Friday, April 20, 2007
the only way to describe my writing is like trying to understand a homeless man engulfed in flames without pants and clutching a bottle of wine
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Consumer
Please consume some more
Match up perfect people
Beauty often is not subjective
And I find it rather to be said by people who don’t have much beauty
I never claimed to have any but I am blunt
Or some might call honest
A certain psychosis seems to come from the people
That are desperate to meet others
And there is some sort of sexual neurosis into kissing new boys
Or new girls if you seem to be on the fence
Our vehicles is the “bestest” vehicle ever
Puts the others to shame well ok not really
Most of these are just the same
And well we have bells and whistles
Or just a simple one depending on what we can push out of you
Some people call the salesman a drug dealers that knows how to up sell
But the salesman never sees these people again (most of the time)
Well if Jimmy does it
I”ll do it
We all know Jimmy
And when he’s on the tv
Doing what he does
Selling the “it”
Even if i don’t need it
I doubt I would ever use it
But I buy out of appreciation
Not out of necessity
Our sandwich is better than the other guy’s burgers
We have meat like they do
We have toppings like they do
But we have personality
Now wait we don’t
Ok well we do have a bunch of dry, unseasoned
99 cent menu
What a value but this is mostly shit
a dollar menuaire (copyright pending)
I must admit I do enjoy that one character
With the perfect jingle
You know it comes on the tube everyday
But i never bought into this
Well just once but I’m the writer
I know what stays and what goes.
When You Meet A Woman
You say what’s true and it often scares you
And you think what no one else seems to think
And well the analysis is when things get foggy
The Doctor and Mr. Dylan are both there playing dominoes
One dead one a zombie not one of the brain eating ones
But the one that plays games with the dead
William Carlos Williams keeps talking about his wife
And Dylan goes on about what he wouldn’t want to do
But I don’t beat around the bush
I want to be inside you
They keep drinking and playing dominoes
And never ask me to pull up a chair
But I already have her shirt off
And she’s on the bed asking for me
To join her
I ponder how the great poets do
But not think it through
Thinking are for the ones that never write many words
And throw their work in the trashcan where it often belongs
My work has been there and I know in the future it will find its way
And well every once in awhile you get one
I’m talking about women not poetry
But they are both intimidating topics
Ones where you have to watch what you can say
And what you may not want to say but it needs to be said
And the professors and students
Spoke openly about sexual embarrassment
It always comes down to blood
I mean writing
Without blood and tears your writing can suffer
And the best poets aren’t the ones busy to make the poetic motion
But the ones fighting, drinking, and finding women
It always comes down to them
And from my standpoint my only skills are
Writing and fucking
Everything else is just for chuckles.
A Killing
I can make a killing if sold my poetry on the web
Like itunes 99 cents for a poem
A customer could control what sort of poem the could have
And I would fine tune it
Need a poem for your wife she has brown hair perfect
Need the perfect love poem to send your brother
He’s a garbage man how poetic!
I could make a killing and hire so many poets to write
And we would churn out hundreds of quality poetry
Handcrafted and a great value
And than Americans would start reading our poetry again
And we would make a killing
The Shooter
Too late to understand what we can never
The paper trail reveals a certain deal of trouble
And we all have unsettling thoughts
And we all write things but when righteousness ruins
No one man can judge others
An obsession for justice but the mind corrupts
And actions are reactions
And well the man was doing what he had planned
He concealed to destroy
And well we medicate and heal
Eventually we all forget what has to be done
Until the next headline
The Minister’s Son
We went to school together
And a friend told me the other night
He was teaching the good word
What about the bad ones
But take the good with the bad
And one day he went sort of crazy
The screaming came from the yard and he had on no pants
And was rather convinced about being a character from the great book
What about all the bad ones
Diners
I can never find one of those diners
That are open all night
The ones we used to waste hours of endless time
Smoking cigarettes, drinking chilled coffee, watching the small tv
And the greasy breakfast menu
It was either going to sober you up or make you sick
That was part of the excitement
New cook behind the counter every week or two
One night we were almost 86’ed
But they brought us an order of hash browns
And the situation resolved itself
in the sort of mindlessness that only happens at 4 in the morning
Is There A Method?
