"cadillac" poems
Crows and corn chips, Squirrels and beer sips…
Lazy hammock and Hemming-way,
our rabbits mowing the grass today...
A nap under the advancing stars,
A Paradise in our Backyard!
Raccoons love the chicken bones,
everynight, a fox visits our home,
Fish guts and crab-leg shells,
opossum out there giving-‘em-Hell,
Casting corn and some bird seed,
for Mother Nature everything she needs,
God’s aces and a Wild Card!
A Paradise in our Backyard!
Ohhh! In summer a Bar-be-que,
and you the prettiest girl I ever Knew!
Couple ‘o kids and a swimming pool,
mini-van and Cadillac-cool,
Love the beaches and mountains,
of Carolina and my country-kin,
Wouldn’t trade it for the whole of Mars,
A Paradise in our Backyard!
You and me under the stars,
our home, children and a dream of ours,
Leo, Virgo, Aries and Mars,
I thank the Lord for your tender heart.
Our life amazing, though a, rough start,
A Paradise in our Backyard!
Oo-oh -a paradise in our Backyard!
You and me under the stars,
Our home and children; a dream of ours,
Leo, Virgo, Aries and Mars,
I thank the Lord for your tender heart...
...a Paradise in our Backyard!
Some people say it’s just a yard,
...this paradise under the stars,
Leo, Virgo, Aries and Mars,
you, me, children of ours.
Our home, children, a dream of ours,
I thank you Jesus for your tender heart;
Paradise in our Backyard!
A Paradise in our Backyard!
Oooh -a paradise in our Backyard!
You and me under the stars,
Our home and children a dream of ours,
Leo and Virgo, Aries and Mars,
A Paradise in our Backyard!
Praise Jesus and NAS-CAR!
You and me under the stars,
our home and children a dream of ours,
Leo and Virgo, Aries and Mars,
some people say it’s just a yard?
You and me under the stars
-and a Paradise in our Backyard!
*A Paradise in our Backyard!
A Paradise in our Backyard!
A Paradise in our Backyard!*
<musical break>
I love you,
heaven: Hea Anna
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 11:59 PM UTC
gold in your hair,
denim on floor,
mistakes in bed,
bathing in each
other’s cologne,
i trace the freckles
on your back,
no more time to
talk, time has
hopped on a Cadillac,
purple becomes
my new skin tone,
one seal breaks
and now im in the
lost virtues zone,
my name becomes
your only vocab,
shortly after
I had it unwrap.
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 4:41 PM UTC
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to get hit by a Mercedes.
I want to get run over by a Porsche.
Something big.
I want to get smeared against the pavement
by a Cadillac Escalade.
I want to get hit by one of those big ********
who drag gasoline across the continent,
but I want the driver to be a manic psychopath.
I want him to stalk me on the sidewalk
and then run me over slowly.
He's not any coward, not like those bald patriarchal
Corvette drivers in polo shirts tucked into khakis.
No, he's a great fat man, a hairy beast with
a crooked stare that slows the pulse on impact.
I want the police to cringe or get scared interrogating him,
and haul his truck somewhere to be inspected.
I want the price of gas in nearby areas to go up
by at least fifteen cents for two weeks.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to roll over the windshield,
and drag under the bottom for about ten yards.
I want to separate at the middle and leave organs on his
left side view mirror and hanging on his hood ornament.
I want to seep blood deep into his car,
and when he turns on his heat,
he'll smell my blood full blast in his face
burning.
I want to wreck the car inside and out.
I want to get hit by a car with a McCain sticker on the bumper.
I don't want to get hit by some middle class Ford or Honda,
or someone's shit-level Chevy or beat up jalopy.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want the driver to make his tires scream like banshees,
and leave four long streaks of rotten burned rubber on the asphalt.
I want him to step out in business attire, and gasp, inwardly.
I want to flip off the sky, because my aim is bad,
and call him a coward for hitting the brakes.
I want him to think,
"What did I do?
Is he Okay?
