"blondes" poems
White folks: pack your bags and go.
Our nut-brown world is quite offended.
Make your shame-faced exit NOW,
And leave your mansions unattended.
Wait—before you pass the doors,
It's time to settle ethnic scores.
No more ragtime Minstrel Show.
Our Moorish Science took it down.
Black lives matter. White, less so—
Now move your pale face out of town . . .
But first, shell out for racial shame
Caucasian losers of the game.
Cultural pride is ours alone:
Kings and Egyptian queens we were.
The glories of our race, well-known
Bedazzle in a darkened blur
(Clear to Africa's descendants—
Puzzling to you white dependents).
Blackness lent your world its light,
Taught the Dutch to tend those flowers.
Scandinavia grew bright
Under our beneficent powers.
Negroes gave your blondes their beauty;
Helped those Norsemen shake their *****
The Seven Wonders of the world:
We built them all. No vain conjecture
Dims our banner, black, unfurled,
Above eternal architecture.
Arts and knowledge gained from us
Are what we threaten to discuss.
We invented math and science
Which you robbed from Timbuktu.
Swarthy wisdom's brave defiance
Caused Old Europe to renew.
All our treasure that you plundered
Testifies: your days are numbered.
Classics of our Greeks you stole:
Philosophy was never yours.
Shame upon your racist soul;
For Bach and Mozart both were Moors.
Misappropriated treasures
call for ruthless hard-line measures.
Latino fate falls next—but, where ?
Jews, Turks, and Arabs: are you. . . white ?
Orientals everywhere:
Choose your side and join the fight.
Blackness rising! Late the hour;
Heed your call to fight the power.
Crackers need to check your race—
Stop rooting for that ****** clown.
Rednecks all up in our face;
Racist throwbacks got us down.
But as your statues bite the dust
Your light goes dark (you know it must).
So move on out, oppressor, thief.
Long have you held our nation back.
In some white galaxy seek relief—
But here the light itself is black.
Stars are racist. So is the sun.
Now let God's great black will be done.
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 12:03 PM UTC
Blondes illuminate
The dizzy world of men,
Confident and forthright
And simply, oozing acumen.
So sensually brazen
In a silly sort of way
Yet intuitively capable
Of leading all of them astray.
Blondes are irresistible
When they catch the errant eyes,
When their pearly, sky blue peepers
Irradiate and mesmerize.
When they catch him glancing
At a nicely rounded ***
When rosebud lip's apouting
Leave him breathless, limp and numb.
Blondes move in a manner
Which defies all things right,
It's a sweet undulation
Which turns day, straight into night.
It's suggestion incarnate
And quite breathlessly so.
Causing pulses to race
And his expectations to grow.
Blondes think in straight lines
Periferals are lost,
And woe betide myopics
Who underestimate at their cost.
Golden locks breed pushiness
The will to have her way,
And the man who calls a challenge
Won't survive another day.
Blondes are soft and fluffy
Dimpled cheeks and curve of thigh,
And are specialists in the art
Of come hither to the guy.
But just beneath the garnish
Is a mind that calculates
And a passion for success
And a taste for wealth that rates.
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
19 January 2010
Jan 18, 2010
Jan 18, 2010 at 10:30 PM UTC
Have you ever
Questioned beauty
What is beauty
Is it short skirts
Low tank tops
Long blonde hair
Tons of makeup
Lace
Beauty comes differently
Everyone thinks beauty Differently
Some do think blondes
Define beauty
Some think the nerd
Defines beauty
Some think the loner
Defines beauty
You don’t have to be skinny
To be considered beautiful
How do you Define beauty
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
You say I'm controlling and a sneaky ***** but you don't really know me, you only wish.
You want your freedom, your brunettes, red heads and blondes.
All your beauties keep you love drunk and high strung.
Go ahead and write them your lyrics & sing them your songs.
When you realize you miss me
I will be long gone.
You think one of them will bring you happiness but guess what? Your wrong.
One day you'll wake up reeking of ***** smoke and *** and you'll realize that the hole you're trying to fill is not full yet.
