"bouncers" poems
We, the people of this country, in your eyes are:
babblers, bachelors, bafflers, baiters, barkers,
beakers, beaters, brawlers, blamers, beggars,
bloaters, bloopers, bombers, boozers, blunders,
bruisers, bafflers, bluffers, burglars and burners.
That's why you feel compelled to keep your foot on our heads
keep us down, put us down, push us down
subjugate us, belittle us, berate us.
We, the people of this country, in our eyes are:
butlers, bouncers, bakers, buyers, barbers,
cake-makers, delivery-takers, cocktail-shakers,
taxi drivers, cancer survivors, employers and hirers,
music makers, entertainers, window washers, foster takers,
plasterers, carpenters, scaffolders, sparks and builders,
boxers, carers, coaches, tailors, shoe makers,
designers, illustrators, multi-language facilitators,
dog walkers, dog trainers, bikers and cycle couriers,
doctors and nurses and all the emergency services.
We are the People, the reason you are where you are now
you sometimes forget that we exist as people, somehow
locked in your ivory towers with gold plated showers
and MP expenses and investment banker pretenses
this is not theater, its real life drama, its not just a bluff
its time to stand up
and say enough is enough.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
NY Hip Hop
Gold Express
Bling Shop
Afro Brothers
proprietorship
buyin and sellin
filthy lucre
of down hard
Gat packin
Gangstas
on the down low
throwin down
fallin hook
line and stinker
just a bunch
of lil fishies
wigglin at the end
of golden chains
its all about
the bling baby
all about the bling
"I pity the fool"
saith Mr. T
the potentate of
soul and gold
who ain't
down with
the cool jewels
of righteous
B Teamers
arrested by
the silk rope
of glitzy discos
bribing bouncers
with an
earnest Jackson
to *** rush
the vanity faire
of bumping
A Listers
Or was it
Def Jam
Buddhas
minting
coin on
MTV?
exploiting
misogyny
and ghost
face killas
NWAs
slugging cases
of Kristol
blowing
fat spliff
smoke
up the *** of
Phat Farm
kids in
the hood
shooting
silver
bullets at
the man
takin baths
in tubs
of fifties
lighting up
with crisp
C Notes
rollin
through
life
in black
Escalades
its silver
spinners
twisting fast
round
corners
where
being cool
went blind
and
Coolie High
homies
still tip
a sip
for the
brothers
who ain't
there
Today
its all about
the raised fist
of power to
the P Diddy
fighting
the power
of the people
as leggy
Beyonce
warbles
songs
for the
posse
of a
Libyan
Dictator
whose
blood
money
pays
a cool
mil
cover
for a
New Years
Eve
tune
Its all about
the bling
baby
All about
the bling
baby, all
about the
bling.
NY Hip Hop
Gold Express
Best Prices in
Trenton Since
1997
You Tube Video:
Gil Scott Heron
Ain't No Such Thing As Superman
Trenton
2/25/11
jbm
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 9:19 AM UTC
The city is loud with chimneys,
bristling with dimpled sky dishes,
afloat in a dammed lake of sunset fenestration,
beneath unwitnessed, unappreciated clouds,
its streets a grid of flowless canals,
to the music of "Hey, mister, got any change?"
Oh,
but,
when the lights go down,
and the pretty people come out!
and the beef bouncers sort snort the buzzing sequin queen queues
for the sparkle dance houses,
the city,
the city,
can one ever get enough?
Jan 10, 2011
Jan 10, 2011 at 7:29 PM UTC
Urban Community Living:
Some days I actually noticed how grey it was
All of this space, here around us
As our half-beaten stone trodden 52 bus
Rolls into its unfortunate terminus.
Terminal more like.
The shops have boarded windows,
Bakeries have bullet-proof counters
Staffed by bulky bakers-cum-bouncers
A praised underground centre for perilous shopping
Dodge rival factions on various floors
Fighting for stair supremacy
And burly painted girls with latent spent applause
Some colour on the underpass is some relief
Only it warns of impending doom
for someone soon
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:17 AM UTC
Bouncers can only stop and stare, maybe
get involved when their contract states
they've got to care, but up to that line
they wait on doorstops and thresholds,
looking for kisses from the makeup clad gold.
Smokers swell in the sea mist of the
open smoking area, they talk ideas
and travel plans, wave to no one
hoping they'll wave back again.