What am I going to do?
What if I lose my license?
How will I get to work?
How will I pay for this.
Does my insurance cover
vehicular manslaughter?
I'm not alone right?
I'll get through this.
I'll survive.
I'll just be another statistic.
That's all."
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
first line lips are false as a beach next mcarthur’s in chicago next the big blond takes the elevator down next pearl on the lip next shalimar stirs the canine **** all right I like that let’s start a new one do it what what do you have don’t **** up wheres the apostrophe ******* you’re cruel now back now whack it again whack it again I want it to go back whack it press it whack it okay new line
i want elevator i want uh i want don’t ask the bellboy for the time just take the elevator to what? to notions? to the lingerie shop? ah **** you grandma new line
all right one more time okay **** the gin-socked tongue that’s “soaked” period once again the elevator down paint the pretty tie (cough cough) thai next big buick big *** like fish put a ? after fish take it back take it back you ***** okay that’s not bad you do all right ah **** song of india in the desert at night put “” marks around song of india & desert song in capital letters hit shalimar then cadillac red lips then **** like a seashell with a gin-soaked tongue start new line
all right does mcarthur stick his socks in the bathtune at night that’s bathtub the dog howls at the moon buries it in the backyard snakes lose their skin cocoa butter slick water on the brain of the big dark blond song of india **** **** **** big fish *** big v8 you ***** keep up with me painted rocks like a pretty tie fast car long legs and a broken heel now dead no not dead yet um estee lauder goes down on price-waterhouse in a swedish bath bellboy watching this is his reflection in the mirror no silver one-sided next line
big blond trampled by elephants with wrinkled knees starch is not chic all gone shalimar stirs the k-9 **** sequined *** in the moonlight cadillac red lips hungry dog eats tail becomes himself bad dog play dead okay what do you suggest bad doggie bad comma bad comma hungry dog go for the tongue you dumb ***** keep going new line
what do cactuses(i) have??? fronds fur what are their things called new line
dog hates gin go for the breast stupid ***** good dog dry dog poor dog pour blond water of life **** yellow a thai like painted rocks period next
i want head down legs up i want sequined *** only ****** level damp dampened dampest ***** panorama **** **** **** blue blue down there feminine azure with clouds too got it odalisque in blue period have mercy on me no no new ******* line what are you filling that thing up with okay stop it for now
4.6k
Hey Harvey Wallbanger
I’d like you to tie me to the bedpost, baby
And press your fuzzy navel to my *slippery ******
Give me your white angel kiss and I’ll lie down like a brown cow
While between the sheets you play the Italian stallion.
Like a kamikaze pilot head for my pink squirrel
Then give me your ol’ Alabama slammer
And pack a *** punch* into that screwdriver of yours.
I want a *screaming ******
That’ll send me to blue heaven. Wu Wu!
So, don’t mention that ****** Mary*
With her devil’s kiss,
Or you’ll find I can give a snake bite that’s as deadly as a B-52.
Instead let’s ride into the tequila sunset in our golden Cadillac
For *** on the beach*
And on the sea breeze we'll hear an old love song sung by a ‘salty dog’ with a Gibson
And watch a tropical storm over Manhattan
We'll go to Peppermint Patti’s café
And order an Irish coffee and a large slice of cherry pie.
Happy, after dark let’s drive home for a *sloe comfortable ***** with satin pillows*
And fall into the sweet surrender of a summer dream.