The Blues have a certain method
Most music does unless its improv
But even improv has a certain method
A certain way too approach
And poets some have methods
And some use un-methods or non-methods
But what about the one that reinvents everything
The artist that smashes the sax and call it a symphony
Or the poet that wrote until his fingers bled and called it a series
And well actors use their method to change
But poets are often more fixed in their ways
And this poem follows its own path
And sort of make some points
but ads in those counter points that make it disjointed
and well i try to write the same but it comes out different each time
confessional
i stay up and write the soundtrack to talk radio
and the noises the house makes when most sleep
i never took myself too seriously
the weakest part of the writer is the ego
the writer wants to think what he writes is terribly important
sometimes it is but often not
others never write because what you place on the paper is permanent
some can deal with how every word is like removing a piece of your clothes
and by the end of the poem you are out in a crowd – naked – exposed
there is no hair just body parts – a cock or a pussy
bruises represent the smudge parks or crossed out words
the last time i confessed i had to make an attrition
but this time the out look is bleak
and the world is more difficult than only a couple years ago
and every minute seems to be a means
i never became a monk like i told my teacher in kindergarten
but there is a certain dedication to one’s words
and those words are often troubled with morality and humanity
the business is dirty and my hands are soiled
but one day the submissions will not be returned
a moment where the editors will line up and ask for more
and you tell them you need to drink and be left alone
but it seems so far away and i fear i may not hold on long enough
a friends asks why i enjoy this and i said i didn’t
but it is the only way i can express what needs to be said
the choice is unimportant if the world is spinning
a troubled writer once wrote--
our choice is almost no choice. if we move too quickly we are dead, we are dead. if we do not move quickly enough, we are dead.
so I think I will not move at all
and in compromise there almost is none
but yet the world turns and in respect for the others
so do I but there is distance to the past
and the news reporters decide to do a live feed
but their words are spoken than forgotten in less than an instance
I say choose not but live
and the world keeps turning
the hospitals keep the dead from being zombies
every day I notice my records collect more dust
elsewhere a dog pisses on his owner’s rug for the fuck of it
and a woman wakes up with bloated stomach
while a male wakes up and hurts to piss
the weather is awful warm and cold at once
but go out the doors and find the reason to choose
the spinning world of another drunk night
puking in a dirty toilet with a shit eating grin
the most powerful person in the world is drunk
because he/she never cares what to do
pure action and no thought of consequence or self advancement
just pure non stop no reason behind a choice
so let the me spin off the light posts
singing the songs of my youth
and the world still spins
and I lay laughing in the shadows
a madman in the alley with a bag of wine
without a choice
WWW.
the worst invention of man is not poetry,
the letter, the rock, the guitar, rock n roll,
television, the automobile, religion, or democracy
but rather the world wide web
the ability makes some not live
but experience
and all the experience in the world
cannot create a sims operating system
that makes a man or woman feel as good
as laying on top of each other sweating and fucking
chat box upon chat box Will Waste aWay your daze
and well I like some things
one has to admit al gore always looks rather bug eyed
and well I am sure he is a nice man
that wants to end global warming and be elected as president
but he credits himself for creating the inane universe
and well all those predators need to prey on young boys
somewhere and well everyone has needs to meet
and we can please them all here with a website
or a chatroom or a message board or blog
but the pimply double-eyed nerds of the universe
will never become the great people they are meant to be
because of the yahoo groups DD server
lets find out the weather
no don’t step outside
go to the website that tells you the weather
lets go to a movie
well I can download the newest Tarantino film before it s out in the theatre
lets go for a drink
no I am waiting for an email
lets live
no I’d rather stay in and check my email
fuck you
Consumer
Please consume some more
Match up perfect people
Beauty often is not subjective
And I find it rather to be said by people who don’t have much beauty
I never claimed to have any but I am blunt
Or some might call honest
A certain psychosis seems to come from the people
That are desperate to meet others
And there is some sort of sexual neurosis into kissing new boys
Or new girls if you seem to be on the fence
Our vehicles is the “bestest” vehicle ever
Puts the others to shame well ok not really
Most of these are just the same
And well we have bells and whistles
Or just a simple one depending on what we can push out of you
Some people call the salesman a drug dealers that knows how to up sell
But the salesman never sees these people again (most of the time)
Well if Jimmy does it
I”ll do it
We all know Jimmy
And when he’s on the tv
Doing what he does
Selling the “it”
Even if i don’t need it
I doubt I would ever use it
But I buy out of appreciation
Not out of necessity
Our sandwich is better than the other guy’s burgers
We have meat like they do
We have toppings like they do
But we have personality
Now wait we don’t
Ok well we do have a bunch of dry, unseasoned
99 cent menu
What a value but this is mostly shit
a dollar menuaire (copyright pending)
I must admit I do enjoy that one character
With the perfect jingle
You know it comes on the tube everyday
But i never bought into this
Well just once but I’m the writer
I know what stays and what goes.
