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Mykarocknrollin  Sep 2019
FK
Mykarocknrollin Sep 2019
FK
too close
too near
too cold
too hot
too white
too dark
to me
to you
towards you
trembles me
tingles your cheek
tingles my lips
tempting it
trying it
tasted it
till the next kiss please

xoxo
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2013
I mashup me, myself, and thee: Part II

Excerpts from my poems about poets, poetry and the process of composition. In chronological order, from the earliest to the most recent.
---------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­----


The three poems went about their business,
Bringing heaven to earth,
FYI, even Angels can't be everywhere, so,
God invented poems to do his ***** work,
Cleansing souls.

They rode in~out of town on a prankster wave,
A cheering throng was not around,
But a singular poet saw, recorded the vision,
And thus, this nameless poet,
Below unmasked, unsealed,
Cleansed one more soul,
And that soul, this soul, as required,
Paid it forward.
~
Nothing produced from this place
where routine means the gorge tastes bile,
When surcease is welcome relief,
Where dancing on ice in bare feet
Is step one to ripping your chest open by your own hands,
The toxins thus released rejuvenated by salted air,
Can be finally be transcribed onto paper
And realized.

Warn them once and then begin, you,
Get serious, delve, with hurricane unambiguity,
to torrential words upon the unsuspecting,
let them taste the rawness, only the truth provides,
let them know salt tears so briney,
They will flee this place, n'er to return.

~
One day she intro'd me as her fav poet,
To which I acknowledged by addressing her as
My number one fan,
Which seems to have stuck,
so I acknowledge her as such,
And always add a polite, respectful, winking,
Yes ma'am!
~
Like this new day,
there are always
new poems

Like last night's sunset,
day's efforts reviewed,
a special light,
a yellowed marker,
highlighting a few deserving

Take them home,
kiss them goodnight,
rest them in the poetry file
that is no file,
but a large fabric box where
sewing tools once stored

How appropriate and
how happy that makes me.

~
Yo! Yo!
Remember your first real high,
That moment
No absolution, no return.
That moment
When you admitted, confessed,
to yourself:

I am
Forever forward,
A home-grown poet.
I am
Soul enslaved to words.
The alphabet - My oxygen molecules,
I am both,
Addict and dealer
A ****** poet

Yo! Yo!
So you do recall,
The exact moment,
God-spark-within, ascendancy gained
You lost control,
Wept words instead of tears!
A ****** poet ******!

Yo! Yo!

Sophie's Choice.
You chose writing over breathing,
Worshiper of the purest pleaure,
******* in deep the smoke-high of
Head-nodding discontented contentment
Stealing anything you saw
For to satisfy the need, the craven
Craving.
****** poets!

Yo! Yo!

Don't you're ever sleep?
Hear that the city, the state,
Gonna methadone your kind
In a special program
Teach you only language to sign.
**** poets!

I am a ****** poet.

The first step taken.
Admission.
Poetry is my default rest position,

My drug of choice.
~
Have you noticed here

Each poet declaims his fellow
The better one, his teacher,
From whom they shall learn and gather up
Inspiration

Gonna run for Congress,
My first bill, Poetry-care,
Will make it a requirement that
All citizens must contribute,
Exchange once a day
To this peaceful place,
Even just a syllable, a single letter,

K?

~
Literally my eyes see words awaiting coordinating,
Poems flying by, needing plucking,
How a child eats his morning cereal,
His rituals informing, of the man yet to be,
How our bodies lay, hair unbrushed,
Tying us into a conjoined knot...

No matter that plain words are my ordinary tools,
With them I shall scribe the small,
Cherish the little, grab the middle,
Simplicity my golden rule,
Write they say, about what you know best,
Surely in the diurnal motions,
The arc of daily commotion,
Do we not all excel?
~
The ice of poetry,
glassine smooth
but
charged hardness,
hits you, ****** you,
unexpected snowball in the face,

the fire of poetry,
cherished phrase, a patois,
comfort food when
whole winter skies
swallow you bleak

mutual contradictions of poetry
savaging the soothed ego,
revealing the raging id

what's in a word anyway?