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 7:58 AM UTC
Neal Cassady
February 8 ,1926 - February 4 , 1968
San Miguel D'Alene , Mexico
Dead from extreme exposure
Four days short of forty-two
Only fitting , next to a railroad track
He had many words to haul back
The wolf sleeps next to the silver rail
Howling at a silver moon that fell
I see here he drove a ******* Cadillac
Through the San Francisco streets
With the top down
Smiling free , it was meant to be
Life is a quasar
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
Here's my tird attempt to post this
a Memory from my Yut
To all us ***** fellows
One BIG salute
A good lovin' woman's like a crusin' Cadillac
She'll make every curve & never jump the track
She'll hug ya & squeeze ya & never miss a turn
And when it comes to power she's got plenty to burn
Now if she's the kind with an automatic shift
She'll slide right into gear & never feel stiff
If she's got the gears that include the clutch
You'll only have to let it out a little, not to much
On the outside she's really one clean machine
With all of her shimmer, sparkle, shine & gleam
On the inside she's plush & soft to the touch
And she'll take you for a ride that's really too much
Jun 4, 2010
Jun 4, 2010 at 9:57 PM UTC
On a long journey across the night of an America
I drove into the desert landscape and beheld
Elvis and Morrison, Hendrix and Dylan
In a ditch to the side of the road, with trash bags in their hands.
They seemed to whistle while they worked,
But the notes just wafted into the night, not nearly fast enough to catch my speeding
Cadillac.
In the morning, I stopped into a diner
With my breakfast and coffee,
I saw a newspaper that was guaranteed by the Andy Warhol himself
to be one hundred percent truthful.
I didn't read it. Had to get back on the road
The desert went on forever, and in the oil fields
I saw Jackson Pollack, standing by a gusher,
Wearing a cheshire grin.
I smiled back at him, secure in the knowledge that I would have enough gas to get
where I was going.
The announcer's voice blasted through my car's radio.
He said Poe had solved overpopulation,
and that Emerson, Thoreau, Uncle Walt and Miss Em
had got their hands ***** and fed the entire continent of Africa.
I shut him off and bore my eyes down on the asphalt ahead.
I passed a drive in theater on the left side of the road
and caught a glimpse of Scorsese accepting the Nobel Prize for Peace.
Someone told me later that he and DeNiro had stopped genocide.
I politely nodded and got back in my car.
Out there was America and I was going to find it.
Out there was industry and capital.
Out there was ingenuity and hard work.
Out there were my own bootstraps waiting for me to pull them up.
Out there was
America,
and I was going to find it fast.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 3:49 AM UTC
Surrealism gone Awry
Watch, I open my skull on pneumatic hinges,you must have a hungry compulsion to peer inside and see the steamy tomato soup.
There is a certain blasphemy in believing.
See the dictator swill Avalanche in his mouth.
By decree the narcotics language
of surrealism states, that in the hierarchy of apples
Those closest to the sun murmur the sweetest, and in dreams the diabolical devil is obliged to meet you, but a committee of angels will arrive with Uzis loaded with enthusiasm... In time!
Surrealism is the proprietor
Of flowers fervently whirling like dervishes until... It is a place where I narrate lovers melting like pennies at the sight of each other, where home appliances long for your touch.
My fetish is my imagination, wild, wild imagination extravagant as your birth child,
Gaudy and beautiful like a coach built Cadillac by Saoutchick.
Where everything utter is true.
Welcome wide eyed wonder
To my simple things,
Fuel injected heart
Needle and thread
Enameled soul made from a French mind
Small animal pelts and bones for superstition
German precision
With the eye of a Xerox machine.
So one emphatically dream
Emphatically live
Emphatically believe everything uttered is true.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
I took a hearse to prom.
Not the most conventional way at all.
Not the sort of carriage a prince
Should take to a ball.
My chauffeur drove me.
He was dressed in black.
I suppose a hearse is better
Than my mum’s old Cadillac.
I drove alone to prom.
Said I’d meet my date there.
Besides, she’d be late with all
Her make-up and her hair.
I just had to suit up
And get my tie to sit real still.
Then my father looked me over,
And said; ‘I think you fit the bill.’
So I sat in anticipation
As I drove there to the prom.
But who’d have thought in two minutes
Everything would go wrong.
My father’s an alcoholic, see.
As was my chauffeur.
Because they are the same man.