You'll think of my love then, this I bet. How I gave you my heart, all the memories of me you've tried so hard to forget.
Eventually all your beauties will tire of your ******** and mind games and you will be left alone with nothing but your aging face, regret and shame.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
Some are Platinum,
Some pale yellow,
Some are Gold and fair of face.
Sometimes their choice is questionable
and the tint seems out of place.
Some are babes and some are ******
It must be in the DNA.
Some use preference by L’Oreal.
Some are straight, others are gay.
Some are called Strawberry Blondes
Some have hair like golden sands.
What each one has in common
Is they dyed at their own hands.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
Five minute street artists
and insomnia mongers.
****** drunk blondes
and finger snapping phat booties.
Street geniuses
bred by Machiavellian philosophies
cypher dreams over tokes
of marijuana smoke.
Color worshipping narcotic traffickers,
and bread winners
parole corners
sporting fitted caps and twisting fingers.
Senile war veterans
beg for change in cardboard boxes
from the American dreams
they afforded.
Hard workers with every ethnicity
molded into each pore of their face,
rub shoulders with tourists at traffic stops
barely escaping tires crushing their feet.
Sartorial geniuses with no pants
switch hips in knock-off stellos heels,
selling the origin of the world on avenues
next to Arab Halal food.
Cooperate ties and blue collars chafe ***** on subways.
nodding in and out of Daily News articles
while oxygen blessed by asparagus ****
pump through their noses.
Summa *** laude number runners dictate economies
From sky-crapper offices,
And powered rain swallows their concrete each winter,
With no apologies.
Jun 2, 2011
Jun 2, 2011 at 11:01 PM UTC
or Redheads.
Crimson Irish curls
that cling to curves
like my lips cling to
your name.
Natural.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 9:10 PM UTC
All the Latinas are sitting together.
All of the Asians are sitting together.
All of the Middle Easterns are sitting together.
The whites are everywhere in the room.
I am sitting next to the Latinas, Behind the Middle Easterns and in front of a black dude.
A Puerto Rican is wearing a hat saying "Reckless".
I am wearing a hat saying, "Cape Cod".
I am in the middle of the room.
5 blondes are clumped together...
...no hats
We are all learning about ****** inheritance of different physical traits.
*** caused all of this.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 1:24 PM UTC
*blondes, brunettes and redheads,
the goodbye colors of the
street's tree choir members
and their leafy gowned denizens,
the good stiff chill upon them,
the selfsame chill
in my anguished mind
now hiding,
sing a comfort food song
heard above the quiet terror of the
noises of a fall winters-wind precursor
"once we green,
once we were renewal,
life everlasting emblems
once,
you were wee,
green uncaring and free,
presuming that you too,
were in possession of
life everlasting
your colors have changed as well,
endless is the process,
only slower than
a tree's scheduled maintenance,
moreover,
returning you to your first
crayon drawing youth
unlike us, an impossibility
we will turn young again
for many seasons more,
you
never will
new eyes will feast upon our
glories refreshed and love our
cast shade cast
yet special are you the man,
poet who was chosen
to see and tell,
witness to our resurrection,
during our overlapping,
parallel continuum in time
when to the shade of hades
you physic sent,
our limbs, our leaves,
our perennial lives,
for-as-long-as-they-shall-last,
will cover thy remains and
give your poems back to the
sultry summer breeze from
whence they came
and the colors
of your words
will be the colors
of a free life everlasting"*
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
I miss you like sadness.
I used to wrap around myself like some lovelorn python
with a desire for suicide blondes.
Called yourself a wrecking ball, but you had no choice.
Maybe you wanted to caress my house softly without destruction.
Maybe you cried afterwards like a lost child on a mountain of doubt.
Full of maybes! You make me full of maybes!
I was taught as a child that maybe was just a watered down no.
Stop watering the truth down, I'm not your flower.
I'm a ****
And I'll just continue to grow until I can't fit in anything except for my own grave.
You make me want to go to church.
