Scot Powers
Scot Powers
Jan 29, 2013

stumbling blind
through the hallways of my years
wasting time,grinding my gears
got to suffer
seems it's the only way
to make the effort
seem worth the pain

Stand back
take a look at what you see
drives you crazy,your so naive
all your troubles
you can add them to my list
my plate is full ,but I'll get another dish

You know who speaks the truth
don't forsake your entire youth
stand up by yourself and you will find the way
as the shepherd
leads the fools away

Barren wastelands
are the landscape of your mind
no more goals
no mountains to climb
treading water in a sea of misery
keep your head out of the endless waves

Irene S
Feb 23, 2010

You may be the subject
You be the cause of the effect

"What do you read, my lord?"
"Words, words, words."

They sound together,
fall trippingly [off] the tongue
but not for you
When I my laptop collapse,
when I this file save
you are not required.
Dear muse,
she'll tease you and haunt you
and fill your bed a while
Don't think I'd leave my muse for you
Don't think a single poet would
Don't think these words haven't been played,written, written
written to Death
And they'll be wrote
(again, again)
till He is our

Haven't eaten in days, just crank. Chop up.
Greg Berlin

Not much like this high.
Your brain about fifteen seconds in
advance of your body. Staring around
at your friends. Blood dripping
from your nose. They don't tell
you about the nosebleeds. They don't
tell you about the burn that guts you out
right behind the eyes. The ache in
your chest as your lips curl and your
eyes roll back. Not much like this
high, boys and girls, not much.
Chopped and cut; a one way ticket
to El Dorado. Your spine breaks as you
attempt to stand. Your legs buckle. Time passes.
You're on the porch, knee deep in the pool,
goddamn it feels good. Time passes.
You can't eat. You can't drink. You can't blink
Not much like this high. It don't last long though.
Here comes the tide rolling in. Here comes
the Downs. Down down down. Killing yourself
is too much to pass up on these days. Too much
going on not to take a trip. Get up. Get away.
Haven't eaten in days, just crank. Chop up.
Screw up. Line up. Inhale. Don't forget to breathe.
Saved a hundred dollar bill for the occasion.
Break it in. Go go go. Quick, before the
Downs come. Go go go. Screaming from
the inside out. What have we gotten
ourselves into? Vicious cycles and
bad habits that won't break.
Vicious war within ourselves; broken bones,
nosebleeds, and all of everything burnt out.
Our souls turn to ash as we lean in closer.
We laugh because we know we shouldn't.

But crank is your honey.
Andriana Vrettas
Andriana Vrettas
May 8, 2013

Our bodies intertwined
Together we fall apart
On this coffee stained mattress
I listen to your heart
But it's broken
You run your fingertips through my long hair
& tell me I've been naughty
I never did my rounds
& I'm fucking up your money.
I may be your queen
But crank is your honey.

You take me by the hair
Tell me to unclench my fists  
Baby I know I've been bad
But I didn't want you getting mad.
Leaving scars along my back
Bruises on my neck & body;
My face looking kind of bloody.
That's not enough so you begin
Burning me with my own money.
I beg for you to stop
Instead you choke me half to death
Take another hit of meth
& Fuck me till I'm restless.
Strung out.
So I cry,
You left me there to die.

We crank bones, we strip
Shayla V
Jul 10, 2012

We crank bones, we strip
strips of skin,
running meter sprints in the tracks
of our veins,
powering our fuel to fuck.
We do the generation shuffle.
We sing.
Our bare feet make blood brother bonds
with the linoleum, the carpet unraveling.
There's lockjaw in our spine,
each squirming vertebrae kissing the next,
stiff and bothered,
tonguing for freedom.
No better words exist beyond these
hollowed trunks, we say.
We say the journey isn't enough until our
toes are weathered stubs.
I've got a spare skeleton for you too,
We do the Saint Michael march.