The bar men, the bar women and the cloakroom
attendants sing along to the songs
under tired, muttered breaths,
hoping the depth of the queue
subsides into something more serviceable.
And after?
Young ones with freshly ironed faces
**** into gutters and speak in
half-rhyme stutters, Morse code flutters that
translate into nothing more than, another beer please.
They yell as if they own the sky,
keep their echoes on rope tied to the
openings of back alleyways,
showing to her and her and her and him, his best friend, that he's
the drunkest of them all.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
It took a very long time for A to find B,
and possibly even longer for A with B to get to C,
then D shadowed, and along came easy E,
F hurried, G stumbled, and before you know it,
H pushed, I shoved, J fell, K and L bullied,
doormen and bouncers hired,
and hooked red velvet guest rope installed.
M and N showed legs and other stuff,
O accommodated, P arrived peeing and puking,
Q wandered in by mistake,
R flashed cash, S slid unscathed,
T grinned teeth, U did what?
V spread, W wowed,
and the rest, X, Y, Z,
is history.
If death is nothing, why fear it?
Is it the indifference of nothingness that disturbs the living?
All the energy and effort spent?
Unfinished business? Dead silence?
Or is it the tickle on skin of summer breeze?
Astonishing possibilities?
Privilege of existence?
There are moments when I
almost do it,
a very fragile brink, I want to
call, see, be with her so bad.
No matter what, I miss,
adore her intelligence, sense of humor, moods, body, beauty.
Why?
If death is nothing, why fear it?
Eyes perceive
group of young men approaching
momentary assumptions of danger
passes as inner fear and distrust
process high-spirited partying.
Z: “This is confusing. Put your thoughts in order.”
Y: “But there is no true order.”
Z: “Before you speak another word,
what you got to bring to the table?
Money? Property? Prestige?”
Y: “I offer poetry, ash drawings, new architecture.”
Z: “Lay it on the line, you ****** or be punished!”
Y: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Z: “Burn this ******* on a stake,
then eat remains.”
******** runs in pleading for dickwad’s life,
but it’s too late.
******** sits chewing charred flesh at table.
Biscuits get passed around vigorously.
No talk about death.
A: “Who’s the one?”
B: “You are, Daddy.”
A: “But I’m just a tiny force of nature.”
B: “Let’s go see about C.”
A: “Am I not enough for you?”
C: “What and where is love?
Is it an illusion
I strive for an impossible chance?
When will we find each other?
Will I feel belonging?”
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
Ross was a fullblooded
bronze-skinned buddy
from the Navajo Nation.
He was a diehard Okie,
and a machine gunner,
carried the M-sixty
with twenty pounds
of extra belted-ammo.
He was a big guy,
had brown deep-set eyes,
high cheeks and
not a single hair
on his burly body,
but some high and tight
pitch bristles on his head.
He had a weakness.
Pure Straight Whiskey.
Whenever he had too much,
he was an F5 tornado,
a wild Tasmanian devil,
to be reckoned with.
I remember when he had
his front top teeth knocked out
by some civilian bouncers
at a local drinking establishment.
He kicked the **** out of
three huge muscle guys.
It was him versus them.
A regular melee.
Ross won.
Once on a Saturday night,
drunk as skunks,
we made an illegal turn
on the Interstate south of Denver.
We ended up flying down the highway
with four hundred feet of wire
attached to wooden poles,
sent sparks flying everywhere.
I never saw a guy laugh
so hard in all my life.
He ****** himself hysterically.
We gave Ross his first Native American name.
We were out in the field,
just hanging out
in battle gear,
shooting the ****
around our APC.
We called him Prancing Moose,
Moose for short.
He loved it when
we called him that,
gave us a toothless grin.
He was a warrior to us.
In another time and place,
he might have been a Chief.
He was courageous,
fearless and
a good friend
to have in your side.
From time to time,
I think about him,
and pray he's okay,
still alive.
He was our blood brother.
We were in hell together.