I was baptised once, I forget as what.
I honestly don't even know what religion is,
but I can religiously blacken my lungs with nicotine and lies.
Lie with me.
Caress my sins.
My body is world war three,
I have nuclear bombs in the dips of my collarbones
and every single freckle you used to compare to the galaxies
are bullet holes.
Save your prose for someone who gives a ****
Pull the blinds baby, we don't need light in here.
Did you know that with three minutes of asphyxiation you become brain dead?
Let's try it baby, suicide pact?
Let's dance with the dead darling.
You always said the devil was our best friend.
My tarot cards turned black when you turned them over.
You said that I was hard to read.
I had trouble reading anything except the bell jar.
And now it's my turn to ring it.
You're prettier with a necklace made of fingers.
I want to collect your energy in a mason jar and sell it at a garage sale.
I want to smash it in the middle of a highway and lay in a ditch until the wolves eat my body.
I want to be lost.
Lose me baby.
I'll lose myself in your lies.
Lie with me.
I just want to be held.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 1:27 AM UTC
I've never had luck with blondes.
Well,
I've had lots of luck
falling ever so
deeply
in love with them.
With their eyes
of bright hues in
blue, green, and greys.
Going head over heels
for their charming smiles
that make your eyes linger a little longer
that what's permitted.
Dying
to feel their
godlike
comforting
powerful
touch.
That was easy.
Horribly easy.
But what surprised me,
kicked the backs of my knees
and made me crumble to the pavement
were that those handsome
heavenly faced blondes,
have no soul.
And I am sure of it,
because every
single
******* time,
they leave me...
Alone in the dark,
confused,
disoriented,
with not a single word.
Which leaves my thoughts
to echo in the emptiness,
rummage around inside my skull,
looking in the hollow cabinets
searching for clues
and slowly growing
frustrated
and angry,
angrier,
angriest.
But not at the blonde boys.
At myself.
As of what I did wrong?
Why did they go?
How could I let this happen again?
And every time,
I can never find the reason.
Those blonde boys
just appear in the rays of the summertime
with their golden locks of hair
and leave with their icy dark souls
in the cold breeze of the fall.
And I know,
they will be back next year.
With the sun,
and happiness
and my stupidity.
Until then though
I'm stuck with the abusive markings and stabbing aches.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 9:41 PM UTC
@X5 BMW vehicles are truculent
Where have the real blondes gone to?
Bring back Orion Pictures
to remake Doom Watch,
resurrect Analogue tv,
ban militant cyclists from the roads
and yes the Chartists were right annual suffrage too.
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 7:07 AM UTC
.*oh forget Disney H'america... technicolor H'america was the bomb... gentlemen prefer blondes... oh **** no... the seven year itch... the Rachmaninoff scene... bell, book & candle scene... whoever the genius was behind the technicolor project, outmatched the Disney in 1950s H'america... little town America... big little ******** worth of Europe... eddi reader...more like: keep the cats, a woman may desire luxury, but a man a freedom... keep the town, the summit, the fireplace... keep your luxury... just give me the shadow, the sun, the moon, and the road: perpetually greeting me.*
oh forget looking
for scapegoats
these days...
full blown schizophrenia,
happening,
all over the anglophone
world...
me?
i'm just looking
at the lampoons...
sorry...
lemmings...
and the English?
top the table in western
world...
they thought they'd be
bailed out by
the H'americans...
good luck rolling
that pin-ball...
not gonna happen...
they have their own ****
to deal with...
it could have...
but now it will never
work out, no anglophone
alliance bail-out plan...
it's a ******* farce...
it's a bogus in the bogie
in the ******* coalmine...
forget the canary...
**** i'm seriously flipping
the coin on phrases...