The man who drove the hearse.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 5:35 AM UTC
in love, in lust
in bed, in dust
we lie together
blind and deaf
mere sheep
till the day of death............
tell them i'm government
that i did came
only peace and virtue
flow from my name
and if you don't listen
it's a god ****** shame
far from fame
i cure thy lame
the youth i'll train
to die
to fight
to pillage
to plight
with pen
with knife
from darkness til light
to believe and receive
to **** that which you conceive
with anger and greed
an unstoppable seed
drug and arm these streets
the bass and the beats
under the cadillac seats
next to the stamps with which you eat............
god is online
a friend of mine
in a lighted box
with airwaves of angels
joining both you and me
why can't you see
the ******** they feed
the bulletins and tickers
lollipops and stickers
flashes and flickers of truth
but we don't see
for our eyes are covered
when we are mothered by them.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 1:55 PM UTC
Incongruous by nature
wrapped in ignominious twine
I eat sushi and a 12 dollar slice of cheese cake
Chug two old english and spend the night at the porcelain throne both ends screaming
staring into eyes rapt with fear
all eyes are rapt with fear
Of what then? Death? Shame?
in the rubber belts and fulcrum arms and cogs of the melting ***
all perspectives have value
and the decadence signified in a haircut or a cadillac is nothing more
than the words on the bathroom walls
or little brown note books
Clarity is for saps
Flourish dans l'entropy
Ou mourir dans la peur
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
"Turn back the pages of history,
and see the men who have shaped the destiny of the world. Security was never theirs,
but they lived rather than existed,"
said Hunter S. Thompson
at age 17,
before he became The Duke,
and shaved off a leg in Doonsbury cartoons,
before he rapped the sharp corner of his shot glass,
so too many times,
on the inch thick enamel,
of the Woody Creek Tavern bar top,
and waited until closing time
to begin blowing lines,
out of the divets he'd made.
The people clapping,
the moon attacking,
the red bone blood of America pumping past his eyes.
After he died, everyone there had a Hunter story:
Hunter shot his hot girl assistant in the *** by mistake,
but he felt like **** about it.
Hunter had a dozen red cheeked lasses he skied with,
but he never messed with them.
Hunter showed up in a Cadillac convertible packed with
strippers dressed burlesque.
But it was hard to tell just exactly what he was up to with
the strippers, the peacocks,
or anything else.
Alot of the stories had ****** implications,
but what they mostly implied
was he was cool about it.
He didn't write any of those stories.
Despite all evidence to the contrary he liked his privacy,
and what peace he found in rare quiet.
And he made **** sure they'd shoot his ashes
out of a ******* canon when he died.
The canon is still there.
So are the peacocks.
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 1:45 AM UTC
My childhood bicycle
was like a Cadillac
with fins and gizmos
but my brother suggested
we strip it down.
My brother tried
to fix a red corvette
in our family's garage.
The computer has replaced
my childhood bicycle
with its journeys
to cyberspace.
The 5 year old car
of my mother's
which I drive
is orange and waits
in our family's garage.
Nov 8, 2010
Nov 8, 2010 at 9:12 AM UTC
I'm a table, I'm a bench
I'm an appliance with many uses
I'm a dead girl in the front seat
of your Cadillac
Was hoping to get dicked down
by your Master Sword but
cell connection's kind of spotty
I'll clean it with my pics because I want to eat
spoiling your paradise
tie me down and school me
make me clean your mess
is this what you want?
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 5:01 AM UTC
that night, I saw bodies in the motel bathtub
beckoning like a 50's Cadillac
back seat beats and Father's
bottle of snatched brandy up
to bring back our youth
and stay
for one last whisper in a last-innocent ear
the diner lights buzzing like
a lifetime of loss to mistakes
that can be little more or
less than broken glass lies
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
I see your bags all packed for leavin’
And I’m sure you have a reason
But there ain’t no reason I could understand.
You tell me you need freedom
And I wish I could believe ya
But I think your ‘freedom’ means another man.
So if freedom’s just a cover
And you’re leavin’ for another
Here’s my advice – I hope it makes some sense
You should compare the life your choosin’
With the one that you’ll be losin’
Cuz the grass ain’t always greener on the far side of the fence.