I miss him, too.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
Smiles
Laughter
Liquor
Plasma screens
Cash registers
Deep cologne scents
Bouncers
Hot wings
Hair gel
Loud speakers
Lip gloss
High heels
Tight skirts
Cigarette smoke
Cell phones
Watches
Car keys
Last call for alcohol
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
She tears through
her insecurities
on fridays and saturdays,
shameless small talk
with bouncers,
and she dresses to ****
railing lines at pre drink,
and talking up free drinks
with ***** hawks
circulating the scintillations
of spotlights for victims
of a cockcrow regret,
she picks and chooses
and it’s easy for her,
finding a jawline
in a haystack seems
almost inevitable
when she did her make up
in front of a mirror,
not 3 hours prior,
she fills her empty
bed with cheap cologne
and sweat and gel
to only empty again
not 3 hours later.
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 6:02 PM UTC
Dedicated to 'Big John' 1954-2002
It's time to prep for the nights show,
the band is already unloading at the back door.
Got to brief the new guy and rewalk the floor,
let too many in here the night before.
Use cardboard and tape to protect the ribs.
Shin guards in place for all those low hits.
Take off the jewlery and tie back the hair,
leave nothing for them to grab when you step out there.
Drink lots of water, swallow a pain pill...
it's show time for a bouncer they say is over the hill.
Crowds looking good for a Saturday night.
Plenty of women, yet somebody will fight.
Seems when not enough space and too much *****
messes up the calculation of one and one equals two!
Got two female bouncers that are a special class act.
They know how to work it and come in real fast.
Big John gives me the nod and it time to open the doors.
Lets Rock and Roll baby we are here until four!
* Big John was a bouncer that took me under his wing ( a huge wing) taught me to be polite yet forcefull. 99% of folks just come to have a good time.It's that 1% that will try to ruin it.That's where we come in.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 12:48 PM UTC
With weekends spent hittin' the ***** bars all across town
That broken smile matches her broken shoes and her broken soul
People always wonda' why she puts herself in the position she's in
She hardly knows any more than they do
All there was were long days and short nights
An' I guess that became too much for her
'Cause she lost herself inside, where her heart was kept
After that one guy broke her heart so many months ago
She's tryin' to recover
Hardly working dontcha think
To try and fix yourself when there ain't nothin' left to fix
The gears inside are rusted stop and no amount of oil could change that
But does it really matter?
When nothin' is right anymore
And nothin' is worth anythin' more than a lonely night spent in a hotel room
Somewhere off the in'erstate
An' all the tears wasted on somethin' long gone go to waste
Dontcha think?
'Cause he ain't gonna hear 'em anyway
Hardly even gonna feel 'em 'cause he doesn't even care
The bouncers at the bars don't either
But at least they let her in
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
10236 Charing Cross Road
Holmby Hills, CA. 90077
*To go where young rabbits frolic and dance
Would be a sweet treat if I had the chance
To swim in the water where famous cottontails get wet
Where champagne bubbles are spilled by the elite jet set
Maybe I might win a million dollar lotto
That could be my ticket to enter the grotto
Past muscle bound bouncers, inside velvet ropes and stanchions
To ogle, google and spill my own bubbles at The ******* Mansion
To escape normality and alter reality before I grow old
Playing with Playmates and Bunnies and this months Centerfold
10236 Charing Cross Road, Holmby Hills CA. 90077
Without a doubt this is the address of Heaven*
Thank you
Mr. Hefner
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
for a legendary 70s-80s Sydney nightclub
wearing those clothes
like we did
being there
back then
paying too much
for that shirt
those shoes
pointy & suede
buckled not laces
16 in nightclubs
being tall
an original sister
1959 sequins
sunglasses matching
there was no light
being afraid
of the men
metamorphosis
women used
those urinals
confusion reigned
in a young man
we danced
the music spoke
bartenders poured
all sorts of
concoctions
another track
began
& a floorshow
eyes wide open
miming & movements
others queued
we were hustled
inside
out come the
freaks & early on
we got it all
on studded sofas
on the dancefloor
the fresco was
roamin
we moved feet
to the rhythms
slaves
not knowing how
formative those days
were
never getting anything
but drinks
until later
legal with dollars
juiced up
better lights
victims resting
in seats people
occupied
when a visiting act
blew simpler minds
wallets
we thought that
record was good
then they played
B52s, Blondie, Numan
the floor caved in
from ska
pogo. bouncers
cleared the scene
original grace
as an ape
stomps
up a staircase
disappears into
lookalikes
then a spotlight