FDR contra DJT?
magic!
no... the politicians were always
going to place the card...
the joker... free-fall dance-loose
feet...
my bet is...
it'll fall flat on its face...
the eastern European Achilles
heel of the europhiles...
that's a supposition,
not a proposition...
or thereby, pre-....
but i do love being a spectator
of rare sport...
en masse schizophrenia...
a nation, divided...
what a load of ********
the English thought that their
anglophone alliances would
last, would encrust them in
a new globalization mechanism...
even the ******* Icelandic people
think they're European...
what did the English think?
just east of Las Vegas?!
an island surrounded
by a massive prehistorical lake
"facility"?!
no one is looking for scapegoats
these days,
there's no one to blame...
mea culpa, mea culpa...
these days?!
everyone is looking for the lampoon
brigade!
- and let me tell you...
mea culpa mea culpa...
no one is looking for a scapegoat
worth kristallnacht;
people are looking
for a lampoon...
or...
karmesinrotherznacht,
the night of... broken hearts;
broken, crimson hearts.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC
There is a deep pleasure vibrating inside of me and it's reflected in your juices washing
away
the
shaving cream.
It’s your total surrender
The pulsating of your veins.
Pushing against a mixture of rough and breathtakingly soft skin…
I often mistake your shyness as a rejection because I could
die
buried in your black hair.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 8:38 PM UTC
DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, hanging on these little things life grants us is the reason of our survival;]
in his feels
I know I see
the drowned drips of the feet
smiles of the fakes he sweeps
lick the lips and motion the blondes to touch
hearts to brush
always as also so little as much
thinking when he means of the ones and the twos
the whispers and the apples to smell to near
hairs so dark for the safe to fear
maybe then the want would not haste
or not for the come to paste
invisible to the seen to the face
on the yellows they still remain
or blue flowers on the neck I wish the belongs come to make
-------ravenfeels
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 4:56 PM UTC
i am abrasive
personality functionality deficit
yet i attract
beautiful women
to befriend the hermit of solidarity
will you go out with me
brought answers on no
my friend i could not lose
yet for the end of altruistic bargaining
i end up ahead
with false promises of a beginning
to an end my own personal
apocalypse
david lee roth would understand
that as i write in this
mindset
brought on by reading
778 comics in 12 hours
and a 4 day binge of job for a cowboy
my mind wanders
as insomnia sets in
would i be one of the great
dissociative poets?
a dose of the unrequited free associative minds
free thinking form of diet coke with a side of purple strawberries no i meant blueberries
my mind wanders
and yet i look forward to pad thai on wednesdays with cute blondes whom with i stand
the chance of a bat in the mosh pits of a metal band
suckers
i win
for you all know the taste of yellow mustard
ramble ramble ramble
this indie pop poem
would it be ironic to like it
if one truly hates the wording
and yet loves the idea
one of lives greatest life mysteries
alcohol i bid thee a fair welcome
nimble bubblegum monkey wrench
how long will you read?
enough to to see my lack of coherent sentence structure
or that i am a flawed creation
going on and on about existential non existent problems
for i shall exist regardless of my best intentions
as the wheel continues to roll on despite the moss covering this ice slicked track
metal boar slayer of a thousand suns would be a good metal name from sweden
the mooring dove coos to the beat of an undead drum
boo hoo boo hoo cries the witch at the stake
i am done
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 12:37 AM UTC
The Doll House
I stumble, I tumble into a house of prostitution,
well it is the oldest professional institution.
I stare, I sit and I look around,
suddenly my tongue dropped to the ground.
Had my choice of fifty ******
each room had curtains for doors.
Plenty of blondes, brunettes and red heads,
laced satin sheets on all the beds.
Fat girls, skinny girls and ugly ones too,
with only twenty dollars my choices were few.
They sent me back into a room,
a blow up doll and a plastic broom.
After an hour, I was very confused,
doll had a smile, but my ******* was bruised.
Walked out of the place with a limp,
dressed up my broom, just like a ****
I kept the doll free of charge,
ugly desperate men kept me living large.
I charged sixty dollars an hour with the doll,
hundreds of men were giving me a call.
Making thousands of dollars every week,
pretty good for a doll that doesn't speak.
Now I've cornered market on dolls that are inflatable,
one for any occasion, I have available.
Birthday parties for the geeks and nerds,
nothing like ******* who say no words.