No the grass ain’t always greener on the far side of the fence –
Sometimes it’s a confusing shade of brown
Compare the life your choosin’
With the one that you’ll be losin’
Life might not be better on the other side of town.
Yeah, he’s probably real good lookin’
Tells you he just loves your cookin’
Takes you clubbin’ and goes dancin’ all night long.
But at night when you are sleepin’
Midnight memories come creepin’
Do you shed a tear when you hear our favorite song”
Think hard before you cut the cord,
Don’t choose a life you can’t afford
Don’t ever want you having no regrets.
Consider what you’re doin’,
And all the lives you’ll ruin
The grass might not be greener on the far side of the fence.
No the grass ain’t always greener on the far side of the fence –
Sometimes it’s a confusing shade of brown
Consider what you’re doin’,
And all the lives you’ll ruin
Life might not be better on the other side of town.
Well I guess that I’ll stop the lecture now
Cuz you ain’t listenin’ anyhow
There's nothing more that I can say or do.
I’ll help you haul your bags outside
That Cadillac must be your ride
I hope the driver takes good care of you.
And baby you can keep my key
Consider it a gift from me
I’ll go on livin’ in the present tense.
Then when I’m done with my friend Jack,
Most likely I won’t want you back
Cuz' I like the color green I got on my side of the fence.
Yeah I like the color green I got on my side of the fence
No matter what I'm gonna hold my ground
Then when I’m done with my friend Jack,
Most likely I won’t want you back
I like the color green I got on my side of the town.
pwl 2014
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 9:24 PM UTC
Water is reeked with nicotine
The souls are reeked with Ginsberg
but the heads and the thoughts have both pungent smell like
hot rooster comb flowers
I slept last time the day before yesterday
I saw the ****** Mary so beautiful
in that glow of blue & gold
neons of Bethlehem
thumbing a lift near a cadillac with CD plate
& the jazz was caroling in wet sand
there were twelve bars in the honour of that boy
who has to come here one day finally, ****
he has to come just for jamming in this world
as it's said he could /!/ get all that mess of ours
off ourselves gentlemanly playing the part.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 5:31 AM UTC
i've got me a ***** black cadillac,
stretched out—front windows rolled right down—on the curb.
with a French girl waiting inside, legs long as sin, sitting against the wide dark window
legs extended 'cross the backseat.
hiding her eyes behind big round sunglasses, smoking oily moroccan cigarettes
—writing about the way i talk.
there's a whole lotta crisp, cold money in the trunk,
waitin' to be spent on the furs she wants;
old books for me. and why not??
old books on art,
and i can't even paint!
just sit around not talking—read about Brughel or som'thin,
wishing my over-large, complacent hands knew to render the face
a fifth so well.
a fifth of whisky's 's close 's i get,
i get drunk and further away,
out now in that devil of a car, parked presently out
by the shed where i go most nights to sit in musty chairs 'n scratch ink lazily
on pages nobody ever reads..
—but it feels ******
g o o d .
my frenchwoman would like to know what i think of old Proust...
REPLY: he took too ****** long! // (a sigh can be a story)
—one could write a novel in the time it takes to
toss your load on a pair of trembling ******* held up in offering—oh i can't help but be uncouth!!
—i mean just the other day fr christ's sake i moved a friend in Waterloo
to her new apartment and when carrying up the stairs two bags of clothes and a toaster
saw wonderful little second year heading up as well so i
let her go first (at first glance you may think me chivalrous) and while climbing up behind her
composed in my head the following pome, which i dashed off later on a post-it
and dedicated to her exquisite ***
“all legs blonde climbin' the stairs, lamp in hand, yoga pants
hot & clinging like wee-ooo / hot enough in this cramped old stairwell as is,
carrying all these bags & boxes & couches up for a friend.
—hey when you're all moved in / you could come sit that thing on my lap.
share a cigarette while i carve slices of apple & offer them to you,
impaled on the end of the knife.”
