ottis-blades - Hello Poetry

Lizard King, on the bar, from rooftops and over your legacy you took a swirling a **** drunk on blood with a treacherous witch high off acid. Grabbing your junk and exposing your genitals onstage passing out, failing the test of life and yet making the grade. You became and overweight bearded ******* weary and heavy like your poetic incoherent rambles with a voice like Sinatra when you really wanted to, like your average intoxicated uncle when you gave less of a **** in the studio, recording frustrations while getting ******** Opening the doors to the eyes of delusion and distortion the crystal ship sailed without causing so much confusion as to who you are, who you were and who you aspired to be the next great American wordsmith, “Light My Fire” is a fine tune, please sing it for me, without cussing me out, calling me a sellout and everything in between. Breaking through to the other side of madness wheels falling off riding by your roadhouse blues some might say Val Kilmer made an even better you a mirror image of the decimated natives of your youth. Abruptly moved to France to be the next Pepe Le Pew but instead took a ****** bath to the afterlife. Some loved your talent, others thought you made a prettier corpse so tonight I’ll toast your legacy of leather pants frat boy good looks, ****** off rants, Raiders on the Storm and checking out right after Hendrix you inconsiderate ****** I still love you though, with my heart crossed dearly dearest quintessential ******* Jim Morrison.

0

Jan 21, 2014

Jan 21, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC

ottis-blades

A Loving Poem to Jim (for those who knew him...)

Lizard King, on the bar, from rooftops and over your legacy you took a swirling a **** drunk on blood with a treacherous witch high off acid. Grabbing your junk and exposing your genitals onstage passing out, failing the test of life and yet making the grade. You became and overweight bearded ******* weary and heavy like your poetic incoherent rambles with a voice like Sinatra when you really wanted to, like your average intoxicated uncle when you gave less of a **** in the studio, recording frustrations while getting ******** Opening the doors to the eyes of delusion and distortion the crystal ship sailed without causing so much confusion as to who you are, who you were and who you aspired to be the next great American wordsmith, “Light My Fire” is a fine tune, please sing it for me, without cussing me out, calling me a sellout and everything in between. Breaking through to the other side of madness wheels falling off riding by your roadhouse blues some might say Val Kilmer made an even better you a mirror image of the decimated natives of your youth. Abruptly moved to France to be the next Pepe Le Pew but instead took a ****** bath to the afterlife. Some loved your talent, others thought you made a prettier corpse so tonight I’ll toast your legacy of leather pants frat boy good looks, ****** off rants, Raiders on the Storm and checking out right after Hendrix you inconsiderate ****** I still love you though, with my heart crossed dearly dearest quintessential ******* Jim Morrison.

29

I had a dream I smoked some ***** with a Rasta Man while we jammed in the name of the lord to some tunes the children of Africa roaming free like wild beast once the cradle of civilization turned into tombs by the ungrateful, heathen souls that ran amok in the name of annihilation and war. But we are fearful pious men, as we inhaled the herb the grass is the shepherd that nourish us like Giraffes the sky is the ceiling that we reach with our blessed hands the rivers gives us skins like Crocs to be able to survive harsh whether, the blood-stained desert left behind by men witnessed by the pale eyes of the torture souls of this land. And so we inhaled and puffed like chimneys in a North Pole night we talked about the smiles of our seeds stretching far and wide how beautiful is a voice when it’s brought to life by a loved one how the scent of a pure woman can bring the dead back to life deadlocked, we are dreadlocked like grapevines until Jah lets us the mental slavery that keeps us chained to the ships of our ancestors. We never once conversed about the frail indignity of the mortals the uselessness of hate, the ways material possessions can’t help you we reached Nirvana without taking our feet off the common ground we shared a spirit, bonded between long hits made of peace and love in the freedom of those free thinkers tinkering with words without rest in the children of Jah, daydreaming at night in a warm bed made of bread.