Handicapped and retards love my prices,
I even supply them with special devices.
I even get women with their strap on dildo's,
some girls even like to pick my nose.
This went on for many years,
when I retired, millions were in tears.
My doll house is now a famous museum,
I call it the Blow Up Coliseum.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
She reads Neil Gaimen
by the light through the window,
a facing forward seat on the only train in Greater Anglia
without any heat,
yet still she peruses the pages with
a flick and a ****** and her eyes begin to wander
in marvellous repeating horizontal lines.
She is blonde and reading Neil Gaimen.
Another blonde another book,
this time Mr King under her palm,
spread like her great legs, wide
and easy to read, yet not easily led;
telephone-line straight eyes
on a north country face,
buttoned up below her is a white blouse,
lace-trimming hiding last night’s pudding-
cake baked by a daughter, I heard her conversation earlier:
there was laughter.
She is blonde and reading Stephen King.
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
Pretty ugly
They claim she’s beautiful; I wanna watch her fall,
Because she sold her soul and now I just want her type to go!
Plastic surgery; left her with a ruined nose,
Her heart has decomposed and a---ll I can scream is n---o!!!
She has a striking face;
Shallow beauty is a disgrace.
They say she must be idolized;
No! She must be improved upon
And replaced!
She’s pretty ugly, she’s pretty ugly;
She’s pretty ugly to a loser who looks like me.
She’s pretty ugly, she’s pretty ugly;
She’s pretty ugly to a loser who looks like me.
Where are the nice ones?
I hate the rich ones!
The golden age of beauty has come and gone
And all that is left, to use, are the blondes!
I hate vanity! I have vanity;
I hate everything that you have done,
To challenge me with your beauty.
She’s pretty ugly, she’s pretty ugly;
She’s pretty ugly to a loser who looks like me.
She’s pretty ugly, she’s pretty ugly;
She’s pretty ugly to a loser who looks like me.
She lacks sympathy; I lack mercy!
There is no dignity in selling your body to a magazine page.
These are just my conscious thoughts;
Where are the pretty souls?
There is nothing left inside to hide
And all we have to use are these knowledge bombs of rage.
*(Repeat these lines as the song becomes quieter and fades out.)
*She’s pretty ugly, she’s pretty ugly;
She’s pretty ugly,
Yeah she’s s---o,
Very, pretty, ugly.
She’s pretty ugly, she’s pretty ugly;
She’s pretty ugly,
Yeah she’s s---o,
Very, pretty, ugly.
She’s pretty ugly, she’s pretty ugly;
She’s pretty ugly,
Yeah she’s s---o,
Very, pretty, ugly.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 9:47 AM UTC
Marilyn Monroe (who
lived next door, and swore more
than anyone I know)
reckoned blondes had all the fun.
It didn’t seem so to me,
when her old man was home.
She was as glamorous as
our Mum was dowdy.
Her lot lived on freezer-food
and fizzy, while our Mum
slogged over a ****** gas-stove,
and washed-up without gloves on.
Marilyn Monroe told
our Mum that she should fight.