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 6:38 PM UTC
A born salesman,
my father made all his dough
by selling wool to Fieldcrest, Woolrich and Faribo.
A born talker,
he could sell one hundred wet-down bales
of that white stuff. He could clock the miles and the sales
and make it pay.
At home each sentence he would utter
had first pleased the buyer who'd paid him off in butter.
Each word
had been tried over and over, at any rate,
on the man who was sold by the man who filled my plate.
My father hovered
over the Yorkshire pudding and the beef:
a peddler, a hawker, a merchant and an Indian chief.
Roosevelt! Willkie! and war!
How suddenly gauche I was
with my old-maid heart and my funny teenage applause.
Each night at home
my father was in love with maps
while the radio fought its battles with Nazis and ****
Except when he hid
in his bedroom on a three-day drunk,
he typed out complex itineraries, packed his trunk,
his matched luggage
and pocketed a confirmed reservation,
his heart already pushing over the red routes of the nation.
I sit at my desk
each night with no place to go,
opening thee wrinkled maps of Milwaukee and Buffalo,
the whole U.S.,
its cemeteries, its arbitrary time zones,
through routes like small veins, capitals like small stones.
He died on the road,
his heart pushed from neck to back,
his white hanky signaling from the window of the Cadillac.
My husband,
as blue-eyed as a picture book, sells wool:
boxes of card waste, laps and rovings he can pull
to the thread
and say Leicester, Rambouillet, Merino,
a half-blood, it's greasy and thick, yellow as old snow.
And when you drive off, my darling,
Yes, sir! Yes, sir! It's one for my dame,
your sample cases branded with my father's name,
your itinerary open,
its tolls ticking and greedy,
its highways built up like new loves, raw and speedy.
2.3k
Anxious flashbacks in the back of your Cadillac, with
The window half down to drown out the drones of
Mom’s mouth, ten years old and I’m anxious to
Fill what I lack, but now I’m dying alone in
The back of a stranger’s hatchback and I
Wonder, will God let a ****** through
The gates? Because Mom said the
Chance of a *** getting into
That place was as good as a
Camel strolling thru the
Eye of needle, or
Something like
That, I don’t
Remember
Really.
I do know that Aunt Ruth said I was a needle in a stack of hay, so
I can’t die this way, because God would never make a kid shine
Like truth just to burn out in the soft glow of the flame against
A spoon, that’s just logic. ‘Cuz God, I tried to tie a thread
To my spine and swan dive into the fabric of this Earth,
But all I got was a couches’ bruise, a pillow filled with
The feathers of a plucked bird with its tongue-tied
And words’ lynched, destined to haunt PSA’s and
Statistics, now I’m itching for a way to lay
Or place to sit to die with a sense of
Purpose, so I stretch my arms out
With my palms up like Jesus,
But the Police will see the
Lesions, a haunting
Image of celestial
Intent, But God
Will only see
The
Marks
From
The
Needle.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
keep Knocking on heavens door
just chillin on the stoop
nevermore
on top of the world
how bout you?
so you feel alright
kicking it back on the street.
Ya you got your Cadillac
you trying to be discrete,
man your just a drug dealing *****
Standing on the corner
looking like a **********
It looks like you made a switch
To the other side of the game
****** to many *****
lost your needs
just the Taliban
***** concrete
So you say
**** the world
I say **** you too
Ya your just playing with fire
Dwayne Carter
Everybody can be their own martyer
Gonna take them down
Down to the ground
Athens
Serpents corrupting
How’s that feel
comin straight outta my mind?
Do you feel anysort of negative vibes?
Ya im the stoner that cares
now who the **** are you.
I kno the **** is alright
sometimes I gotta medicate the mind
Wake up from your trance
don’t you see whats sublime?
The plant is an herb
grows from the ground
that’s as green as life itself
ts something you gotta enhance.
Why you gotta distribute
all this pollution for the mind?
You ******* wonder
why ****** get a bad rap.