~
Please Pop, pick wise,
the life and lies, the faces and disguises,
I will need employ to achieve success
in the eyes of my reading beholders,
who own the liens on my soul
because of the promises I believed,
when you sang me
glowing lullabies of my future days,
how everyone would love my stories,
my poems, someday...
~
Place your ****** hands upon thy chest.
Let them melt thru and come to rest,
Inside, the battle ongoing, under thy breast.
Watch, eyes open, knowing, fearful.
Swiftly, with no hesitation, from within,
Rip open your body, exhaling the best,
And the worst of what you got.

The cool air rushes in,
Stirring the inside stew of:
Infected grime, shameful desires,
Secrets that should not have been exposed,
The ***** stuff that you alone know exists.

Contact with the atmosphere makes
Self-pity dies, blue blood turn red,
The TNT tightness explodes,
Ashamed, you have only one escape hatch.

Now, you are ready to write.

~
My life is on the boring side,
So welcome gents to look inside,
The surfed sites, the emails, hardly slimy,
But stay the fk away from my poetry!

Tis obvious from your midnight editing,
That my wordily, working body has been discretely
Simonized,
My data,
Googlized,
My poems,
Scrutinized,
A comma, a colon, a verb, out of place, capsized,
Little threads kept in door jambs, their alteration,
Your snooping presence, a confirming revelation
~
Where I write, here, all comes so easy,
Every glance a poem formed,
Every phrase a title to a poem served,
Every conversation overheard and those wind-lifted brought,
A seed, a germ, a word~worm hooked to the pole crook of
My finger saying, see man, time to get more ink and paper,
Go and catch us a few poems for dinner

The snapper weakfish word colors are
Running past my-by the thousands,
We will need a basket to catch but a fraction
Of what you see, more than more enough to share,
Only Happy Poems for all

It is this rhyming way I view the wold,
That is my freedom, is my-present essence,
How the poems come, how thy flow,
Peaking, I cannot berate, rarely eat,
Sleep a thing of the past (as you be aware, beware)
There is poetry in simply everything.

~
But if my aura be a comfort insufficient,
Let this surprise poetic gift awaiting your arrival,
Give you rest, from crying surcease!

For when the who, the why of me interrogatory posed,
Describe me in a brevity I ne'er possessed, say:
He was just a poet, and I,
Just, his lover, number one fan.

This truth eternal, never to change.
~
But I am open to learning, the arduous task
Of raising a teenage daughter,
After I have my head examined

Though I am just a bunch of eclectic electrons,
I got powers a few, like making life's happiness
Hearted happier, encouraging your forays into
You-know-what,
And when tables turn, a hasty retreat you beat,
For imaginary cappuccinos and poems we will meet,
Comparing notes on who felt lousier when...

But what I can do 100% is assure you
There is no lone nor lonely daughter extant,
Your voice not just clear but soft-edged,
For I have poetically adopted you,
Here and now, assuming you sign on the
.............................................................­line

~
Take these words at plain face,
and look not askance
at this fair warning,
for I am but a tragic,
empty vessel for you to fill,
you are the raconteur,
me, just a  
poet poseur extraordinaire,
street urchin, word merchant,
all my verbally, wordly goods expropriated
from the wind,  where your scattered thoughts
lie about, carelessly,
unattended
~
Guiltless in life, we but survived,
Hurting no one, no thing,
Yet, here we lie, ignored, unattended,
Yet, you fail again to see our connection?
You do not recognize us?

We are the shells, the husks of you,
Your poems unread, you labors unpreserved,
All wasted, for unless they are read, they die,
As you will too.
Some fast, by water, some slower, time-eroded,
All, ended, by drowning in the Sea of Who Cares!

~
What sourced this elegiac distich,
Too many poets, fully disclosing their downbeat, aroma of defeat?

The world is in a **** mood, not one of us, got nothing
Good to say, seems that love storms ripping hearts
With no trace of mercy, the radio has elected nonstop
Taylor Swift and Jonas Bro's
Just to make the point!