0

Jan 14, 2014

Jan 14, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC

ottis-blades

RASTA MAN

I had a dream I smoked some ***** with a Rasta Man while we jammed in the name of the lord to some tunes the children of Africa roaming free like wild beast once the cradle of civilization turned into tombs by the ungrateful, heathen souls that ran amok in the name of annihilation and war. But we are fearful pious men, as we inhaled the herb the grass is the shepherd that nourish us like Giraffes the sky is the ceiling that we reach with our blessed hands the rivers gives us skins like Crocs to be able to survive harsh whether, the blood-stained desert left behind by men witnessed by the pale eyes of the torture souls of this land. And so we inhaled and puffed like chimneys in a North Pole night we talked about the smiles of our seeds stretching far and wide how beautiful is a voice when it’s brought to life by a loved one how the scent of a pure woman can bring the dead back to life deadlocked, we are dreadlocked like grapevines until Jah lets us the mental slavery that keeps us chained to the ships of our ancestors. We never once conversed about the frail indignity of the mortals the uselessness of hate, the ways material possessions can’t help you we reached Nirvana without taking our feet off the common ground we shared a spirit, bonded between long hits made of peace and love in the freedom of those free thinkers tinkering with words without rest in the children of Jah, daydreaming at night in a warm bed made of bread.

24

5 million angels of God with a shortage of love 10 million small feet without a heaven to call their own orphans of a lost war, children of hunger and distress the loving nest in their parents arms got blown to shreds. So they suffer, innocent souls that have no were to hide in tears of pain, in between heaven and hell Muhammed walks in a drone strike a child’s future in the last thing on anyone’s minds Every day war mongers cultivate the future enemies of this land. Suffer the little children, the infants, the school kids, the toddlers In the hot desert sand burn and riddled with bullets lie their rotting corpses their small eyes staring blank into infinity and no one dares to close them sleeping on ravaged streets barely out of their strollers. Wish I could send my useless hands to heal their wounds the American invasion of Iraq became their tombs. Suffer the little children in sulfur victims of greed, lust for power and oil pray to Allah every night to care for them children without a future, victims of a war they didn’t deserve. And so they suffer.

0

May 23, 2013

May 23, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC

ottis-blades

Suffer the Little Children

5 million angels of God with a shortage of love 10 million small feet without a heaven to call their own orphans of a lost war, children of hunger and distress the loving nest in their parents arms got blown to shreds. So they suffer, innocent souls that have no were to hide in tears of pain, in between heaven and hell Muhammed walks in a drone strike a child’s future in the last thing on anyone’s minds Every day war mongers cultivate the future enemies of this land. Suffer the little children, the infants, the school kids, the toddlers In the hot desert sand burn and riddled with bullets lie their rotting corpses their small eyes staring blank into infinity and no one dares to close them sleeping on ravaged streets barely out of their strollers. Wish I could send my useless hands to heal their wounds the American invasion of Iraq became their tombs. Suffer the little children in sulfur victims of greed, lust for power and oil pray to Allah every night to care for them children without a future, victims of a war they didn’t deserve. And so they suffer.

19

When you die there’s nothing left to fear a corpse won’t take it's tears to the grave neither it's baggage, mortgage payments or stress or any ****** up aphrodisiac in their wake. When you die, it’d be like you never were like poor children in the planet, just like before birth a specimen that never came, a *** shot nature aborted a funeral without flowers, laying to rest on an empty grave. When you die tears will be shed, nothing else buried memories and good anecdotes but nothing else just a one ticket to ride, no one else will come on along to an afterlife on your journey of worms and maggots until their due date. When we die we are spoiled milk, dust in treacherous winds that we once enjoyed in the form of a cool summer breeze ashes sprinkled in tombs that won’t sleep, eyes that won’t weep only the unforgiving passage of oblivion awaits. When death knocks once there’s no use to be scared greater men have come and gone, Lennon, Gandhi and King some say that immortality is a sin, but I see it more as a shore little use is to live when it’s better to sleep in a shallow empty world. When we die.