When You Meet A Woman
You say what’s true and it often scares you
And you think what no one else seems to think
And well the analysis is when things get foggy
The Doctor and Mr. Dylan are both there playing dominoes
One dead one a zombie not one of the brain eating ones
But the one that plays games with the dead
William Carlos Williams keeps talking about his wife
And Dylan goes on about what he wouldn’t want to do
But I don’t beat around the bush
I want to be inside you
They keep drinking and playing dominoes
And never ask me to pull up a chair
But I already have her shirt off
And she’s on the bed asking for me
To join her
I ponder how the great poets do
But not think it through
Thinking are for the ones that never write many words
And throw their work in the trashcan where it often belongs
My work has been there and I know in the future it will find its way
And well every once in awhile you get one
I’m talking about women not poetry
But they are both intimidating topics
Ones where you have to watch what you can say
And what you may not want to say but it needs to be said
And the professors and students
Spoke openly about sexual embarrassment
It always comes down to blood
I mean writing
Without blood and tears your writing can suffer
And the best poets aren’t the ones busy to make the poetic motion
But the ones fighting, drinking, and finding women
It always comes down to them
And from my standpoint my only skills are
Writing and fucking
Everything else is just for chuckles.
A Killing
I can make a killing if sold my poetry on the web
Like itunes 99 cents for a poem
A customer could control what sort of poem the could have
And I would fine tune it
Need a poem for your wife she has brown hair perfect
Need the perfect love poem to send your brother
He’s a garbage man how poetic!
I could make a killing and hire so many poets to write
And we would churn out hundreds of quality poetry
Handcrafted and a great value
And than Americans would start reading our poetry again
And we would make a killing
The Shooter
Too late to understand what we can never
The paper trail reveals a certain deal of trouble
And we all have unsettling thoughts
And we all write things but when righteousness ruins
No one man can judge others
An obsession for justice but the mind corrupts
And actions are reactions
And well the man was doing what he had planned
He concealed to destroy
And well we medicate and heal
Eventually we all forget what has to be done
Until the next headline
The Minister’s Son
We went to school together
And a friend told me the other night
He was teaching the good word
What about the bad ones
But take the good with the bad
And one day he went sort of crazy
The screaming came from the yard and he had on no pants
And was rather convinced about being a character from the great book
What about all the bad ones
Diners
I can never find one of those diners
That are open all night
The ones we used to waste hours of endless time
Smoking cigarettes, drinking chilled coffee, watching the small tv
And the greasy breakfast menu
It was either going to sober you up or make you sick
That was part of the excitement
New cook behind the counter every week or two
One night we were almost 86’ed
But they brought us an order of hash browns
And the situation resolved itself
in the sort of mindlessness that only happens at 4 in the morning
Is There A Method?
The Blues have a certain method
Most music does unless its improv
But even improv has a certain method
A certain way too approach
And poets some have methods
And some use un-methods or non-methods
But what about the one that reinvents everything
The artist that smashes the sax and call it a symphony
Or the poet that wrote until his fingers bled and called it a series
And well actors use their method to change
But poets are often more fixed in their ways
And this poem follows its own path
And sort of make some points
but ads in those counter points that make it disjointed
and well i try to write the same but it comes out different each time
confessional
i stay up and write the soundtrack to talk radio
and the noises the house makes when most sleep
i never took myself too seriously
the weakest part of the writer is the ego
the writer wants to think what he writes is terribly important
sometimes it is but often not
others never write because what you place on the paper is permanent
some can deal with how every word is like removing a piece of your clothes
and by the end of the poem you are out in a crowd – naked – exposed
there is no hair just body parts – a cock or a pussy
bruises represent the smudge parks or crossed out words
the last time i confessed i had to make an attrition
but this time the out look is bleak
and the world is more difficult than only a couple years ago
and every minute seems to be a means
i never became a monk like i told my teacher in kindergarten
but there is a certain dedication to one’s words
and those words are often troubled with morality and humanity
the business is dirty and my hands are soiled
but one day the submissions will not be returned
a moment where the editors will line up and ask for more
and you tell them you need to drink and be left alone
but it seems so far away and i fear i may not hold on long enough
a friends asks why i enjoy this and i said i didn’t
but it is the only way i can express what needs to be said
the choice is unimportant if the world is spinning
a troubled writer once wrote--
our choice is almost no choice. if we move too quickly we are dead, we are dead. if we do not move quickly enough, we are dead.