It is so easy to feel ******,
When the sun is unshining, elegant distich, **** me.

Thinking back, getting a good idea,
Found some long necked Corona overlooked,
Turn on the tv, pretend I'm a real cowboy,
And for god's sake, shut down poetry,
Good Bye Poetry, for the rest of the day.
~
once upon a time,
a traffic light rainbow,
stopped n' go, was a word design,
demarcated visions of spun sugar,
bodegas sold me
magic beans by the pound,
masterminded into cups of delight,
treasury's bounty overflowed,
now, dregs drain, sink stained,
as are my writing utensils,
my ink stained, us-less, fingers

come visit me, unknown stranger,
let us exchange fluidity, barbs,
a contest of kissing, eye lashing
wit ands shared vision stashing,
and together, once more,
write with our feet,
while holding hands,
becoming once more
poets of the street.

Only, come quickly.

~

But reading thy cries, an exercise,
Teeth-gnashing frustration.
It brings no relief.

So sad girl,
Write till you are righted,
May be it will snow on July 4th,
And tho unnatural,
So is thy grief.

Nonetheless, write me write me all about it,
Right us,
For tho snow falls, its loveliness,
Makes the heart rise up in gladness!
~
She brings me coffee in bed.
I propose a violin accompaniment.
Some babka, with nice-crumbly-in-bed
Streusel topping,
A concerto we could make!

Her derision snorted so loud,
The mollusks on the beach
From their shells come out.

"Good luck with that,
Put that fantasy on
Your **** poetry site,
Cause that is the closest you will ever get!"

~
For she will be my heroine for all time,

These words to expand with rhyme and verse,
T'is a welcome task, one familiar, but anew,
Each dawn each dusk, a daily trust, a love poem diurnal-birthed,
As if god created the world, but left upon completion,
With a grievous thirst, a new notion, he did burst.

He created the Eighth Day, for celebration of his
Most cherished invention, the idea of love.
This is where, the secret writ Eleventh Commandment occurs,
Love thy Poetry Gods, Honor them with daily verbs.
~
Officer...you should see me gut a

Poem,

Slice its belly open,
Sometimes straight, sometimes Askew,
Feed the gulls them
****** insides on the dock, by-moonlight,
Can ya cut me some slack?

Mmm, I see here in your license,
You are a disabled guy,
A **** poet ******,
Who often does his best work
Legally all alone in the HOV lane,
So I'm gonna let you off this time
Just with a warning!

~
We can share words, we can grant tiny easements,
We can weep with you unseen tears,
We can etsy you little homemade gifts
Like this.

That you can take and keep, and break out in time of need knowing full well that these words will not spoil nor rancid turn, cannot be out grown,, or torn, or rent asunder in anyway for once they are shared
They are irrevocable.
~
When you write,
It as if you write upon our
One skin,
For I am your tablet,
Your sole/sol/soul composition.

So stop kissing me
and
Write upon us.

~
This will not be the hardest poem I e're wrote,
But if there is no inspiration
For you to smote,
And armpits refuse to provide perspiration,
To source juices for a new creation,
Try this trick,
I promise you
No one will lick your ice cream cone,
Nor mistake you for Leonard Cohen,
But when you are done,
You will be High Priest of
Hello Poetry for the rest of the day!
~
You think you can write?
Then employ  a word outside your comfort zone,
Go it alone,
And write four sentences that will make
The hopeful reader stand up and
you twice as much, and shout

Hallelujah
*******.

Work. Poetry is work. Hard work.
Don't fret. But, think on it. Have the sweetest dreams.
In the morning, when you but awake,
A poem will be aborning in thy mind,
And dare I say it, you will find a new freedom
In free verse.
(I know you will slip in a rhyme or two,
I can't help but do it too)

~
Had myself forgot,
That a poem needs a
Frame of jungle gym sounds,
An aural aura resonance unbound.
Purposed to make the heart lift
Your ears say:

Say what!