0

May 21, 2013

May 21, 2013 at 2:30 PM UTC

ottis-blades

When We Die

When you die there’s nothing left to fear a corpse won’t take it's tears to the grave neither it's baggage, mortgage payments or stress or any ****** up aphrodisiac in their wake. When you die, it’d be like you never were like poor children in the planet, just like before birth a specimen that never came, a *** shot nature aborted a funeral without flowers, laying to rest on an empty grave. When you die tears will be shed, nothing else buried memories and good anecdotes but nothing else just a one ticket to ride, no one else will come on along to an afterlife on your journey of worms and maggots until their due date. When we die we are spoiled milk, dust in treacherous winds that we once enjoyed in the form of a cool summer breeze ashes sprinkled in tombs that won’t sleep, eyes that won’t weep only the unforgiving passage of oblivion awaits. When death knocks once there’s no use to be scared greater men have come and gone, Lennon, Gandhi and King some say that immortality is a sin, but I see it more as a shore little use is to live when it’s better to sleep in a shallow empty world. When we die.

21

What are they to do with their hands if they no longer care? if they would rather take an iPad over fresh air? If it’s auto-correct teaching them how to spell words? when raising your child: is Nicki Minaj doing a better job? It’s because they now live in that neon-green X-Box glow blasting strangers from all walks of life online playing Halo. While Smokey the Bear goes around lighting matches there are no more sandwiches left in our pic-a-nic baskets. It’s the Kids! Because the only toboggan they go through is YouTube because there are no such things as books in Facebook. Because it’s behind a shiny screen their ingenuity goes to waste because it’s the equivalent of dropping Simba on his face. So lets just Skype instead of meeting up and going for a walk! 140 characters or less to dictate the way we communicate and talk! Because Clark Kent is not Superman unless his Twitter feed is verified and behind close doors there's no room to grow a child’s mind.

0

May 9, 2013

May 9, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC

ottis-blades

The Kids!

What are they to do with their hands if they no longer care? if they would rather take an iPad over fresh air? If it’s auto-correct teaching them how to spell words? when raising your child: is Nicki Minaj doing a better job? It’s because they now live in that neon-green X-Box glow blasting strangers from all walks of life online playing Halo. While Smokey the Bear goes around lighting matches there are no more sandwiches left in our pic-a-nic baskets. It’s the Kids! Because the only toboggan they go through is YouTube because there are no such things as books in Facebook. Because it’s behind a shiny screen their ingenuity goes to waste because it’s the equivalent of dropping Simba on his face. So lets just Skype instead of meeting up and going for a walk! 140 characters or less to dictate the way we communicate and talk! Because Clark Kent is not Superman unless his Twitter feed is verified and behind close doors there's no room to grow a child’s mind.

17

It was the weirdest thing, for a lack of a better term. Some would find it hilarious, I found it confusing. But she used to bring me flowers whenever we got into a fight. At my home, work, the barbershop. You name it. -“Ottis your girl is here...and she bought you flowers!” I didn’t know if I liked it, or if I should be giggling like a teenage girl whenever she showed up with fresh-cut daisies or a bouquet of roses at my doorstep. I would hang up the phone on her on some serious mental rage and I would get flowers the next day- “I am sorry baby” she would say, -“I love you!” -Was I THAT sensitive? Did I brought out the mom in her? Have our roles been reversed? Doesn’t she know that all men are just content and happy with the two B's? (Beer and ******** or has the great battle for equality between men and women finally come to an end in the form of a dewy-eyed, raven-haired woman that found it romantic to bring her man flowers? It’s widely known that the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his ***** then his stomach. So, WHAT IN THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THIS WOMAN? I would say to myself while gushing in pretend shock and saying to her “Aww, you shouldn’t have, they’re beautiful!” She quickly became known among my friends as the Flower Girl. Her answer to all our problems where with flowers. She stands me up: flowers. She forgets to return my calls: flowers. She didn’t like my cooking: flowers. She disappears for a few days: flowers and more flowers. She used to carry my fragile woman-heart in her purse pocket. I unwillingly found myself wearing the skirt in the relationship before I knew it and it had to stop. I had to put my manly pants on, one leg at a time and stop letting them sag to her bidding. But they did smell nice though, and they were pretty, especially those yellowish-orange tulips she bought me that one time with that giant teddy bear with a giant heart-shaped card that read “Ottis” on it. That was nice. -“Kara, listen to me, I don’t want anymore flowers, I’ve had it, they are nice and all, but I am the one that’s supposed to give you flowers!” -I said firmly and secure in the manliest tone I could mustard. -“But you never give me any” -she retorted with the sweetest, most adoring kind of voice that would make the softest of Care Bears look like thug-out gangsters. Needless to say I felt like a monster, like Charles Manson’s long lost child. I surrendered to her charm and became Silly Putty in her hands once more. But at least the flowers stopped after that day, so did the calls, the dates, the *** her unparalleled lunacy, until we were nothing more than a memory in a pantheon of many. Last I heard, she went back to Switzerland, suffocating, bombarding and smothering the new poor schmuck she’s dating with, you guessed it, flowers. Atlantic City, 2007.