highlighted
the real thing
that was us
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 7:57 AM UTC
I’ve made a poetic century
Though my technique is not sound
Consider it a great victory
I’ve succeeded in HELLO POETRY ground
I am not a natural striker of the ball
Ran very hard for twos and singles
Batted with the defence of a great wall
Faced quite a few bouncers
I may lack Rangzeb’s batting grace
My style may be awkward
And I am afraid of George’s lethal pace
My foot work is undoubtedly wayward
I am an instinctive player
Know not the subtleties of spin or pace
And dedicate this century to Denis Barter
I am happy to be in the batting race
I salute the wonderful audience
For watching my indecent play
With a lot of patience
This new year makes their lives so gay
Dec 31, 2010
Dec 31, 2010 at 2:53 AM UTC
It was up in Minnesota
or was it South Dakota
It doesn't matter
we know how the story starts
It's friday, time to party
Some girl comes in dressed all tarty
With a body
That could break a thousand hearts
There's gonna be a storm tonight
A cat fight's on the way
You just hold on when it all starts up
And then you clear the way
You just know it's gonna happen
Something bad is in the air
Just grab your beer and hold it
Just watch the nails and flying hair
All the eyes were on her
You knew she was a goner
You could feel the tension
And hear the nails extract
In jeans of lace and denim
With perfect slits cut in 'em
You knew that she was hunting
that's a fact
There's gonna be a storm tonight
A cat fight's on the way
You just hold on when it all starts up
And then you clear the way
You just know it's gonna happen
Something bad is in the air
Just grab your beer and hold it
Just watch the nails and flying hair
The band played loud and raucus
As the bar's all female caucus
Watched her close
As she went toward the bar
You could tell that this girl's reason
Was to hunt the men in season
And she set to take
the first one to her car
There's gonna be a storm tonight
A cat fight's on the way
You just hold on when it all starts up
And then you clear the way
You just know it's gonna happen
Something bad is in the air
Just grab your beer and hold it
Just watch the nails and flying hair
when the crowd split like the Nile
And there standing with a smile
was the girl of the
man this girl had claimed
Well, the bottles started flying
And though the bouncers all were trying
The fight broke out
Between the two I named
There's gonna be a storm tonight
A cat fight's on the way
You just hold on when it all starts up
And then you clear the way
You just know it's gonna happen
Something bad is in the air
Just grab your beer and hold it
Just watch the nails and flying hair
The cops broke up the rumble
Amid the debris and the crumble
Our combatants were
off to jail that night
Tomorrow they would be found
Back and out of impound
At another bar
And in another fight
So, It may be Minnesota
or down in South Dakota
But, no one cares
We all know how the game is played
So, when you feel a storm brew
And you know it won't involve you
Grab your beer
And watch...your night is made.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 12:01 AM UTC
Posted by the door
watching as the "bouncers"
let in girl after girl
only to whisper *****
behind their backs
meanwhile
polite, kind, little me
gets stopped while the rest of the pile
trip on in, faces plastered with smiles
I got the denial.
A stranger from the window
one hand on chase
offered me a shot
and then proceeded
to correct himself,
"I meant a *** shot in the face"
then disappears with a jeer
so I turned and
walked home alone
up the stairs of stone
to this bed
why be righteous at all
when given this ****
over and over
might as well
sleep/be dead
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC
I don’t know about those pastoral scenes
Those bucolic and primordial endless greens
Unspoilt trees and murmuring streams
I know the concrete and the pavement
Uneven cobblestones with cracks in them
With dandelions growing through
Only sometimes
I love the later more
I’m in love with the concrete behemoths
The back alleys of life
The gnarled bouncers (unreciprocally)
The curious glimpses at weathered flyers on the floor
I love the sterile street lights and the worn faces ILLUMINATED by them
The ushers and hustlers and cautious taxis
The drunk geniuses
The night-swimmers
The nudists
The opinionated
Etc
Yet life whittles down these loves for that of the
Calculable
The
Regimented
And
Controllable
Etc
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
Hectic breakneck of the chopped up music.
beautiful wilt and hungry wither of the hips.
Drunken fingers grasping a drink and shaking so feverishly,
its like the adrenaline of war.
Knowing there is something past the moon,
past darkness. The freshness of sweat.
A black skirted woman dances.
The fabric squirming up her hips
as she drives her thighs,
whipping them back and forth.
Dreams bellow out of hollow bellies,
the bottom of the roar,
a squeak.
The bouncers in bowties and charcoal suits
look nice.