It needs a tune,
An internal music,
It needs a lilt!
A cadence, that both
Marches and swings,
Even when'd urgent dirge
grief pours forth.
~
This Sabbath day you fog-hide
Your gift of bay and beach
So quiet implore, beseech,
Keep the sailors safe,
And your poets saved.

I ask much.
But I ask for all of us,
There are so many such
That are booster-chair needy
That I am succumbed, overwhelmed,
Enormity fearsome needs help even from a deity.

Small words, big hopes.

If you cannot grant it,
Won't wait for intervention,
Do it myself, answer prayers one and all,
Best I can, starting now with this
Po-hymn.

~
I used to sleep
With pen and paper on my nighttime table.
Nowadays, my iPad tablet rests upon my chest,
Not only does it keep me warn,
It takes my poems from within, Fresh Direct,^
Edits, credits, and delivers them to your door,
While I'm still sleeping.

Which is why they come at all hours.
It is also why they call them,
Love's Labour's Lost saving devices.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
**So I spend my cold, hard time
laying down cold hard verse,
Can't stop, cause it's my daddy's dying curse.

I am both: Addict and dealer, a ****** poet ******.
Breathing Ice  Nov 2010
Fk You
Breathing Ice Nov 2010
You told me once  that you've  never loved
anyone like you love me. You also  told me
that you woud love me forever and   never
(ever) leave my life.  That   you were   here  
to  stay.  You  
said I looked
like an angel,
like  an    Arabian   princess,
Angelina   Jolie-esque  and  
simply  eatable.  Your love
for    me   showed   all  over
this   perfect
face of yours,
you   know...
And   though
my poor eyes,
heart,    and
hands    belie-
ved every eve-
ry lie,    every  
*******   *****
lie,    I   know
better    now.                             **UCK YOU
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2013
Warning: the government is reading your poetry!
(Metadata Mining This Site)


If to the world about, you are attentive,
You have imbibed the news that our governmental,
is exercising its parental abusive in-discretionary powers,
Purviewing and purloining our electronic communications,
Causing some to have worrisome palpitations

My life is on the boring side,
So welcome gents to look inside,
The surfed sites, the emails, hardly slimy,
But stay the fk away from my poetry!

Tis obvious from your midnight editing,
That my wordily, working body has been discretely
Simonized,
My data,
Googlized,
My poems,
Scrutinized,
A comma, a colon, a verb, out of place, capsized,
Little threads kept in door jambs, their alteration,
Your snooping presence, a confirming revelation

Will the words Rye Catcher be caught by a filter,
My mocking of Obamacare, be the transmitter,
That becomes a curiosity inflictor, a predictor,
Of your requited, on-this-sited, attentions?

Meta dating women, once a goal, worthy of attaining,
Meta dating mining of poetic alliterations, pertaining
To me and mine, a serious no-no, causing consternation,
Heavy percussing, voters, party swinging in self-flagellation

The information unwittingly provided on HP
Will be used to modulate the time and temperature,
Add certain chemicals in the liquids we drink
Like testosterone in erogenous zones,
Xanax in the air vents in the high schools and colleges,
Hell, they may even put fluoride in the water

Control the atmosphere, fashion styles, population size,
Disclose location to my enemies and my illicit affairs,
(Exposed, leaked to the NY Post's Page Six, to my better halving),
Keep the emotions checked,
Within acceptable parameters,
Especially of those *****, love sick
Senior Citizens, always ready to get down
When poetry-aroused

This narration of condemnation for espying
Will YouTube spread like a new flu virus,
Cause I know where you live and Iam,
Cell phone camera armed and dangerous
On  the Internet, your faces, posted

They riot-for-rights in Cairo and Istanbul,
President Obama, we have on good authority,
Your daughters support our rhetoric, no bullsht,
Watch your step, or on you, we'll sic the IRS,
Cause in the end, they work for *us,

Hold on, who's that knocking at my door?
Ah. The things we think of at 3 in the morning.  Nonetheless:
|: Who's that knocking at my door? :|
Who's that knocking at my door?
Said the fair young maiden
It's only me from over the sea,
Says Barnacle Bill the Sailor,
I'm all lit up like a Christmas tree,
Says Barnacle Bill the Sailor,
I've sailed the seas until I'm broke,
I drink and swear and gamble and smoke,
But I can't swim a ****** stroke,
Says Barnacle Bill the Sailor.

A perfect example of having a punch line, then figuring out the joke. The joke is on my many friends of liberal, Democratic persuasion.   Warning! Another warning poem will be coming, for my insanity is fertile, when past midnight, I dream with, upon my face, this smile, demented. Hell, there it goes, now come, now gone.
Dead Rose One Jan 2015
the losers,
report me to
the bad poets society,
bad student loans , bad poems
bad boys and girls society

taste, head rearing, daring
elegance, shocking awe,
fk that looks it like be a poeming **** forming,
ah, the teenie weenies millies  become white walking whiners

write a poem about the sky,
never using the word blue black
or grey


Then, use it to
tell me why the
Paris dead
matter

the most remarkable feature
of the sky is its endlessness,
no matter what the colour of the day be,
for what else can you point to
beside the sea,
that simply visible
has no boundaries?

I will tell you.

see my grieving rage
boundaryless,
for the Paris dead,
and there is no colour,
just one dead blanched black rose
placed upon my chest,
soiling my face,
a visible reminder that
forgetting is
endless, colourless,
rage and revenge
too
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2017
for Jul
<•>
your style, it is who you are

some can dance only to the music of haiku,
some, in anger birthed, can only call out, cursing the world,
with poems beginning and ending with a rousing fk you

your style, it is who you are

most guilty of only perspective inward,
micro-scoping to the cellar cellular level
where in glass stained slides everything revealed, criticized,
the tissues of selfish, the cancerous fears, the shocking
discovery that we are mostly mineral water of kindness galore glory

your style, it is who you are

a few see a solitary leaf,
gravity kissed, flutter to mother earth,
and write of a voyage re-versed,
life in ascendancy,
upward bound, and cyclically, seasonally hopeful,
a reminder that the straightest lives are but a composition,
a series of rainbow colored curved lines,
connected dots on an arc of two by two,
say it's so, Noah!

your style, it is who you are

a handful see the morning daily in their first cuppa,
thinking
"when I look up it is quite possible,
will see the moon and the sun simultaneous occupying
a sunrise and surely more miracles
are possible, unseen, unnoticed, god bless"

your style, it is who you are

some will have their inscribed words endure as long
as the Georgia granite, their retainer, resists the elements,
overlooking the marks left on the human brain that
are a poetic monument invisible but far more
everlasting

your style, it is who you are

one or three, will write daily, chasing music, trying to forget
what just cannot be, and the abased case, there is no
The End
when offered a choice
to chase reborn every time, or not, always choose,
just another photo or poem continuum
for memories are multi-generational in both

your style, it is who you are

are you the one who loves to write, but more so,
writes of love over over repeatedly, for the words
exotic, ******, poetic and ultimately infinitely~intimately,
one and the same?

are you the young one who needs to expiate the sin
of a broken heart, a broken home, a brokenness so
persuasive there will be no relief until someone
person n e w will be a stumbled-on, and the earth will be
torridly recreated and the prior ache just a discarded bandaid,
come the go-morrow

your style, it is who you are

some write to heal, just to feel, to be sure,
they are who they claim to be, wise old young men who've seen too many big rivers that cannot be man-made dammed,
and even the tiny eddy flows of their skin will generate electricity
in praise of nature, never realizing that the human kind is
always the ever greater

your style, it is who you are,

those who are confined by the ropes of rhyme,
or to a script pentameter beaten and measured,
to you, gift the freedom to scream any way, any time,
that pleasures us all with words jointly treasured