so I think I will not move at all
and in compromise there almost is none
but yet the world turns and in respect for the others
so do I but there is distance to the past
and the news reporters decide to do a live feed
but their words are spoken than forgotten in less than an instance
I say choose not but live
and the world keeps turning
the hospitals keep the dead from being zombies
every day I notice my records collect more dust
elsewhere a dog pisses on his owner’s rug for the fuck of it
and a woman wakes up with bloated stomach
while a male wakes up and hurts to piss
the weather is awful warm and cold at once
but go out the doors and find the reason to choose
the spinning world of another drunk night
puking in a dirty toilet with a shit eating grin
the most powerful person in the world is drunk
because he/she never cares what to do
pure action and no thought of consequence or self advancement
just pure non stop no reason behind a choice
so let the me spin off the light posts
singing the songs of my youth
and the world still spins
and I lay laughing in the shadows
a madman in the alley with a bag of wine
without a choice
WWW.
the worst invention of man is not poetry,
the letter, the rock, the guitar, rock n roll,
television, the automobile, religion, or democracy
but rather the world wide web
the ability makes some not live
but experience
and all the experience in the world
cannot create a sims operating system
that makes a man or woman feel as good
as laying on top of each other sweating and fucking
chat box upon chat box Will Waste aWay your daze
and well I like some things
one has to admit al gore always looks rather bug eyed
and well I am sure he is a nice man
that wants to end global warming and be elected as president
but he credits himself for creating the inane universe
and well all those predators need to prey on young boys
somewhere and well everyone has needs to meet
and we can please them all here with a website
or a chatroom or a message board or blog
but the pimply double-eyed nerds of the universe
will never become the great people they are meant to be
because of the yahoo groups DD server
lets find out the weather
no don’t step outside
go to the website that tells you the weather
lets go to a movie
well I can download the newest Tarantino film before it s out in the theatre
lets go for a drink
no I am waiting for an email
lets live
no I’d rather stay in and check my email
fuck you
Labels: big words, fuck, mod, modern news, modern poetry, modern world news, poetic, poetry, post modern poetry, real poetry, street poetry, words, world
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
the past will stab you down
The Return
She asked to me write of the city
Yet I felt betrayed not by the strangers
But by the city that seemed to pass me by
I never quite grasped what had happened
But it had occurred and at one point
I just decided I wasn’t returning
Yet the city wanted me to fail
It wanted to hold me captive
In the bars til last call
But I burned up the temptation
Rotating sickly motions from my fingers
On the keyboard the words bled out
The city asked me to float on by
Just for a drink and see what could happen
The invitation was tempting but my car would not start
Because I refused to fill it with anything that would tempt me
So I replied to her that my words on the city
Would be just from the past and that any further experience would not occur
Until the one night on the way home I slid back
A step by step method to resist was faltered
And my hands shook on the wheel as I returned
The trumpets blaring were not a welcoming party
But a white taxi cab unpleasant with my current position
Sitting in front of the green traffic light
I smiled and knew this was where I belonged
To prosper in daily occurrences
or to stumble upon my imminent ruin.
Confession
When I hear the voices I usually head to bed
Because all the great men & women are usually mad
But they channel that into some outward creativity
My niche is still a work in progress
But I acknowledge it could still be genius
A real writer would never even hint at this design
So he threw the keyboard across the room
And told the most honest and pure thing he even wrote
About a boy who never liked himself
Who never liked the world
Who felt betrayed by everyone for no reason
Who couldn’t love until it was mixed with hate
And than it was often too late
Through his tribulations he suffered
And toughened still it was just a paper thin shell of vulnerability
The quietest people are the ones that speak the most in their minds
And when words cannot do justice to the situation
His mind put the scenario into the perfect pitch and cadence
In the group he rubbed the wrong way almost anyone
He left any confessional tale to be one layered with one liners
And impersonal observations, people expected more.
