"budd" poems
So many chiefers and not enough Indians
There Yosef go with that ******** again fools can't comprehend
Cuz them weeds they choppin' put all thoughts to end
So come again like ya repeating the same thang
Ghetto Twain rhymes like boomerang leavin' welts on the back of the membrane
My topics ain't meant for population
So if you don't like change the **** station
So fools keep on puffin' and I'm.keep on stuffin'
My minds with nothing knowledge I learned nothing college
But to party and ******** shut and take a hit
Let the dogia explore your deepest mind terrains
Got ya hooked like a crane invoking much pain
Time is suffering people offering up sacrifices
And claiming they just being nice for the right price
They'll sell out they soul for few ounces of gold
So you see what's happening blasting like rocket
Coming for pockets of fake prophets once I'm set I'm a raging bull so ain't no stopppin' it
Then next thing ya know I stare at the floor and the window
My third eyes enlighten
Thinking to myself I gotta go
but I got buzz contact off that fake indo...
Shaking my head looking at these young studs
Laughing at em smokin'them fake budds
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 4:41 PM UTC
You don't always have
A second chance
To head back
To where you've started
But thank you, budd,
For walking with me
At least you made me
Not alone
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 3:04 AM UTC
too old to walk
the aides wheeled him into the sunshine each day, for their peace of mind
his eyes were clear, one gray but the other as blue as a robin's egg
he cackled more than talked though everyone understood what he said
which helped get him rolled onto the lonely concrete each morn,
in all weathers
I came Thursdays to see my aunt, on the way to the office
I, her only heir and she still owned the office, the firm yet bearing her husband's name, his first name the only word that came from her mouth the last two years, some strange protein eating her cortex, her body playing a cruel joke on her by keeping her organs pumping away masterfully....she didn't even **** her pants at ninety minus one
when they wheeled her out beside the cackler
he began his sermons, citing chapter and verse
usually from books I had not read--he also said,
for every hour you read, you add 89 minutes to your life
fishing, he said, was for fools who wanted to live forever;
he would settle for purchased words
and the 29 minutes in change
he had stopped reading with both colored eyes he claimed,
but he calculated he had added seven years, three months, and four days to his life, and he would, unless he took up reading again, leave the earth seven Thursdays from when he told me the tale--then he began quoting Melville I think, if he is the one who hung the poor stuttering Billy Budd
I kept returning Thursdays to ignore my aunt and listen to his words
and when he was yet alive on the seventh one, I asked if this was the day,
"the day for what?" he replied, and he began his cackled verses, from Poe, or Updike or maybe Hemingway when a bull died mid sentence, and
my aunt SPOKE that day, telling him goodbye
he was not there the next Thursday,
but neither was I
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
I see Isadora and her scarf
and begin to think about the tire.
Or an ice cream made out of the stars,
though it would taste more like fire.
Was it fire or was it gas, when
a dance was the wildest?
Do not let them tame you, Budd. But you
have nothing to do with anything here,
so go **** your warning, Budd.
No one ever really heard you.
They only saw the erratic dance, spread
like wildfire, it burned their eyes but did not make ashes.
Even a candle could not be lit, the government just
did not want anything to be melted.
I see Christine and a box of silver!
My heart reeks of reptile or a motorcycle
or it is just an excitement of a .38 you know what and the vocabulary
isn't wide enough to rhyme sleepily but
let's see this together, Budd.
They put you under the label hero.
If I were them, I would not.
[Calm down, Sylvia. Yes, yes, your Dame Kindness
is so nice!]
I see Vincent and Ryan.
[Calm down, Sylvia. You were a deer, a peacock, a thorny tulip,
yellow thing with white skin.]
They are hungry, one was dead, another is still alive
with a smile ear to ear, disgusting as it does sound.
[ ]
I close my eyes and I see a sun and hear mountains,
river flows and swimming lungs,
the unconsciousness glows
like a midnight hunger.
But it was not the clock that ticked, it was all
in my head.
[Calm down, Sylvia. You are
now too pure already.]
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC
Don´t be scared,
I´m just an old man with grayed hair and withered skin.
Calm my thirst, my hunger come and dine with me.
Little Grace,
I can´t hold my desire, my lust, my inner being
take my hand you innocent girl, tonight you´ll walk in the Hades.
Don´t...don´t don´t even try to hide.
Fear... Tears.
Let the bogey man to take off your skin, your flesh and calm the desire.
My sins, my salvation
little girl you´re my obsetion felt your hair, your scent, so young, darling,
I´m about to ***
Drink your blood may calm my demons so let´s have that pretty smile apart.
The gray man now is happy,
****** vampire rising.
Mrs. Budd your angel is mine now,
she is not in pain anymore.
It´s not my fault, it was not yours this is the god´s command masochism pleasure I think you have the right to know:
That she died a ******
I could've ****** her though.
First I got naked and called her, she began to cry, she asked for you
I choked her to death, cut her in small pieces, and ate her.
How sweet was her little *** roasted it took me nine days to eat all of her body, that little brat, that little ***** little Grace Budd is but nothing now.
My sins, my salvation little girl you´re my obsetion felt your hair, your scent, so young, darling,
I´m about to ***
Drink your blood may calm my demons so let´s have that pretty smile apart.
The gray man is now happy,
****** vampire rising.
Mrs. Budd your angel is mine now, I´m free my time has come
I always had a desire to inflict pain on others and to have others inflict pain on me,
I always seemed to enjoy everything that hurt, in pain I believe
Set me, set me free from this hell this chair will be the one, not the needles, not the sadness here at Sing Sing
I´m waiting for the pain to come
the pain to come...
the pain to come...
the pain to come...
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 3:09 AM UTC
My 10th grade year,
Dad put my brother,
Tobin and I in a
private school in
Camarillo California.
Mom sent us
to live with him after
we traded our
education, back in
Des Moines, for **** and
sitting around
listening to Led
Zeppelin records in the
basement.
We had it all figured out.
Before we started
a day of class, we
went on a week-long
skiing trip to
Sequoia National Park.
I loved that school.
A passion grew in
me for literature,
Melville and Dickens,
Dylan Thomas and the
rest of the greats visited
me in my dreams.
They were good, gentle
nights back then.
I wrote a paper on
Billy Budd, and received a C
for my weak effort.
Dad explained aspects of
the story:
plot
theme
antagonist
protagonist
and tragic character flaws.
I didn’t get a C again on
anything to do with
literature.
I was still inept
with the numbers game.
Math didn’t hold my
Interest.
It dog-paddled, then drowned in
my budding poet brain.
I had a gorgeous Dutch
Girlfriend, Van Vleck or
Van something or other.
I acted in the play,
and started at small
forward on the
basketball team.
I even got into a
fight with a kid for
telling the principal that
he sold me a little ****
I was suspended for a week,
but Dad didn’t seem to
mind that much.
He gave me a copy of
Don Quixote, and told
me to write an essay a day.
Back then, I was
the prince of the private school.
I started to care about
learning.
The teachers taught with
zeal and zest.
The lust for literature was
born in me
beneath that smiling
West Coast sunshine, and
melancholy California fog.
Feb 28, 2025
Feb 28, 2025 at 5:07 PM UTC