[12th grade? 2007]
crank up the old vitrola
david badgerow
david badgerow
Oct 27, 2011

crank up the old vitrola
and play me something ancient
let the static sing
us to sleep
let patti smith
kill us slowly with her blues

crank up the old vitrola
we can cram love poems
into empty wine jugs
and roll them down the street

crank up the old vitrola
as all hope dies and
the chorus repeats

crank up the old vitrola
i've got time to kill
and a lover to love

crank up the old vitrola
we've got nine more bottles
to drink
before sunrise
nine more poems
to write
before we close our eyes

A schizophrenic walks into a bar and orders 2 drinks.
The bartender pours him 4 drinks.
The schizophrenic says,
'Barkeep. What's with the 4 drinks? I only ordered 2.
The bartender says,
'Oh. They're for the other guy.'
When the schizophrenic is ready to leave,
the bartender presents him with a bill for 8 drinks.
The schizophrenic says,
'What the fuck is this. I only had 4 drinks.
The bartender says,
'Hey! You're not the only schizophrenic here.'

I always wanted to write a 'man walked into a bar joke'. TADA!

You're never wasting your talent if you're doing what you really love.

Just please don't quote me to a coke whore,
the right thing to do is just ask for a discount.

The newest criticism I heard about me today is that 'I'm wasting my talent.'
I'm overjoyed. This is a major breakthrough!
They've finally admitted I have 'talent'.
I think I will celebrate by writing more bad shit about them.

Do not lay, lay in fair repose, sweet angel,
My one true love whose dreams give wing to solemn night
And steer the stars above this swale of ragged wood we call our home.
Arise fair angel!

Hurry! Let us hurry to the peach grove
Before the breath of morn gives harbor to the chatter of birds
And the knells of treacherous commerce call me to my obedience.
Awake from your slumber!

Here in the peach grove,
where the herons drink from the mouth of their reflection
we shall build our quaint crib of cockle burrs & jellybeans
and make love & eat Ben & Jerry's all day without getting fat
& drink Cointreau & order shit we don't need over the Internet.

Here in the peach grove, we shall build our brave new world
where there's real justice and and suicide bombers wake up to a harem full of seventy virgins but their cocks are blown off and they don't eat pussy.

Here in the peach grove where the traffic lights are synchronized and everyday is a four day weekend in a leap year of Sundays
and where there are as many raisin nuts inside the cereal box as there are on the pretty picture on the outside

and where you answer a piece of Nigerian spam mail and actually receive a certified check for 40 million dollars

and where people who drive while using cell phones crash and burn on the second ring (and on the first ring if they're driving an SUV); crash and burn along with the scumbag tailgaters who honk their horns at you the nano second the light turns green

and where gas prices fall to a dollar a gallon but everything's in walking distance anyway all cars have been beaten into ploughshares -- except for Ferraris which are transformed into gelato

and where Martha Stewart goes back to prison and just stays there for life
and where George W. Bush gets fucked in the ass by an escaped Texas Death Row inmate

Hurry with me to the peach grove where the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.


No one ever, no one ever shall dare keep us apart.
Morpheus the chemist, lays murdered; he floats face down
like Ophelia, gurgling obscenities to the fish.
Now, you and I & me and you,
just the four of us
shall lie awake forever & ever & ever,
tweaked, cranked and spun like Rapunzel
until our swirls of dust have righteously mingled
and squarely blackened this howling cunt-eye of a moon.

Please wake up, Angel. Please,

For my related crystal meth pieces please visit:
Baking Bad Cookbook: Crystal Blue Margarita

Baking Bad Cookbook: Crystal Blue Ices

Baking Bad Cookbook: Crystal Blue Cheese Coleslaw

Baking Bad: Red-Hot Cajun Crystal Blue Cheese Wings

For my crystal meth junkie piece please visit:
Romeo's Crystal Meth Lullaby (Poetry Slam Audience Favorite)

For my related New Mexico piece please visit:
The True Demographics of Santa Fe
#love   #go   #drugs   #angel   #ice   #white   #trash   #candy   #no   #dust   #fast   #hot   #cross   #glass   #cookies   #lullaby   #la   #meth   #chalk   #speed   #peach   #g   #garbage   #wash   #crystal   #romeo   #dunk   #fuel   #juice   #ben   #jerry   #crank   #christina   #tina   #cris   #cristy   #geep   #getter   #getgo   #crunch   #hanyak   #hironpon   #hiropon   #super   #batu   #kaksonjae   #cream   #quartz   #chunky   #cotton   #gak   #go-go   #junk   #doze   #pookie   #rocket   #scooby   #snax  
To comment on this poem, please log in or create a free account
Log in or register to comment