pour a liberal amount over the ice. I grab the glass and slam it back, feeling the sting as it slides down my throat. For an instant the memory disappears but then it’s back just as quickly as it had left. I shudder and reach for the bottle again.
The honey burboun felt had the velvety smoothness of a rose petal, the swirly aroma of a industrial age relaxation after a long day of factory labour, the taste of pureness.
He swirled the amber liquid around the glass with a gentle movement of the wrist, and looked over his spectacles at the hopeful youngster before him. He could remember a time when he was just as eager, just as innocent – the times before the war had been so easy. He took a sip from the glass. If only things had stayed that way.
Blast! Danny thought. He’d just had an arguement with his wife in the living room. Now, he wanted a drink to make him forget how much of a jackass he’d been.
The chocolatey biscuit exploded upon my tongue and taste floods my mouth. I put down the biscuit and take a moment to acknowledge how the moist filling emerges through my taste buds.
brown and think, like molasses. the peat and the stench takes me to a place where men carry axes instead of suitcases and only shave at their own funerals.
brown yummy and it makes my thoughts crazy. i like it so much i usually blackout and loose my mind or so Im told because i don’t remember what i said. I really like to drink it in the winter, but I am grounded from Burbona nd not allowed to have it any more.
I wouldn’t mind a glass right now.
Oh yes, well that’s a good one: I LOVE it. I don’t think I need to write any more. Though actually, do you mean the whiskey or the biscuit? Not that it matters, I love them both, though I immediately thought of the spirit. I love the instant warmth, the lovely glow it gives you. Mmm. Is my minute up now? I think I’ll go and pour one. Cheers!
want to go to the store get some more piss on the floor break down the door to the sorrow maybe die tomorrow then the whiskey will be frisky and i cant forget the way it makes me feel. kind of unreal the grains start to peel the skin and i can feel again. my only friend isn’t gin.
our
on
you
urban
your
are
be
He poured himself another glass of bourbon. Great, she thought to herself. He will be getting very drunk tonight. She knew that he had a girlfriend and he made it clear to her that he was not interested in becoming more than friends, but she knew that once he was drunk, maybe he would reconsider. Maybe she could be his little secret.
The story of bourbon, a man who loved bourbon drank lot of it until one day someone came over to stop him, the bourbon then poisoned, killed the man and he was lamented over in a elergy. No one remembered the man, and his bourbon was enjoyed by others.
Bourbon. What ist bourbon? The liquid stirrs in the bold glas. It looks golden and brownish. The smell is nice, a bit wooden maybe. The taste is strong at first, then softens into the wooden kind you already smelled.
His breath smelled of bourbon. Strong enough to sting my eyes. The ground he walked on was gelatinous and unstable, but his thoughts possessed a crystalline sharpness – in his mind, at least.
The bourbon sloshed in its bottle as she stumbled toward the handsome man in the corner, finally enough courage to ask an important question.
“Did you do it?”
Her hair was the color of good bourbon: brown with a rich reddish tinge. I wanted to bury my nose in it to see what it would smell like; grasp it in my two hands to feel its texture.
“bourbon,” she said with a demanding voice. the pianist hit wrong chords. i stayed, after all i was meant to be here, that was my firm belief. i stayed even though i had promised to stay away but when her bourbon words tied me up.
“Bartender, refill.” This was a hell of a case. The kind that made an investigator chase his tail before he could get a decent lead. How did he get mixed up in all of this chaos?
He gave a snort and knocked back the fresh glass of bourbon. He knew exactly what got him into this mess. Toughts of chasing the doe eyed skirt who sauntered into his office with a sad story and tear in her eye. There was probably an onion slice in that silk hanky.
He motioned to the bartender for another. “Make this one a triple, Maybe you should just leave the bottle. Old Jim here and I need a long conversation about a dame.”
My mother’s favorite drink is an old fashion made with Marker’s Mark Kentucky Bourbon. For years, she’s had my father bring her one after dinner. He makes them just right: bitters, cherry juice, orange peels and slices, club soda and extra cherries in the bottom that soak up the special liquor.
Alcohol soothes the pain like balm. Just a sip more and the pain reduces and you’re less tired and more unaware. One more sip till the pain is forgotten and all that’s left is emptiness.
You forget. I forget. We erase. Get erased. Disappearing as ice does in a warm glass of bourbon.
She swirls the burbon and coke in her coffee cup and stares out the window. Rain pelts the glass and thunder rumbles behind the whistling wind. She peers out from the prospective of her state of mind.
Smoky and full of fire
I feel the smooth burn
Just a few rocks to keep it mellow
But I miss the peatiness of a scotch
Mellowed, golden, smooth
There was only one way this conversation was going to happen and it was if Rick slid out from his booth and walked up to her. He did. The words gurgled in the base of his throat. She laughed at whatever that dick Bryan was saying and Rick threw his arms onto the bar instead. He could talk her tomorrow, when he was sober. He didn’t want it to happen this way anyway.
“One more bourbon please.”
He sat drinking a half empty glass stroking his moustache. He knew there was a book missing but he couldn’t figure out which. He smelt cooking coming from the kitchen. It was teriyaki chicken. It was the BBC cookbook.
The streets were washed in bourbon that day. Fat Tuesday, a day to remember for most, and a day to try to forget for a few. For him it was still to be determined, but for her it was the later.
There i was, putting bourbon chicken down my throat
fancy chocolates melting on the tip of your tongue and other fancy French desserts even if that’s not what it is. Sometimes a word makes you think of many other things than what the word means, and to me Bourbon is a fancy French chocolate. Though it may mean other things to other people. It may be the sound of rain on a black umbrella, it may be a growing tree who’s shadow grows each day, and maybe bourbon is the smell of freshly baked pastries wafting from the nearest bakery.
A nice glass of bourbon the rocks. Just what I need to get over what just happened. My hand shakes slightly as I uncork the bottle and pour a liberal amount over the ice. I grab the glass and slam it back, feeling the sting as it slides down my throat. For an instant the memory disappears but then it’s back just as quickly as it had left. I shudder and reach for the bottle again.
The honey burboun felt had the velvety smoothness of a rose petal, the swirly aroma of a industrial age relaxation after a long day of factory labour, the taste of pureness.
That salty paint thinner that blesses the pen and turns these gnarled brick layers hands from the digits of an ape back into the weapons of art
I love Biscuits!! Yummmy!! Why not have a bourbon?
He swirled the amber liquid around the glass with a gentle movement of the wrist, and looked over his spectacles at the hopeful youngster before him. He could remember a time when he was just as eager, just as innocent – the times before the war had been so easy. He took a sip from the glass. If only things had stayed that way.
bourbon ok um…………..
I don’t know what to put I don’t drink !
but I know its a biscuit! :D
I stare at the biscuit jar
My desire to reach in is overpowering,
I can’t control myself much longer
I reached in… I have lost
Well what can I say about bourbon? Fierce and explosive. Burning. What can I say about bourbon?
Blast! Danny thought. He’d just had an arguement with his wife in the living room. Now, he wanted a drink to make him forget how much of a jackass he’d been.
The chocolatey biscuit exploded upon my tongue and taste floods my mouth. I put down the biscuit and take a moment to acknowledge how the moist filling emerges through my taste buds.