The opaque lights and streamers of brilliantly lit people and huge parade of bodies
washing and bouncing inside are like fruits in the dryer,
Tumbling and tumbling until they are fully juiced and induced.
But you can never find a willing partner
For good rough *** Or even
love: the canary in the mine.
A pink, throaty croak
Emanating from its black lungs.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
*it’s not perfect... but **** me... there’s a life to be lived... even if it’s just defined as walking the dog, or drinking a pint! let’s just rearrange the solar system spheres with a game of snooker to make summer random with winter of the least expected follow-up.*
you catch me playing with my fox / cat
purring his ***** slingshot
arousal
just where the spinal cord in music begins
and the evolutionary testament ends...
you catch me there in the drift of night...
and i’ll bet you 5 quid to have found quantum physics...
a particular instance in a universe of innumerable
stasis plurals of decipherable energy
to pluck and theorise, like autumnal flowers readily drifting
from the tsunami of green of summer to brown mahogany of autumn.
here’s one for the puppet engineered to dance
tugged at with its tail the solitary cursor;
paw print dot dot dot? i had my two thumbs on it,
squeezing out the hallucinatory juice of neglect,
with scoffer ready bouncers of peeled wallpaper about to
tattoo me in political conversation of slime slogans to shout!
i heard squatters were about... i didn’t hear anything from newcastle,
i guess the second mongolian invasion / investiture
came from the north... rather than east anglia / saudi arabia.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 6:33 PM UTC
Oh we have danced in the discotech with partners of all nations when after liberation we all danced to the songs of liberty. Under all our flags united. As time went by we stopped dancing and others came With new music and one flag. But like mods and rockers they could not dance together and fought away from the sound of the music. Now the only tunes played are national anthems as rebel rousers for dancers, who don't dance and don't know the words to the songs. Cries of patriotism yet dressed as nationalists.
Calls to arms were peace held a fragile embrace like the elderly tangoing.
Now the new dancers don't dance. They sit on the edges of the room causing fights.
Soon the discotech will bar our entry and then when others are barred too, Groups and gangs will form and fighting begin again, like the days before the discotech.
Who will be the bouncers this time.
Sep 3, 2019
Sep 3, 2019 at 7:00 PM UTC
The music is loud
Booming bass and throbbing drops
Dance beats for the college kids
I feel like an old man standing here against the wall
Watching the young men dance fools of themselves
And their plastic women who all move as if they are void of individualness
The beer in my hand is frosty and ice cold due to its aluminum bottling
But it is not improving the distance that I feel between me and everyone at this night club
The party I'm with escapes the dance floor to the roof's terrace
Bouncers that look like your typical fresh faced jocks complete with acne scars
Inform us that it's plastic cups only up top
We pour our beers into plastic cups
They instantly begin to warm
The view is pretty
If you like looking at a city
Unworthy of its history
The air is cool and clean
Blowing across my skin
As my hearing struggles to ignore
The dance music blaring
And my eyes are assaulted by more frat-boy tribal dancing
I can't tell if the fresh air is improving my buzz
Or making me feel worse
My beer is empty
Everyone else still has full cups
I don't understand the mathematics
I go down to the bar
And buy another one
I don't open a tab
I've found those can be dangerous when I'm in this mood
Or any mood
I sneak the aluminum bottle upstairs with me
Enjoy the frosty coldness of my beer for the 5 minutes it takes me to drink it
Everyone is still on their first cup
But there's a beer run coming
It's quitting time
Mothers need to get home
Workers need to get sleep
I need quiet
There's beer left that no one wants to drink
I'm the garbage disposal
We say our good byes
Exchanging hellos and farewells in single conversation
We leave our separate ways
Wishing everyone a safe drive home
It's silent now
What I wouldn't do to hear some booming bass and throbbing drops
To drown out this silence
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 11:43 AM UTC
this moment is woven like an evil plan
I coursed around myself, tightening
until I was crowded out.
a nest of trophies, with nary a trophy within.
and my heart--or liver, whichever part
feels, is hung like a whole lot of oranges
in a string bag, getting banged around
so much that when you get them home and
see them you won't want them anymore.
and this poem fell out somewhere along the way,
unraveling long before it had even begun,
not quite an idea of an idea.
the nights are like bouncers, really.
impassive and large.
they stare at you, largely emotionless,
and you feel obliged to amuse them,
or impress them, or relieve what you imagine
must be their suffering.
You fixate on them, for that fixed time,
but really you don't matter and neither do I...
the night merely passes.
eventually you'll pass into the new day
and be subject to its messy laws,
woven around you in dark lines,
tightening and tightening--growing
into the next night, the nest of trophies
without trophies.
It's not so bad. Just don't let those oranges
get pierced by all the tight black lines
and dribble out until your legs are sticky
and your heart (or liver) is dry
and as long as you don't let that happen
you'll be fine.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 5:04 AM UTC
In God's American heaven
all the Krishnas,
Ivans & Nadias,
get to wait in line
like sorry-ass out-of-towners
hoping for a good night out,
while the Americans,
granted extra
special consideration
by right of birth
& all that is great
& mighty about
this unique land,
just get waved on through
by God's golden bouncers,
straight on in
like hot girls
& dazzling boys
at the club
of the
moment
in the dazzling
L.A. night.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 10:04 PM UTC
Saturday night, I feel the air is getting hot,
gearing up for some pre-drinks,
then heading into Notts.
Round to my mates,
he's already playing Dance Classics by Kisstory,
an insight into British club history in all its glory.
The splendour of The Hacienda,
Fabric sounded magic,
the thrills at Turnmills.
Blasting out Where Love Lives by Alison Limerick,
Too Young To Die by Jamiroquai,
and Sounds of Eden by Shades of Rhythm.
It gets you in the mood,
of course it does, how can it not?
We sit around talking a lot,
then login to Facebook,
see which bars are offering what,
pound-a-pint and half-price shots.
Text around,
who else is in town?
We'll give you a shout once we get to Revolution,
the club solution is Oceania.
Disco floor,
we know the bouncers on the door.
Cut the queue,
annoying for everyone else,
but you would do it too.
Throwin' shapes with my mates all night,
break-dancing, the robot, pop n' lock until two o'clock,
a bunch of geeks,
we're too ****** to care about critiques.
Anyway, we're having a good time,
a bottle of Corona with a wedge of lime,
a few shots of Sambuca,
I'm doing fine.
I'm starving, time to get some food,
ravenous,
it's a whole mood,
into the nearest takeaway,
look at the display,
ten-inch pizza, or just some fries? Maybe both?
I'll go for a Kebab, chicken and salad, with added Mayo,
let's go,
there's a party starting nearby,
people getting high with a constant supply.
It's getting light out,
people are asleep around my feet,
time to leave,
walking back from the city,
this place looks pretty with the morning dew and light layers of fog,
one ******** runner out for a jog.
Later that day, a bit hungover,
I swear I'm never going to drink again,
well, not for a few weeks anyway,
maybe next weekend,
if there's another night-out, I might attend.
Might?
What a load of *****
I'm definitely going and show no signs of slowing down,
that point will come,
but for now, I'm still young,
just go out and have some fun.
May 6, 2020
May 6, 2020 at 6:44 PM UTC
What shall be of me and you on the judgment day
A day when this greener land of ours will turn to gray
The rich; the wealthy will know how poor they are
The kings and gods will realize how small they are
The popular; famous will become unknown
Some will cry and the comedian will be unable to make his joke
On that day, everyone will know how special he is
Man will regret and blame himself for the way he live
Scientist; philosopher, scholar and professor will know how ignorant they are
Terrorists, hooligans, gangsters and drug dealers will know the reality
They will realize that life is nothing but vanity
Their missiles and guns and bombs will be unable to help them
The escort, bodyguards, bouncers will be unable to protect themselves
Their weight will loose; their muscles will cuddle and turn flat
And after that
Man’s temperature will read indirectly
His stimuli will dis-stimulate negatively
He will shiver under 12pm sun
Father will see but not recognize his son
The moon will burn and the sun will freeze him
His leg will be unable to hold him
*
A man who live his life and forget his origin
He malign and mistreat the filthy
And he believe he will repent when he reaches fifty
He’s gonna pray and seek for forgiveness at older age
But death took him away at earlier stage
He womanise and he cheated; he wine and dine
So, his grave will welcome him as the most despise
A believer on the other hand whom his heart is purest
His grave will welcome him as the most beloveth
He would be exempt from any form of suffering
And he will pass without exam on the day of judgement
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 2:54 PM UTC