Our Mum gave, to Marilyn Monroe,
secret recipes for dog-food stew
and koi carp pie.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 12:02 PM UTC
Some people think I make rash decisions
Like I'm not aware
They tell me I should be more careful
I shouldn't assume such positions
That I should use more precision
But am I the only one aware of the time we have here
And how important it is to live without limitations
I don't want to be old and look back in regret and fear
I don't know the repercussions of what I may do
And who I may hurt, may end up hating me too
But sometimes I'd rather have that than never knew
And it's sad, really sad to look back
And see all of your mistakes piling up in stack
And saying hey, things would be different if I hadn't have ****** up so bad
But sometimes funny things happen in life, and can lead you to the right people
And if that's the case than maybe the others were wrong
Maybe life is more than just a sad song
When everybody's all bent from the throng
The song can take a variety of pitches and tones
It's the sound of opportunity that I'm trying to hone
It's hard to keep a clean slate when you're all caught up brunettes and blondes
And alcohol in the name of the yesteryear
All caught up in love and song and you can't seem to grasp the time like it's sifting through an hourglass
Just trying to enjoy my time here, so please don't hold my decisions too seriously
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
anxiety creeping on
anxiety taking over
i'm the youngest in a room
filled with folks i don't know
three old blondes
one middle aged man
i don't belong
just like out there
so how am i supposed to learn
when my stomach is in this churn
like butter i want to be spreadable
anywhere, and in everything
butter is so much smoother than me
for once i'd like to be credible
maybe, one day, incredible.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
Look
men made a habit
out of wanting her
see
men like blondes
men like curves
men like ***
some men
want it all
because I guess all men
want to date
actresses
Norma Jean
little girl
never had a home
passed around like nothing
never had a home
and was passed door to door
abandoned
because her mother
lost her marbles
a girl
who was only wanted by men
since childhood
Norma Jean
she heard
a chorus of lies
every time someone
called her name
and she was not good enough
so she dyed her hair
not good enough
so she changed her name
not good enough
so she became an object
and when she could act no more
when she looked into the mirror
and couldn't see herself looking back
it was
not good enough
Marilyn
a star
with the most useful tool
looks
but couldn't focus the little things
so three men left
instead she focused on the audiences clapping
focused on the people loving her
focused on the men in the front row whispering
Marilyn
as they let her beauty
invade their souls
like a main street ballyhoo
playing praise to her
not knowing
each note was bittersweet
making her feel elated
and crushed
crushed beneath the chains
holding her too strongly to her past
behind every compliment
she felt his wandering hands
the hands of a man
an orphan was supposed to call
father
or the hands of a boy
the boy she was supposed to call brother
because her whole life she was only wanted for one thing
and the men in the crowds only echoed
what she had known all along
that she was
not good enough
so she dyed her hair
not good enough
so she changed her name
not good enough
so she became their object
not good enough
so they mocked the woman
who only aimed to please
calling out to her
holding her up
not knowing she would
fall
see
the depressed have an intimacy with death
it’s there in their dreams
but sticks around for their nightmares
and the fans turned to one another
trying to determine
the distance between joy and sorrow
not realizing that depression
can push the distance
making the tallest mountains
look like ant hills
creating decrescendos so soft
they fade out of existence
and for a moment
it felt like the entire universe
had begun to cry
distance must be an illusion
the woman can’t be
dead
Marilyn
her life taken
transforming the way people think
about emotions
and for an instant
it was like sadness
was a tangible thing
like you could reach out
and feel it
like for the first time
you could see happiness and sadness tango
in a dance so slow and delicate
that we finally understood
the history was so important
to know the woman
all we ever had to do was
look.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 10:06 AM UTC
That was then, this is now
Who was where when what was how?
Hear them take their last breath as they're shot down
I scream
Floating in the gene pool, expecting the man who can walk on water to arrive
Sell outs and everyone who has had a bad week even though it's only Monday
Whippersnappers hang their heads in shame
I am one of twelve
So expendable
We live in gluttony
Lineleaders, math teachers, bottom-feeders have no idea
Watch them fall and be forced to crawl on their bellies
We laugh
Lewandowsky-Lutz dysplasia, getting back to your roots
Progeric clock-makers, lying dead on The Yellow Brick Road
Thin-skinned Transsexuals putting bricks in their purses
We live by eight
We die from our weight
And go unbloomed
-Tommy Johnson
Standing in a nuclear reactor somewhere in Chernobyl looking for the truth
It might be in my contaminated endoplasmic reticulum
I am a radiant
Doppler radar
Monopoly dollar
Singing in the shower, amateur hour
Projecting sour notes
Pouring out their hearts and souls, hear them
Trying
Moo-juice nectar, spilling off The Round Table
Blondes in red bracelets, Kabbalah saves them
Henry pays no tax, John Berryman's bats tell us
You are the lunatic
We are the two quarters of a half-wit
This whole thing is insane
-Tommy Johnson
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC