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sergiodib Feb 2
Join the tattooed urban tribes!

Share the Maoris’ drumming vibes.
Fire brand your love onto your heart.
Show that holy stigmata don't hurt.
Place *** at the apex.
Chisel deep into your flesh
What is cash and what is trash.

Set your body apart as a work of art.
Don’t be a naked human monkey.
Don't let anyone know you're funky.
Turn your taboos into tattoos.

But at night, take off your shoes
and put to sleep your tattoos.
Then sink under your skin
and meet yourself behind the scene.

Perhaps, you’ll see tattoo
as nothing new
(I’m afraid)
than the old skin trade.
afterthepeak.eu
I believe in a past
that never existed.
Always willing to tell
others they should
be sad they missed it.
For what never lasts
can always be reimagined,
engineered ad-hock.
For me, the door to
the past is always wide open.
But, the one to the future
I cannot unlock.

so please don't give me the key
I don't wanna see beyond
what went before.

I believe in a moment
of imagined purity.
To close my eyes
on the acts of cruelty,
that lead to this modernity.
Only seeing the light that
concealed the night,
and the chains of *******.
For the good,
that is all I see.
Because I need to see
that good in me.

so please don't give me the key
I don't wanna see beyond
what went before.
Tanner Apr 2020
I wake up whenever the big bright thing comes back, you call it a sun but I don’t know that fact.  I don’t have a specific schedule, my mud hut is pretty basic but arguably influential.  I don’t start my mornings with green eggs and ham, a freshly caught rabbit shall be breakfast for the fam.  

Most of my day consists of finding food, whatever’s around, no particular mood.  Everything I’ve learned I teach to my child, this uncivilized world can get pretty wild.  After playing with junior I look for more food, I see a fellow ‘magnon “What’s up, my dude?”  We forage for nuts and we forage for berries, leaves will do, but, you know, it varies.  

When the cold goes away we’ll begin to farm, we’ll change the land what’s the harm?  It’s almost dinner what could I make?  There’s a lot of fish down in that lake.  I crouch near the water and aim my harpoon, I sense a tasty supper sometime soon.  Compared to the average human my senses are keen, lucky for you It’s 2016.  

I’m stuck in the food chain, you shouldn’t complain.  I had to outrun a bear today, I ran uphill and shouted, “HOORAY!”  The hill had a spider, it couldn’t be wider.  It bites my ankle, making me rankled.  I’m growing pretty tired, possibly due to the bite I acquired.  

My head gets heavy and my thoughts start to fade, I try to focus on the idea I last made.  I look at the tiny dots in the night, contemplating my place and where I fit right.  My species so young, our world so mysterious, what you have yet to learn should make you delirious.  

I curl up on the floor and close my eyes, the story of my life forever fossilized.  My tribe members bury me but I’m not the first, an underground sea of dead bodies is all that remains in the land we traversed.
I wrote this for my anthropology class back in 2016.
ConnectHook Apr 2020
Margaret Mead was full of it:
Boas’ unconstricted student
Half-baked matron lost at sea
Nurturing unnatural views
South-sea natives yanked her chain
Giggling maidens told her lies
On her bookish South-Sea cruise
Trying to flee her own neurosis
Frumpy methodology
Interjected Western bias
Greening grasses far from home
Theorizing Love, unfree
(Maslow’s ****** pyramid scheme
Fitting tomb for wrong assumptions)
Titillating dull patricians
High on **** kava-kava
Margaret Mead was full of it.
Blew off the prompt on this one . . .

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EJjHrVr_-PQ&feature=youtu.be
Justin Aptaker Aug 2019
jet-stream, that trails
jet-stream, clearly shown
to us as the mark, as the mark of the one
most awesome of gods, of the Creating Snail
    gentle, and generative,
                      and
                fertile
                   by: our one mind

                                      below
             all our reason, in light
of our eyes, of our ancients
in season

fruit, when found eaten
red hand, in jar dripping
we liken to something, reflux acid sweetened
sweet before swallow, as is every scroll's sum--memory
    distant, and blind,
                      but
          not dumb
softcomponent Jun 2017
I sat behind the barricade between the street, the bar, and the park overlooking that glistening pause-asteric of the water... my phone was clamped closed at zero battery life so I was alone with the city and the city was alone with me. as subtly as I could, I pulled my pipe from the bottom of my over-encumbered backpack satiated with 6 books (and they tell me knowledge is power, but they'll probably just drive me insane with question after question after question because the study of the world is one in which the brain falls victim to exponential growth 2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64, 128, 256)

MY SKULL ISN'T BIG ENOUGH

I couldn't find my grinder, so I tore the bud by hand. More than half a nug was spent, pushed solid in place like a **** mound about to reach apocalyptic ****** thanks to the soft clitoral bonfire of a red Bic lighter.

blaze, set, and fade til you rise again
little stoner boy.
ConnectHook Apr 2017
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Jane of the Jungle (she’s all good)
charmed our world as Darwin’s daughter.
Anglican primates notwithstood,
her leaky theories held some water.

Streams of ngombe, sacred cows
were celebrated. What were these
to which the simian cosmos bows?
Irrelevant hypotheses.

Selecting great apes (naturally)
Miss Misanthrope researched, with love;
her theories, stated factually,
were hailed as truth from God above.

Hoping for reason, shadowing Man
the graybeards came for tempting fruit
unaware of their part in the plan:
to be used, like tools (but more hirsute).

Termites on a slender stalk
delighted hungry primate souls.
Her ripe bananas were the talk
of primatological controls.

peeling off; mzungu starkness
starred the Tanzanian night.
Chimping out, she lit the darkness
claiming scientific right.

Sweating out the Tarzan fever,
naming names while hugging apes
let us, laughing, love and leave her
to her anthropoid escapes.
NaPoWriMo #8

King Kong was to film
as bananas are to fruit:
not yet deemed racist.
You're really pretty strange.
The way others speak of you.
Without ever really knowing you,
Or having spent time in your presence.
Often they talk at you,
then listen to you speak.
But seem to hear words
different from the
ones you spoke.

Strange, quite strange.
Though, it seems to work well for you.
Whatever you take or say.
whoever you bruise;
metaphorically or literally.
Is transformed then by some act
of inner god, to acts which
sanctify the passion that
you inspire.
That passion which sparks bonds,
matrimony and procreation.

And yet it seems, as songs
has often said, you really are forever.
Even if you are not with
them forever.
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