badwords

badwords Mar 19

I'm a street walking cheetah with a heart full of ******
I'm a runaway son of the nuclear A-bomb
I am a world's forgotten boy
The one who searches and destroys
Honey, gotta help me, please
Somebody gotta save my soul
Baby, detonate for me
Look out, honey, 'cause I'm using technology
Ain't got time to make no apology
Soul radiation in the dead of night
Love in the middle of a firefight
Honey, gotta strike me blind
Somebody gotta save my soul
Baby, penetrate my mind
And I'm the world's forgotten boy
The one who's searching, searching to destroy
And honey, I'm the world's forgotten boy
The one who's searching only to destroy
Look out, honey, 'cause I'm using technology
Ain't got time to make no apology
Soul radiation in the dead of night
Love in the middle of a firefight
Honey, gotta strike me blind
Somebody gotta save my soul
Baby, penetrate my mind
And I'm the world's forgotten boy
The one who's searching, searching to destroy
And honey, I'm the world's forgotten boy
The one who's searching, searching to destroy
Forgotten boy
Forgotten boy
Forgotten boy
Said, hey, forgotten boy, said
Hey, hey, hey, hey

Search & Destroy by Iggy Pop

https://youtu.be/-jiU5pEgzzY?si=dVAbviwaE76OUKw_

Check Out My HePo Mix-Tape:
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/135545/badwords-music-lyrics/

#iggypop

badwords Mar 15

Hello, Poetry?

Welcome, dear artist, step into the light—
Paint on your pleasure, make your grin tight.
The crowd here is eager, the clapping is loud,
But only for those who have clapped for the crowd.

Powder your cheeks with engagement and grace,
Lace up your lips in reciprocal praise.
A bow for a bow, a sigh for a sigh,
Wink at the watchers or wither and die.

Here in the House where the hollow hands meet,
The loveliest dancers must stay on their feet.
A round of applause is a token to spend,
But spend it too slowly, and you’ll find it ends.

The jesters all juggle, the poets all moan,
The painters trade colors but none of their own.
Each stroke, each verse, each desperate tune,
Not meant to be felt—just meant to be hewn.

For love is a fiction, and merit a game,
A trick of the trade, a conjuring name.
So curtsy, dear artist, and play your part—
For silence here is the end of art.

badwords Mar 13

Bonds

Oxygen, two 'me's'
We expire
Oxygen in threes
Ozone acquired

Ménage à trois
Three the same
Cards to draw
A hand, a game

One former
Introduce carbon
A home? or,
Latter two undone?

Life & death
2:1
Gasp for breath
Toxic, run

Detectors
Cry out loud!
Defectors;
Poison we laud

Breathe deep
Or sweet release
Eternal sleep
If you please

When your atoms bond

Bonds is a poem that explores the fluid and often precarious nature of polyamorous relationships through the lens of chemistry. Using molecular structures as an extended metaphor, the poem illustrates how individuals (atoms) form bonds that can be either life-sustaining or toxic. It begins with the stability of a dyadic relationship (O₂) before shifting into the volatility of a triadic bond (O₃), highlighting the unpredictable nature of introducing a third partner.

The introduction of carbon further destabilizes the relationship, raising the question of whether new elements strengthen or destroy existing connections. As the poem progresses, it introduces carbon monoxide (CO), a silent and lethal gas, as a symbol of the ease with which one can succumb to emotional suffocation or self-destruction. The final stanzas present a choice—whether to embrace the complexities of the bonds or to surrender to an escape that is both literal and metaphorical.

The poet employs scientific language to dissect the emotional intricacies of polyamory, using chemical bonding as a framework to discuss intimacy, instability, and dissolution. By framing each individual as an atom, the poem presents relationships as inherently reactive—some bonds are strong, some transient, and others quietly corrosive. The progression from O₂ to O₃ mirrors the transition from monogamy to polyamory, highlighting both the excitement and fragility of expanding relational dynamics.

