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"bituminous" poems
And now there would come a time a swift sharp clock on the bed Blaring its little chime in between the hard bells Like an angry little arm Charming if not for the alarm And everyday I slap the face of it Like an unwanted ***** And she is silenced Quick unlike Said chick But I am a cruel guy and have no sense of wet and dry Nor cool or heat There's nothing bothering me Time just ticks off and I laugh at it But my cells divide and turn into little old protoplasmic men And yet I am not called upon them Because they are stupidly designed and I have no sympathy for arts and crafts No masterman who failing to raise his hand Clams up With such poor artwork Slap that ***** in the dilapidated sistan Now In San Francisco Where the alley streets stink of *** And the European facades are just that Crumbling Poopy And full of **** And what yet are they dreaming to be? The church that survived fire Great conflagration God didn't make a rainbow at the end of that, Now did he? He's a water-sign Dolt And water only jolts your mind When it scatters true light, Ain't that right? But it's all the same Just different hues And the news Isn't new Just Blaring and yelling And speeding television crews Riding their stories Up and down the many stories Trying to build a city of angels On a bituminous hill Shills No life skills And I walk the city streets with a ugly old leather Brief Casing the joints and rolling my own Unhappy and alone Kerouac and the dreams on the monangular input where the triangular avenues meet And he has no road While airplanes shake their jets on the tarmac and trebuchet into the air Going god knows where Seeing a new piece of the sculpted pinball Perpetually trapped in the machine How bout Nippon Or Hangujin Or Han Chinese Or Berlin Anywhere but when A little ways along the state Of "in" All these strange things
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Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 3:00 PM UTC
That ******* from Pastebin or 10it or whatever
And now there would come a time a swift sharp clock on the bed Blaring its little chime in between the hard bells Like an angry little arm Charming if not for the alarm And everyday I slap the face of it Like an unwanted ***** And she is silenced Quick unlike Said chick But I am a cruel guy and have no sense of wet and dry Nor cool or heat There's nothing bothering me Time just ticks off and I laugh at it But my cells divide and turn into little old protoplasmic men And yet I am not called upon them Because they are stupidly designed and I have no sympathy for arts and crafts No masterman who failing to raise his hand Clams up With such poor artwork Slap that ***** in the dilapidated sistan Now In San Francisco Where the alley streets stink of *** And the European facades are just that Crumbling Poopy And full of **** And what yet are they dreaming to be? The church that survived fire Great conflagration God didn't make a rainbow at the end of that, Now did he? He's a water-sign Dolt And water only jolts your mind When it scatters true light, Ain't that right? But it's all the same Just different hues And the news Isn't new Just Blaring and yelling And speeding television crews Riding their stories Up and down the many stories Trying to build a city of angels On a bituminous hill Shills No life skills And I walk the city streets with a ugly old leather Brief Casing the joints and rolling my own Unhappy and alone Kerouac and the dreams on the monangular input where the triangular avenues meet And he has no road While airplanes shake their jets on the tarmac and trebuchet into the air Going god knows where Seeing a new piece of the sculpted pinball Perpetually trapped in the machine How bout Nippon Or Hangujin Or Han Chinese Or Berlin Anywhere but when A little ways along the state Of "in" All these strange things
Continue reading...
68
Scalade skyward pile, Of defensible tile, Bituminous seams mossy gaps. Board aloft to defray, Fletched missiles array, Groomed on as lethal a trap. Scalade meet the stone, Long from our home, As generals command the intrusion. To Kings do we kneel, Ere slay with cold steel, Pass lightning and bring this conclusion. Trod darkest parade, Woods endless scalade, Blistering gleams of the pitch. One knight in Queen’s arms, Keen maid’s airy balms, Do graces scar memory per stitch.
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Jul 27, 2010
Jul 27, 2010 at 2:22 AM UTC
Long Knights
what strange secret shattered and charged a mighty foe with the wings on a blast but bituminous the glow and from hell dangerous to think things ringing in your ears slip into a still watch it slip through your fingers like sand through a sieve. under-swept and as said so differencing from distance softer than you could sea the skies watching the clo(u)ds collide. couldn't pull back an escapist so fled the paint into a sick barrel of venom.                                dis                                 app                                    ear listen to the end quiet and seek through thunder clouding your minds scrambled thick and ****** slick. this is not about them the things are as he said.
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Dec 27, 2018
Dec 27, 2018 at 12:25 PM UTC
but what
I load my silver tongue with brass crass and hollowed-points may be my nature **** my thoughts, take aim and with plosive sputter, sling my brain with metal hatred Fling my words in forked contention, misattribute my cold-hearted intentions, with passion a fervor holds convection, 'Till pride produce the bituminous heavens But still, with marksman's gaze will you free my lies, your scope of view between the ghostly sights and trigger a sensationalist enterprise for which all my lies will bleach From red to white, Tartarous sheen There are words severed from man, and as they hang their heads for the guillotine, has any body stopped to ask, "What do they mean"? But the wheel cannot cease revoluting, just as the rifle cannot beget its shooting, Without the fatal trace of careful phrase, fingered around the triggered maze These words will fly hot metal and lye Awash the ****** floor of dissident and acidic representation Till all the light of spoken rhyme, will dine upon the littered flames
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Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
Words Are Weapons