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Ottis Blades Jan 2014
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, ******* 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.
Ottis Blades Jan 2014
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.
Ottis Blades May 2013
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.
Ottis Blades May 2013
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.
Ottis Blades May 2013
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.
Ottis Blades May 2013
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 ****-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.
Ottis Blades May 2013
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.
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