"bibs" poems
make a move
that’s what we
the busy bodies
are tryin to do
quick come ups
hittin licks
catchin people slippin
not workin
to build wealth
instead we flash
little riches that bring
those groupie *******
floatin through life
livin off your riches
givin that hot applause
leavin u wincin while u ******
cause u quick to pop off
in all these breezys
wit no latex
**** the safe ***
you like it raw when u beat
so does Millie the freak
babe had her eye on you
from down the street
knew you were gonna cheat
got u sippin on some potion
gettin them emotions
down below in motion
if you slowed down
you would have noticed
her track record
4 for 6 wit 5 kids
left the other 2 clappin
now they ***** need bibs
like that 6th baby
you just slid in this lady
yeah u pulled out
but the precum
got her period lazy
its not comin back
till after yo son's arrival
congrats gangsta
you a daddy now
10 yrs later
U Still aint slowed down
you lived fast enough
for two lifetimes
hood ****** get jealous
they say its your time
they don’t slump you
they want the next in line
cause u stole his timeline
puttin a tragic end
to another brothas bloodline
from them greenbacks
that brought green eyes
that lead to hot heads
who shoot that hot lead
to slow you down
so they can get ahead
slow down young men
the fast life soon will end
with black suits and tears
a eulogy from your peers
no child should die like
a pawn in a chess game
played in the streets
by the blood and crip gangs
dealers who sell dope
and shoot guns
cause they too scared to bang
my advise is
wise up and do right
or fall victim to this life
and crash in the fast lane
Oct 27, 2010
Oct 27, 2010 at 4:19 AM UTC
Molasses is
The most red
The most gold
The most vibrant
Least cold
Fall of my life
And it’s a new ****
Maybe he wears a trucker hat
Or maybe he wears bibs
Maybe he’ll be some dark horse
New candidate
I don’t know yet
He could be one of these
Over mountain men
Filtering through the woods
Appearing in the hills
Ghosts of Hatfields past
Fur on their faces
Instead of skin
Strong and sturdy
Growing up from the ground
Like the cane we’re cutting
Down
And it ain’t about money
Out here in God’s country
We’re just willing and
Able
Enjoying the rich soil
And machetes
Carving calluses
While the sugar’s pressing
Staining, straining
Green and sweet
Skimming, boiling, browning
Finally draining
Into glistening mason jars
The day is going dark
Sail away ladies
Sail away
And say darling say
Playing banjo
In a moonshine-induced
Hallucination
Till all the bread is gone
The molasses gets carted off
And now it’s full dark
The spooks come out
All the wicked witches
Spitting hairballs
At their victims
That thing making noise
Moving in the bushes
Might be Matt Kinneman
Tells me I’m a good woman
I’m a human wall
And my pigtails make good handholds
When someone needs to reach his knife
The mountains grow
Apart at night
And the hollers pull us in
Molasses tastes like being
Home again
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 2:28 PM UTC
A flatulent king sits
Slouching, scratching,
Congealing to his throne of gold.
His army of a billion men
Are clad in ****** bibs
And grins.
Equipped with hate
And hollow eyes
They stand redily assembled.
The king is a miser.
His face is a lie.
His motives are equally clear.
Royal subjects within the walls
Respect only of weakness and fear.
They are taxed and harassed.
For knowledge they're knived.
The wisest of Wiseman
Are forced to take bribes.
Their children are taken and
Hidden away
At the mechanized dawn
That announces each day
To learn to be
Ruthless and cruel.
To take advantage of fools.
Greed and malice are tools to be used
At their s and m brainwashing schools.
So their eyes turn jade
And their words turn black
As they cut up their hands
Stabbing themselves in the back.
They're just being taught
How to buy and be bought.
To serve the king;
A gear in his machine.
The ones who concede,
Buy into the greed
But their weakening teeth snap!
One by one
As they go round the vicious circle.
So they end up
Defunct,
Sunken eyed.
They dangle their
Dot spangled
Hands at their sides.
And although they loose,
Somehow they win.
They end up running
The world we live in.
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 4:52 AM UTC
One day in an office somewhere,
On someone else’s time,
Someone had an idea -
They were looking for ways to make up money
Out of thin air.
Now this someone somewhere was a man
For want of a better name, let’s call him Dan
Dan’s idea was simple, it was this:
Let’s start making make-up aimed at kids!
Not kids like students, or as in school kids,
But real kids, you know, of 9,8,7, even 6!
Infants, toddlers, babies, that’s the biz!
We’ll be the market leader in make-up bibs!
Tell them they get purple potts when telling fibs
But try our concealer - Mum won't even notice!
We’ll get some newborn WAG to celebendorse it
And call it something aspirational like, Babywish
In fact, before 12 months they’re really not all that clever
So how about “With Babywish u2 can live 4ever!”
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 7:51 PM UTC
I have memories
Of lying down in the backyard
Of my childhood home
Dressed in a hug
Parka, snow bibs, and gloves a size too big
The world had grown completely silent
All my fears held back
By a curtain of snowflakes
Sometimes
when the world is too loud
And everything is a little too much
My mind will wander off
To a snowy neighborhood
At night
In a small town
Often times this mental space
holds only darkness
All my developmental flaws
Packed away in moving boxes
Thick black smoke seeps between the cracks
Of pristine cardboard and plastic
Being loaded onto a truck
A size too small
It’s funny
That house never felt like a home
But sometimes
When the world was wrapped
In a blanket of snow
I felt peace and warmth
Out in the cold
Jan 29, 2022
Jan 29, 2022 at 12:02 PM UTC
it's been a while
since my pen last flew,
across the ocean
over the sky,
"i'm back," she whispers,
silently to my little thumb
and the other little fingers,
and they lived,
happily ever after.
i'm using a pen,
trying not to make any mistakes
for i've no bibs
for the little spills
from my clumsy self,
i'm just letting the words go
like how it should be
when things come straight from the heart,
that's how magic happens,
that's where i found you.
You? You.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 7:56 AM UTC
The clock was protected from change in your house.
No Daylight Savings Time admitted to your routines.
We who bordered your life had to adjust or miss your timing.
Your farm the antipodes of ours...straight and neat,
Everything where it ought to be,
No duplication or mess....
A feast for my order-hungered eyes.
I had not yet learned of obsessive-compulsiveness;
I only despised my father's clutter,
His refusal to wear time upon his wrist,
His stubborn old World ways.
I shoveled barley half a hot and muggy day
To load your truck,
Emerged tired, covered with dust,
Raging in a million itches
To receive fifty cents
"To take your girlfriend out."
Most ungrateful, I chafed,
Told anyone who listened...
But now, I smile,
Wishing my labor to have been
A gift, now long ago.
I fell in love with John Deere tractors, gleaming green,
Colored television,
Fresh paint, white and red,
Because of you
Standing in striped Osh Kosh bibs,
Penultimate farmer.
Lydia, your wife,
Danced to the metronome
Of your orderly life,
Escaped only in Harlequin novels
Stacked by her chair.
Until the day everything changed,
Pink drool trailing from your mouth,
Gears grinding as you lost
The memory of clutches,
Tractor care,
Crops to plant
Be ******
A stroke was taking down another man.
A Saturday we moved your wife to town
Near where you convalesced;
Monday, the Baptist preacher found her.
You ordered mahogany, rich and prime,
For us to bid your Lydia farewell,
Then followed, true to form,
Within the month.
Your children ordered oak, solid and strong,
Wheat sheaves bedeck the top,
Inlaid and waiting,
Ready for the coming harvest.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
general t'so what the fuck's this meat made of?
the fluorescent room gleans
off the sheen of fake food,
***** this weak pay stub,
this buffet too
and living off food court food.
hors derves served to
a bunch of augustus gloops
who'll soon sport tubes.
I hope the line short fuses.
I'll be giggling,
at these wiggling
greedy,
feeding
frenzies
still feeling empty
with stomachs of drains
they feign being friendly
not a morsel of moral thought,
their brain's busy picking
food from the troth
pointing with pickeled pig feet
ruder than all hell
marvelously stinky
laid back in booths
soothing their sweet tooths
mouths oozing drool
drippin onto bibs
turning solids into goo
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 3:36 AM UTC
I read it once;
I wonder if they'll ever know, the hell where youth and laughter go
I've seen it.
In soft armchairs.
And plastic tabletops.
And bibs so the food doesn't get on the clothes.
Stripped to your skin and exposed to the world,
You'll say nothing.
Stand and let yourself be cleaned.
You hadn't noticed the wet between your legs.
Or the smell.
Sit calmly, placid.
Watch as one bites another,
Scrapes at a neck,
Screams for them to go away -
visible to no one else.
She will kick and grab and pull and cry.
But alone she cannot stand.
She will crumble to the ground,
Fall into your arms,
Tell you "Really, I've had enough this time."
But such notions soon fade.
Back to the hatred.
The little one in the corner cries for a mother she buried years before,
mama, where are you?
And someone removes their top, throws it to the ground.
This one here will follow you.
He's a lost soul.
And he wonders,
Could you find it?
These were once fresh and young.
These shriveled and confused faces before you.
Their youth and identity and sanity,
vanished to unknown depths
Decayed with their minds into a lifeless state of living.
Dec 28, 2011
Dec 28, 2011 at 5:36 AM UTC
The clock was protected from change in your house.
No Daylight Savings Time admitted to your routines.
We who bordered your life had to adjust or miss you.
Your farm the antipodes of ours...straight and neat,
Everything where it ought to be,
No duplication or mess....
A feast for my order-hungered eyes.
I had not yet learned of obsessive-compulsiveness;
I only despised my father's clutter,
His refusal to wear time upon his wrist,
His stubborn old World ways.
I shoveled barley half a hot and muggy day
To load your truck,
Emerged tired, covered with dust,
Raging in a million itches
To receive fifty cents
"To take your girlfriend out."
Most ungrateful, I chafed,
Told anyone who listened...
But now, I smile,
Wishing my labor had been a gift.
I fell in love with John Deere tractors, gleaming green,
Colored television,
Fresh paint, white and red,
Because of you
Standing in striped Osh Kosh bibs,
Penultimate farmer.
Lydia, your wife,
Danced to the metronome
Of your orderly life,
Escaped only in Harlequin novels
Stacked by her chair.
Until the day everything changed,
Pink drool trailing from your mouth,
Gears grinding as you lost
The memory of clutches,
Tractor care,
Crops to plant be ******
A stroke was taking down another man.
A Saturday we moved your wife to town
Near where you convalesced;
Monday, the Baptist preacher found her.
You ordered mahogany, rich and prime,
For us to bid your Lydia farewell,
Then followed, true to form,
Within the month covered in oak,
Wheat sheaves bedecking the heavy lid.
Inlaid and waiting, you rest,
Ready for the coming harvest.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 7:57 AM UTC
One wears the wages of sin
As war's protecting bibs
Where arrowheads of flight
Cannot pierce the pump within
Taste the salt upon the sea
The sea where sins are drowned
Upon the hearts that sit on sleeves
The head of smiles we crown
Back across the cross we bear
Hear the pounding of the condemned
Perhaps we will never be more
Than the crown of thorns we wear
So the cherry tree has fallen
It's bark black with disease
Lime should cure the problem
I will be planting trees
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 3:38 AM UTC
When my sister next to me were babies, we had our very own crib. We were still in diapers; we wore our very own bibs.
I remember my Mother waxing our bed room floor. It was so shinny, until my Mother couldn't wax anymore.
After my Mother left the room, we prepared for the "Big Race". Because the floor was so slick and shinny, not a chance for a slower pace.
We had the finest cribs, they came with rolling wheels. We would shake them across the room, only to get a big thrill!
All we needed was a " News Flash" with the word "Olympics" with all of the lovely rings. Right behind that; two babies in their rolling cribs, smiling and waiving behind the scene.
By, Sandra Juanita Nailing
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 11:19 PM UTC
In a different display, a doll
and children’s clothes, shoes
smaller than your hand, bibs
yellow with age and wear, hats
lovingly knitted for tiny ears. The doll
is missing her head, and it is amazing
how her blond sprawl of curls
is better cared for than the tons
of human hair in the other room.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 5:09 AM UTC
Take a look,
there is no shelter at this inn
we're all booked up,
so take your donkey and
'sling yer hook'
Having a baby and nowhere to stay..doh..should have reserved a bit earlier in the day,a bit late now you're having a baby and,
anyhow
who's the dad?
Then three old goats with long flowing coats who had checked it all out on tripfinder,couldn't find yer,so the gifts,one was scent,a towel set,a tent were then left in the cleft of the stick which Jesus walked with and boy was he sick,he called at the inn and found nobody there,no babies in cribs,no nappies or bibs,but he did find the cowshit which stuck just a bit to the soles of his sandals.
Waterloo.
So the nativity took place in left luggage,a case for a cot and a hot cup of tea though Mary preferred de-caff coffee,'it's free', said the clerk and he went back to work and the three men were none the wiser.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 8:35 AM UTC
Four hours left.
That is just two sets of two hours.
Twenty five five-gallon buckets
Up the ladder, on my tiptoes
I dump ice dramatically into the dispenser.
This motion repeats every four hours.
Two sets of two hours.
That is just four one hours.
I change the Pepsi bibs, and break down boxes.
Ignoring my drenched socks from standing water.
I notice there is an orange Gatorade stain on my khaki shorts.
The stench of mold and un-carbonated soda clings to my skin.
I take a deep breath.
Four sets of one hour.
An hour is just sixty minutes.
I mop the floor. Smiling.
Time to lean is time to clean.
An hour is just two sets of thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes.
That is just two sets of fifteen minutes.
Fill cups. “Are you enjoying your day at the park?”
Back in the confines of the station
The roaring fans make conversation impossible.
Never mind that, I work in solitude.
Fifteen minutes is just three sets of five minutes.
Unwavering heat and blinding sun to match.
My arms are tanned brown until just above the elbow.
Polo shirt tucked in, I am allowed one piece of jewelry.
Five minutes is just five sets of sixty seconds.
And a minute goes by in no time.
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
“Papaw, whatzat?”
My granddaughter asks,
As she watches me
Pull my pocketwatch
From the front of my bibs
To check the time.
“That’s my watch.”
I tell her,
As she holds it in her hand,
Intently studying.
She shakes her head.
“It takes too long
To know
What time it is.”
She remarks.
Out of the mouths of babes…
But I like it.
The slow deliberate
And quiet ticking
Of the pocketwatch
In my bibs.
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 6:26 AM UTC
Don't ask me about the future-
I just let go of the past-
I'm floating in melted gun-metal
I'm firing nails into the sky
Alone on this planet of red and she-devil
I'm emerging as a butterfly-
Piano keys of ivory and emerald,
Finished in exotic leather.
Dripping in pearls and ostrich feather-
I play on and on, to the die
That's been cast on a hand-drawn tabletop map
Lined with seafood bibs
I laugh as my lungs turn to dust
And wonder if this is all there ever was-
I'm floating in aluminum, above the skyline
Peering down on this world I create,
The tin-foil stars around me, oh how they shine
But it's not enough to sate.
Goodbye my quinoa islands,
Beaches of grain where my toes sink,
I'm dreaming of better editorials that ran-
While my thoughts brought me over the brink.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 9:57 PM UTC
Best bibs on
no dribbling in public
carry me safe in your hands
do not drop me
or I will walk away
and you know that will
**** uncle Sam's peacemaker up
so do not get
another death on your hands
there not mushroom down here
and I would like to think
you came for me
if you wear stockings
make sure
your seams are clear
don't be cheap and draw them on
and stick me in deep
just incase I wake up.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 5:12 PM UTC
see the doors they are mouths stretched to feed
the food is an offering for someone missing their plate
it appears fake in this lighting but they promise it is nutritional
our bellies are elephants stomping to shatter fragile and reflective
here of our secretive beasts which wear slobber as bibs
fork we carve our fellow eaters proud of once stalking the other
to feast is to dine violently, lips are teeth, don't let them sink
the chew a rock of nibble stab the grainy flesh
that will be a coffin in the teeth, I am not proud
ventriloquist the disjointed mumble
ahh! slip the chin, obnoxious jaw
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 2:17 AM UTC
Sorrow splits the night
like lightning in the sky.
I see strangers
with an endless reserve
of tears clouding
their red and bag heavy eyes.
Makes me wonder why
they had to live
to see their children die.
I pass by these borders you plan to build
thick brick walls to block you from how
all these strange foreigners feel,
but I will take all the pain they receive,
make their scars a permanent part of me.
I will see this life break me
of all those playful star trek fantasies
of how we will be better human beings.
Cause, I have seen babies wearing bullet holes
like little red onesie, and crimson bibs,
seen pictures of places we will never be,
decimated cities, with scars so deep
that even the stones bleed.
I shudder
knowing we do not need
Hollywood monsters
because real nightmares
exist over there.
Please tell me how
do I move on
from these portraits of pain.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 9:09 AM UTC
Blindness
I think I'm going blind
Have walked around the house blindfolded
Having lived in my hut for a hundred years
I know where everything is
I can put clothes in the washing machine and
And put a capsule of liquid soap into it
When it is finished, it bibs saying it is done
The tricky bit is to open the gas oven I tried today
And burnt my hands I kept it over the ring
To check if it was hot
Having a shower is easy I know my body intimately
The problem is how to call the gas people when the bottle is empty
My wife wants me to move to her flat on the seventh floor
I will sit on the terrace and not see the view of the bay
The sailboats and ship at anchors and I will never be able
To talk to friends on the Facebook
She and her daughter will be tired of me and push me
Out of the terrace and for two seconds I will be flying and
Be incredibly happy to be able to fly and in a trance not
Notice the impact; they will when looking out see the dent
I made in concrete and ask someone to resurface the spot.
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 6:58 AM UTC
Aiyo, you hear me, like your conscious admiring,
Ya deepest thoughts, finest gem the **** you talkin' about?,
Im speakin' wisdom, along with creation, blurred the stations,
Icy decks, like blast from a tech, in a snow storm effect,
Feel me like Farrakhan threats,
So go ahead and reject,
Me ill still be on ya set,
Late night like Carson, peep these bars son, spittin' mad arson,
Burn up the scene, lyrics gasoline, i just add to fire, beat kerosene,
Who can come off this clean?
,all ya see is red, when ya going for the green, and the yellows in between,
Peep that, feel the depths of soul because im black,
Darker than antimatter, splatter like pieces of a bomb shatter,
Or ya mind, i grow on ya cells fatter,
Couldn't hit this ball of rhymes,
If you was batter,
I sit like the mad hatter, in pre school never was a chatter,
But had rhymes galore,
Frustration made me madder,
Since one two, i stayed true, to the rules of the universal,
No breaks or commercial, tune in to the world show,
I detect like Tibbs, keep a plateful of ribs, for ya fake *** rappers who need bibs,
Too much food, might as well give it to the homeless,
Bless 'em with plate of glory, yes,
Manifest the realist,
Who the illest, clocks spinnin' like a gymnist, when ya hear this,
Guaranteed you'll rewind this, styles that make ya reminisce,
Remember the finest,
Feb 20, 2024
Feb 20, 2024 at 11:26 PM UTC