0

May 8, 2013

May 8, 2013 at 3:28 PM UTC

ottis-blades

Flower Girl

It was the weirdest thing, for a lack of a better term. Some would find it hilarious, I found it confusing. But she used to bring me flowers whenever we got into a fight. At my home, work, the barbershop. You name it. -“Ottis your girl is here...and she bought you flowers!” I didn’t know if I liked it, or if I should be giggling like a teenage girl whenever she showed up with fresh-cut daisies or a bouquet of roses at my doorstep. I would hang up the phone on her on some serious mental rage and I would get flowers the next day- “I am sorry baby” she would say, -“I love you!” -Was I THAT sensitive? Did I brought out the mom in her? Have our roles been reversed? Doesn’t she know that all men are just content and happy with the two B's? (Beer and ******** or has the great battle for equality between men and women finally come to an end in the form of a dewy-eyed, raven-haired woman that found it romantic to bring her man flowers? It’s widely known that the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his ***** then his stomach. So, WHAT IN THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THIS WOMAN? I would say to myself while gushing in pretend shock and saying to her “Aww, you shouldn’t have, they’re beautiful!” She quickly became known among my friends as the Flower Girl. Her answer to all our problems where with flowers. She stands me up: flowers. She forgets to return my calls: flowers. She didn’t like my cooking: flowers. She disappears for a few days: flowers and more flowers. She used to carry my fragile woman-heart in her purse pocket. I unwillingly found myself wearing the skirt in the relationship before I knew it and it had to stop. I had to put my manly pants on, one leg at a time and stop letting them sag to her bidding. But they did smell nice though, and they were pretty, especially those yellowish-orange tulips she bought me that one time with that giant teddy bear with a giant heart-shaped card that read “Ottis” on it. That was nice. -“Kara, listen to me, I don’t want anymore flowers, I’ve had it, they are nice and all, but I am the one that’s supposed to give you flowers!” -I said firmly and secure in the manliest tone I could mustard. -“But you never give me any” -she retorted with the sweetest, most adoring kind of voice that would make the softest of Care Bears look like thug-out gangsters. Needless to say I felt like a monster, like Charles Manson’s long lost child. I surrendered to her charm and became Silly Putty in her hands once more. But at least the flowers stopped after that day, so did the calls, the dates, the *** her unparalleled lunacy, until we were nothing more than a memory in a pantheon of many. Last I heard, she went back to Switzerland, suffocating, bombarding and smothering the new poor schmuck she’s dating with, you guessed it, flowers. Atlantic City, 2007.