Nothing every changes
It was funny how the place never changed
And in 8 years the same smells were still there
The faces always change as people come and go
Only two or three familiar faces everyone else barely recognizable
Cognition was a physical detriment
As a ukele served as more of a joke than a threat
But the hawaiin singer’s fingers still bled
Like the rooms often feels dingy and dirty
Common adjectives for a place of this magnificence
3 chords with a rhythm bashing
the stairs shook as the bar stand often did
tapping with the feet of drunks and aspiring drunks
and ponytails were never meant to be offensive
Memories
My junior year of high school
My best friend and I decided to take journalism
We made up our minds and were quite passionate about this pursuit
In our heads it would be so easy to become these infamous reporters
And we would research these fanatical stories
Our friends would come to us to help them expose the truth
I never wrote one article that made it into the paper that year
Every article I wrote for the paper was deemed --
inappropriate
dangerous
artificial
revolutionary
The editor was a jock and refused to print our words
We wrote about punk rock
One article reviewed the anarchist cookbook
Another the latest misfits album
An editorial on how the school favored the sports program
Over other aesthetic pursuits
The editor’s face turned red and laughed after that one
Every article more professional than the next
We truly crafted our skills and enhanced with dictionaries
And other media tools found in the classroom
Every word more potent than the next
But the trash piled up with our articles
I had honest ambitions that I could change the world with my words
And I learned the lesson that year
When everything I wrote made the editor and the teacher more offended
I discovered how to offend people by writing
My words no shock value words like fuck, cock, pussy
But my articles were disarming until the end
When the point I made hit you like a blunt fire extinguisher
Like a locker being slammed on your hand
Or at times a toilet lid hitting you over and over the head
She asked to me write of the city
Yet I felt betrayed not by the strangers
But by the city that seemed to pass me by
I never quite grasped what had happened
But it had occurred and at one point
I just decided I wasn’t returning
Yet the city wanted me to fail
It wanted to hold me captive
In the bars til last call
But I burned up the temptation
Rotating sickly motions from my fingers
On the keyboard the words bled out
The city asked me to float on by
Just for a drink and see what could happen
The invitation was tempting but my car would not start
Because I refused to fill it with anything that would tempt me
So I replied to her that my words on the city
Would be just from the past and that any further experience would not occur
Until the one night on the way home I slid back
A step by step method to resist was faltered
And my hands shook on the wheel as I returned
The trumpets blaring were not a welcoming party
But a white taxi cab unpleasant with my current position
Sitting in front of the green traffic light
I smiled and knew this was where I belonged
To prosper in daily occurrences
or to stumble upon my imminent ruin.
Confession
When I hear the voices I usually head to bed
Because all the great men & women are usually mad
But they channel that into some outward creativity
My niche is still a work in progress
But I acknowledge it could still be genius
A real writer would never even hint at this design
So he threw the keyboard across the room
And told the most honest and pure thing he even wrote
About a boy who never liked himself
Who never liked the world
Who felt betrayed by everyone for no reason
Who couldn’t love until it was mixed with hate
And than it was often too late
Through his tribulations he suffered
And toughened still it was just a paper thin shell of vulnerability
The quietest people are the ones that speak the most in their minds
And when words cannot do justice to the situation
His mind put the scenario into the perfect pitch and cadence
In the group he rubbed the wrong way almost anyone
He left any confessional tale to be one layered with one liners
And impersonal observations, people expected more.
Nothing every changes
It was funny how the place never changed
And in 8 years the same smells were still there
The faces always change as people come and go
Only two or three familiar faces everyone else barely recognizable
Cognition was a physical detriment
As a ukele served as more of a joke than a threat
But the hawaiin singer’s fingers still bled
Like the rooms often feels dingy and dirty
Common adjectives for a place of this magnificence
3 chords with a rhythm bashing
the stairs shook as the bar stand often did
tapping with the feet of drunks and aspiring drunks
and ponytails were never meant to be offensive
Memories
My junior year of high school
My best friend and I decided to take journalism
We made up our minds and were quite passionate about this pursuit
In our heads it would be so easy to become these infamous reporters
And we would research these fanatical stories
Our friends would come to us to help them expose the truth
I never wrote one article that made it into the paper that year
Every article I wrote for the paper was deemed --
inappropriate
dangerous
artificial
revolutionary
The editor was a jock and refused to print our words
We wrote about punk rock
One article reviewed the anarchist cookbook
Another the latest misfits album
An editorial on how the school favored the sports program
Over other aesthetic pursuits
The editor’s face turned red and laughed after that one
Every article more professional than the next
We truly crafted our skills and enhanced with dictionaries
And other media tools found in the classroom
Every word more potent than the next
But the trash piled up with our articles
I had honest ambitions that I could change the world with my words
And I learned the lesson that year
When everything I wrote made the editor and the teacher more offended
I discovered how to offend people by writing
My words no shock value words like fuck, cock, pussy
But my articles were disarming until the end
When the point I made hit you like a blunt fire extinguisher
Like a locker being slammed on your hand
Or at times a toilet lid hitting you over and over the head