The use of carbon monoxide (CO) is particularly poignant, serving as both a literal reference to an accessible means of release and a metaphor for the slow, unnoticed suffocation that can occur within a deteriorating or imbalanced relationship. The poet subtly critiques the way people sometimes romanticize toxicity (“Poison we laud”) while also acknowledging the weight of personal agency in choosing whether to remain in or exit a connection. The closing line, “When your atoms bond,” leaves the reader with an open-ended reflection on the nature of relationships—do they create, destroy, or simply change form?

By intertwining chemistry with human emotion, the poem presents an unflinching yet poetic look at the risks, rewards, and potential consequences of forming and breaking bonds.

badwords Mar 10

Process

I died
A life worth living
is a life worth dying

or
so I was sold

I still smell you
in my brain

A dumpster fire
to re-train

And loose
Capitulate

For an absence of identity within

badwords Mar 10

Reflections

Alas, things...
come to pass
the camera
the mirror

they are the same

reflections
reproductions

a perspective.

A pitiful response to:

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5001942/ghost-in-the-glass/

badwords Mar 9

Stuart by The Dead Milkmen

You know what, Stuart, I like you.
You're not like the other people,
Here, in the trailer park.
Oh, don't go get me wrong!
They're fine people,
They're good Americans!
But they're content to sit back,
Maybe Watch a little Mork and Mindy on channel 57,
Maybe kick back a cool, Coors™ 16-ouncer.
They're good, fine people, Stuart.

But they don't know,
What the queers are doing to the soil...

You know that Jonny Wurster kid,
The kid that delivers papers in the neighborhood?
He's a fine kid.
Some of the neighbors say he smokes crack,
But I don't believe it.
Anyway, for his tenth birthday,
All he wanted was a Burrow Owl.
Kept bugging his old man.
"Dad, get me a burrow owl.
I'll never ask for anything else as long as I live."
So the guy breaks down and buys him a burrow owl.

Anyway, 10:30, the other night,
I go out in my yard, and there's the Wurster kid,
Looking up in the trees.
I say, "What are you looking for?"
He says "I'm looking for my burrow owl."
I say, "Jumping Jesus on a Pogo Stick!
Everybody knows the burrow owl lives. In a hole. In the ground.
Why the hell do you think they call it a burrow owl, anyway?"

Now Stuart, do you think a kid like that is going to know what the queers are doing to the soil?

I first became aware of this about ten years ago,
The summer my oldest boy, Bill Jr. died.
You know that carnival comes into town every year?
Well this year they came through with a ride called The Mixer.
The man said, "Keep your head, and arms, inside The Mixer at all times!"
But Bill Jr, he was a DAREDEVIL!
Just like his old man.
He was leaning out saying "Hey everybody, look at me! Look at me!"

POW!!!

HE WAS DECAPITATED!!!

They found his head over by the snow cone concession...
A few days after that, I open up the mail.
And there's a pamphlet in there. From Pueblo, Colorado,
And it's addressed to Bill, Jr.
And it's entitled;
"Do You Know What the Queers Are Doing to Our Soil?"

Now, Stuart, if you look at the soil around any large US city,
With a big underground homosexual population.
Des Moines, Iowa, For example.
Look at the soil around Des Moines, Stuart.
You can't build on it! You can't grow anything in it!
The government says it's due to poor farming.
But I know what's really going on, Stuart!
I know it's the queers!
They're in it with the aliens!
They're building landing strips for gay Martians,
I swear to God!

You know what, Stuart, I like you.
You're not like the other people, here in this trailer park.

Stuart by The Dead Milkmen

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=71PNZH1OaW0

Check Out My HePo Mix-Tape:
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/135545/badwords-music-lyrics/

"I like you reader, you're not like like the other writers, here in the poetry park..."

badwords Mar 8

The Curtain Call

I did not ask to stand in light,
nor walk the stage, nor speak my lines.
Yet here I am—through fault, through fight,
through twenty years of measured time.

The script is looped, the plot is stale,
the exits marked in hollow lead.
To fight is folly, frail, and fraught,
to fold is merely left unsaid.

No gods to beg, no fate to barter,
no judge to weigh what I have spent.
I claim this act, its ink, its end,
I take the bow, the stage is bent.

And still—the show will stagger on,
past hollow men and empty breath.
But I was here, and let it stand,
this ending was my own to set.