6

I still remember her pinay almond eyes and peanut butter smile even though she was a cracked nut. I still remember chewing on her whiskey-sponged lips her Koala cheeks and the Melbourne burn of her voice. I still remember her throwing fits and things at me we’ll chalk that up as the hazards of dating a Dominican woman. I still remember her Grand Canyonized Salma Hayek thighs as fat and meaty as her spicy Mexican tortas. I still remember the coca leaf nature of her walk and the precise coffee of her eyes that kept me up all night. I still remember her catracha scent when escaping her man just to lay the blue frosting of her clandestine mouth on mine. I still remember her swiftly poetic like a Chico Barque song the Brazilian beauty who netted in my heart a Pelé-size goal. I still remember them.

0

May 8, 2013

May 8, 2013 at 1:15 PM UTC

ottis-blades

I Still Remember Them...

I still remember her pinay almond eyes and peanut butter smile even though she was a cracked nut. I still remember chewing on her whiskey-sponged lips her Koala cheeks and the Melbourne burn of her voice. I still remember her throwing fits and things at me we’ll chalk that up as the hazards of dating a Dominican woman. I still remember her Grand Canyonized Salma Hayek thighs as fat and meaty as her spicy Mexican tortas. I still remember the coca leaf nature of her walk and the precise coffee of her eyes that kept me up all night. I still remember her catracha scent when escaping her man just to lay the blue frosting of her clandestine mouth on mine. I still remember her swiftly poetic like a Chico Barque song the Brazilian beauty who netted in my heart a Pelé-size goal. I still remember them.

15

Women are the vessels that hold life for Nine 1/2 weeks like Kim Basinger Call me Mickey. Women adorned Da Vinci paintings with a half smile martyrs in the flames of freedom Call me Joan. Women that nurture life the greatest man to ever walk our path call me Mary. -and yet we’re reduced to calling them ***** because our male brains can’t reach to nothing more. Women in revolutionary trenches artist, poets, our strongholds, mend no fences call me Frida. Women our souls, our backbones endless spinal chords that keep us up call me Theresa. -and yet ***** is the word that dominates our tongues when we refer to them. Women the leaders, the warriors the fighters, the valor of the coward call me Cleopatra. Women the lovers, the pleasers that feed us and keep us up on our feet call me Anne Boleyn. -and yet ***** infiltrated our vocabulary like a terminal cancer, let’s get rid of it.

0

May 8, 2013

May 8, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC

ottis-blades

Women.

Women are the vessels that hold life for Nine 1/2 weeks like Kim Basinger Call me Mickey. Women adorned Da Vinci paintings with a half smile martyrs in the flames of freedom Call me Joan. Women that nurture life the greatest man to ever walk our path call me Mary. -and yet we’re reduced to calling them ***** because our male brains can’t reach to nothing more. Women in revolutionary trenches artist, poets, our strongholds, mend no fences call me Frida. Women our souls, our backbones endless spinal chords that keep us up call me Theresa. -and yet ***** is the word that dominates our tongues when we refer to them. Women the leaders, the warriors the fighters, the valor of the coward call me Cleopatra. Women the lovers, the pleasers that feed us and keep us up on our feet call me Anne Boleyn. -and yet ***** infiltrated our vocabulary like a terminal cancer, let’s get rid of it.

27

-The best way to fight the fear of terrorism is by turning off your TV screens.- TV Terrorist. Ladies hide your burkas! the 1st amendment ain’t gonna protect ya because for as little as an ignorant comment... -YOU can be a TV Terrorist too! Racist slurs, misinformation and greed are 1/2 the price of what they used to be ACT NOW so they can see! -YOU can be a TV Terrorist too! Don’t let the sirens of the fashion police disturb ya we’ll wiretap your mosque from the city to suburbia just grow that beard Osama style! -And YOU can be a TV Terrorist too! After your Morning Joe just head over to CNN they’re about to have some Baklawa at Fox & Friends let’s keep feeding more hate speech to the talking heads. -So YOU can be a TV Terrorist too! Replace your Quran with the National Enquirer so you can be as American as they are Muhammed is not a match for Uncle Sam. -Just wear that robe the way Jesus did and YOU can be TV Terrorist too! You see, turban rhymes with Taliban therefore you’re all the same so pump our gas brown skin clashes with the red, white & blue of our flag. -Just make sure to look angry! And YOU can be a TV Terrorist too! Sensationalism in the media is worth more than your beliefs your good morals and spirituality is not for us to say as long as that red dot across your forehead turns into an infrared. -Look up Hassan! And YOU can be a TV Terrorist too! From the cities of Iraq to the caves Afghanistan ride your camel and dignity right through an EZ Pass watch the drones drop and the ratings soar! -And YOU can be a TV Terrorist too!