your style, it is who you are

some in their garden write in both wistful
contentment and dissatisfaction of things
never to be crossed off, sallied forth, on the list,
but no mind, no matter, the generational ladder climbed,
looking ahead is a looking back of a life richly deployed,
and even the many...in between the poetic words,
and the poetic days, when one day, will be filled in,
these...
will be will be the pits, the seeds bearing still
more of the ripened fruit of that tree

your style, it is who you are

me?
as if me mattered, the littlest bit,
surely the o'clock nearest,
a boundary that cuckoo states
like a good ole friend,
dummy, as usual, you've gone on too long,
but that's your style, it is who you are, so leave some choice,
Grade A, poetic cavalcade of noises for the better poets,
who come everyday, new babies for a better day,
leaving me behind, so happily contented, to be just another scribbler

in my style, it is who I am
  
<•>

September 3rd, 2017
2:01am ~ 3:01am
the message I guess is best
to stick to who you are,
especially in our writings


"keep me where the light is"
John Mayer
Amanda fancy Apr 2013
Happy, mad, mostly sad

Keep my head up; ignore my dad

One day the day will come

Feeling coming on & it dont feel good

One day he'll realize what hes got

I'll just continue to be a forgotten thought

I live for the days at the beach with no cares

But still I sit here just hoping you'de care

Fk you, fk your soul, its just not fair, but guess what? I DONT CARE.



<3
Edited so I can sing it!
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
Slide to Unlock

When inspiration is imprisoned,
insight,
a crime-of-no-passion victim,
strangled by codification,
clothed in a prison uniform,
where *uniform
be another word for a
poet's death sentence.

When dream interruptus,
is a nightly altercation,
a hellacious sensation,,
rolling of the dice,
rewarding the dreamer
with an not-so-good ending to his
falling sensation,
or, for an old school type (me),
the nightmare worst:

A world sans punctuation!

The truth about what haunts you,
in the valley of dried bones grows whiter,
even Vishvaksena and his armies
helpless, cannot eradicate.

Then, your  iPad reminds:

"Sir, sometimes you have to
Slide to Unlock!"

Slide to unlock the aggravations,
Let it out with disregard,
Let us know how you feel
When the constriction in the throat
From the things you can't say
Stops making you choke.

Truth is out of style,
common decency is a phrase
unused
or just abused.

The only difference between liar and fair,
a single letter and a
rearrangement of the facts
to suit yourself.

So I like you fine,
I like you better even,
now that it's ok to slide
beneath the fielder's tag
and get in your face and
unlock what rumbling around
in the ruins of my psyche,
ruminations about this and that,
released with a flourish and a rich
***** you!

But I like it, like you best
when in the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness,
it's ok for me to politely inform you
to fk off!

So,
I do declare myself
unlocked
and in your face
booked!
Still uninspired...dug out another old one....bit of a mess, I agree
mandy rigby May 2014
DONT DO DRUGS KIDS


O a sis, John cooper clarke.
Pink floyd, getting ****** in the park.
******, crack co caine.
******, messed up again.

Council estate, tmazipan,
******, taliban.
A paper cup and a ball of string,
Ive lost me phone I'll use anythin.

Trying to get hold of my man,
Thames Valley police catch me if u can.
Tried to get the monkey off my back,
fallen down and landed in the crack ..
between the pavements,
easy street,
walking round no shoes on ma feet.
Touch this and you'll get burnt.
Been 20 years and I still havent learnt.

Loosing teeth, bad legs, getting older.
Are the winters getting colder?
Global warming ... What the ****?
****** ..coming in on a salad truck.
Chav pants, naff fkin trainers,
little going on ... no brainers.

Mental health, welfare state,
think your spot on, think your great.
Urban people telling how it is.
Fk me,  took to much whizz.
Walking round, feeling fantastic,
look at me dancing,
pretty tragic really ...

Stupidly asked some bloke to dance,
now im in the back of an amb ulance.
A saturday casualty.
Its an average weekend for me.
Going mad, on a ******.
******* world,
No surrender.

(c) mandy rigby  and p skez 2012)

(now 4 yrs clean .. can i get an Amen?)
****** crack ****** addiction police oasis john cooper clarke

— The End —