Old Fords
Old Guitars
Gold money clips
Friendly girls;
but not so friendly
they want to drive my dream automobile,
sitting on my money clip in their *** jeans pocket
with my beloved Fender in the boot
to the second-hand car dealer
stopping off at the pawn shop
on the way to the terminal
to purchase a one way ticket out of town
without my authorization
while I'm still drooling pools
on my pillow.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 4:05 PM UTC
Rats in my Kitchen
I got Rats in my kitchen,
I got a mind to be bitchin'
I'm free and easy twisting
a perfectly nasty cadence
with my six strings,
singing like I'm a star draw
at 'The bucket of blood,'
got a bone handled knife
it keeps my life
ongoing
makes other men’s wife's feel safe,
eliminates slow mindedness
some times I scrapes it up side
my trusty singing strings,
drives women crazy
to shuffle their *****
up and down the blood ingrained boards.
my fans think I'm your Jesus incarnate,
I think I'm closer Satan’s hounds o' Hell,
they sing so loud
they hardly needs me at all,
but I'm here for my stack of Dollars,
my fun with the women who wants me most,
and my fun reducing that stack.
cause I is so popular with the gals
I gots to watch the shifting eyes
'neath the Stetson hats,
cold as steel
they’d like to pierce me
with a stare
"I wasn’t born yesterday mother,"
I study my steps
and is now wise
you take one at a time.
I cares for little
'cept delivering' the Blues
to the people like me,
that’s when I hit my natural peak!
and I is indulgent in seein'
you is comming with me
to the bottom of the river of whiskey,
the blues sustains me
been my real mother
since my baby left me.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
Thugs with Pens
Hell-bent; not on cultism
Just airing the other sentiments
That don’t make it to primetime
Thugs with pens
Not poking out eyes
Just venting spleen
Sick of the lies
Thugs with pens
Deserve to be heard
They don’t poison your brain
With stacks of *****
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Can change your mind
In ******* time
Thugs with pens
Can make a dent
They don’t need to insert
Un-readable, un-interesting
Covert small print....
Thugs with pens
Don’t need no script writers
Or advisors nor signatories
Witnesses, nor dodgy men
With gold plated fountain pen nibs
To make amends
Or throw in no hidden clauses
That secretly **** your life blood
Thugs with pens
Don’t aim to pierce your skin
But make their mark
Deeper within
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Completely uncensored
champions of free speech
The establishment want suppressed,
silenced, deleted; terminated.
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans don’t
Schedule meetings
To fix the minutes
And schedule another meeting
And keep ‘minutes’
As square angled
And unproductive
As formal conversation
Thugs with pens
Aim venomous ink
At headless politicians
That squawks like chickens
Bending over
For the *************
Bank-beefing corporations,
Controlling the masses
With ***** little catchphrases
And mounds of munitions
And illegally enforced restrictions
On your movement and free expression
Honest men
Have nothing to fear
From Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
These “thugs” seek asylum
From countries
Where the law’s
Not bought and bent
Thugs with pens & aerosol cans
Are made to wear monikers and masks
Thugs with pens
Don’t turn on its own
Neighbours and citizens
To perpetuate myths:
A ****** ************* lie…
A thing that never happened!
(That’s for all of you dumb wits
out there
Who believe most of the ****
That’s drip fed
Your sensation addicted minds
Most of the time,)
Time you started reading between the lines
In fact get a pen
Or an aerosol can
Write your own lines
Start broadcasting
Reclaim your space
Before you’re completely neoned
Into the shade
And corralled under the spell
Of a TV screen
Or an anger raising headline
That conducts the flow
Of the status quo
Load up your magazines
With ball point pens
And sharp edged writing nibs,
Strap on a belt of aerosol cans
Reclaim your right to free expression
In public spaces
Join the rag-tag army
Of intuitive
Self-knowing men
The End: is well begun,
George Orwell
Should never have written
That blueprint,
‘1984’
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
Delirium Tremens
Off the wall my feverish demons jump
And skirt about the edges of the room
Mocking my sleeplessness with levity
While I coil like a snake in a fiendish tomb
Cold sweat like clear lava bubbles
On my brow and down my spine
Muffled thumps or shrieking wails
Discernable sounds of an evil kind
Half in sleep or haphazard flight
Malevolent tentacles cleave me down
Tormented by these Hellish frights
In catacombs black, stuffy underground
I flail my limbs in futile dispute
At luminous eyes of a Satanic hound
May 21, 2012
May 21, 2012 at 10:00 PM UTC
You give me just enough wood
to build a long and slender boat
to sail up valleys clammy and straight
swaying my rudder off heavens gate,
one paddle east, the other west,
over the horizon a milk white breast,
migrating north from a sultry climate
temperatures reach the ultimate ******
May 21, 2012
May 21, 2012 at 9:45 PM UTC