0

May 1, 2013

May 1, 2013 at 11:30 AM UTC

ottis-blades

TV Terrorist

-The best way to fight the fear of terrorism is by turning off your TV screens.- TV Terrorist. Ladies hide your burkas! the 1st amendment ain’t gonna protect ya because for as little as an ignorant comment... -YOU can be a TV Terrorist too! Racist slurs, misinformation and greed are 1/2 the price of what they used to be ACT NOW so they can see! -YOU can be a TV Terrorist too! Don’t let the sirens of the fashion police disturb ya we’ll wiretap your mosque from the city to suburbia just grow that beard Osama style! -And YOU can be a TV Terrorist too! After your Morning Joe just head over to CNN they’re about to have some Baklawa at Fox & Friends let’s keep feeding more hate speech to the talking heads. -So YOU can be a TV Terrorist too! Replace your Quran with the National Enquirer so you can be as American as they are Muhammed is not a match for Uncle Sam. -Just wear that robe the way Jesus did and YOU can be TV Terrorist too! You see, turban rhymes with Taliban therefore you’re all the same so pump our gas brown skin clashes with the red, white & blue of our flag. -Just make sure to look angry! And YOU can be a TV Terrorist too! Sensationalism in the media is worth more than your beliefs your good morals and spirituality is not for us to say as long as that red dot across your forehead turns into an infrared. -Look up Hassan! And YOU can be a TV Terrorist too! From the cities of Iraq to the caves Afghanistan ride your camel and dignity right through an EZ Pass watch the drones drop and the ratings soar! -And YOU can be a TV Terrorist too!

37

I am a lover. I don’t know how to do nothing else to be honest besides writing a few verses for loving ears. Play our favorite song under soaked covers the symphony of your moans my dear. -Because you are my lover. We melt the winter snow turning our bodies into flamethrowers we don’t need North Korea to nuke us out of orbit. -We are already there. Because we are lovers. We’ll burn down a million acres of the Brazilian Amazon bring Barry White back to life to croon us back to the beyond. From the bath to the bed the sweetest insomnia awakes lying on your chest. -Couldn’t expect nothing less Because I am your lover. To breathe the moon, chew on some stars, turn off the sun dim the lights, turn on the breathing, hold your thighs. Soak in the fertile oasis of your lips on mines every inch of your body is a war zone landmine ready to explode. -Because when we are lovers we are eager to please and there’s no better life to die than in the comfort of your skin.

0

Apr 6, 2013

Apr 6, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC

ottis-blades

LOVERS

I am a lover. I don’t know how to do nothing else to be honest besides writing a few verses for loving ears. Play our favorite song under soaked covers the symphony of your moans my dear. -Because you are my lover. We melt the winter snow turning our bodies into flamethrowers we don’t need North Korea to nuke us out of orbit. -We are already there. Because we are lovers. We’ll burn down a million acres of the Brazilian Amazon bring Barry White back to life to croon us back to the beyond. From the bath to the bed the sweetest insomnia awakes lying on your chest. -Couldn’t expect nothing less Because I am your lover. To breathe the moon, chew on some stars, turn off the sun dim the lights, turn on the breathing, hold your thighs. Soak in the fertile oasis of your lips on mines every inch of your body is a war zone landmine ready to explode. -Because when we are lovers we are eager to please and there’s no better life to die than in the comfort of your skin.

22