You say you want to be treated
by your stance
but in return
your just ******* with romance
You want us to trust you like any other man
but then you go stealing our ****
now what the ****
am I suppose to do
**** I heard you got an issue
Its just something
you gotta breakthrough
but no matter how gangster you are
in your own little world
its time for a reissue.
So go ahead and keep selling them rocks
You can make all the money in the world
and still never have ****
The sun is shinning bright today
there’s not a cloud in the sky
you have a choice
what are you to do?
just chilling on the stoop
I feel like I’m on top of the world
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 6:05 PM UTC
poisoned well of the antichrist littered with ground cover
picking out ****** flecks of gravel
blacktop kneeskin
patience pieces of scattered space time
to go back to the future of continuity
lack of genius ingenuity
and the suckling of the pig entourage
riding in a flat top hatchback
cadillac of the daily grind
upperclassman japan onii-chan
brother in arms from anotha motha
hug from afar colliding with crackpot theory
terrible fantasia cooling bricks in soggy sun
swallowed his pride with a glass of self-worth
and these ***** don't cook like they used to
I don't look like I used to
warped veil of camouflage chameleon leather
with a ****** level of automobile salesman
tried to get closer to god
ground him up, picked out the stems
twisted him into thin paper
touched flame to his finger tip and a son of Adam was born
gum shoe gaze
or the emptiness felt at the end of reasonable doubt
correctional text messaging system
sent from hoarse corpses
tenderly poignant in their ****** coffins
will think for food
cries from an outdated MENSA
over ***** and under-appreciated
siting on hunched shoulders to get a better look
to be a martian in a plain port
wharf warehouse whaling boat
red tide in a Shanghai **********
floodgates made of bitter premise
that last bit of purple yam
**** Okonkwo
Things Fall Apart fell apart due to faded highschool ambitions and bloodshot eyes
cruel like the shade of off-cerulean
champagne fizz tickles at the soft meat of his tarnished throat
and silver tongue
as the matchstick framework
so fragile in comparison
fizzles out on drenched sidewalk
while cigarette ash floats by
like gray gnats
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
Dance music,
Damp heat and talk,
Drifts to halcyon days of,
Seventies groove and Afro's ruffled,
In the political funk of,
Freedom fighters and platform shoes,
Cadillac language,
Smooth and languid,
Dripping off honey colored lips like,
Melting chocolate...
It's a card trick,
And we are mesmorised by,
Furtive glances,
Over fanned cards,
Fascinated by the sleight of hand,
And the afternoon light,
Our soft voices and loud giggles,
Caught in a trick of time,
Heavy with love and breakfast but,
One will not survive.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 6:50 AM UTC
Part 1
"How about some long beautiful hair" the Santa says
The little girl rubs her head bald and veiny
She looks like a baseball
"No. It doesn't get in my eyes anymore when I play basketball" she says
The bunch of us
Sunken eyed and balding
In wheelchairs and on crutches
Some of us holding our I.V. stands for support
I can only imagine how the Santa feels
The tiniest zombies
All waiting for a turn
Me
I have silver caps on my top front teeth
And dentures
Look like an old Cadillac
Insides all rust and rumble
We all want to know if we were good this year
Part 2
Cut to the bunch of us
Watching the Blue Angels air show
All getting pictures with a man dressed as Shamu
He is supposed to write something on the backs of all the pictures
I try to imagine
What you could possibly write
To a group of kids that looked like us
Each photo
In shaky black ink
Because whales aren’t prehensile
He writes
I love you
Part3
When the circus came to the hospital
We all gathered on a balcony
The news was there
Clowns painted our faces
I asked if they had room for me
Told them I could be like that guy
From the 007 movies
With the silver teeth that could bite really big stuff
They said I might miss my folks
I told them I wouldn’t
Then took off my gown
To show them my scars
They weren’t impressed
Ever since I’ve wanted to join the circus
Part 4
Despite our qualifications
We could not join the circus
But that is okay
All we wanted really
Was to know if we were good
And that somebody loved us
We were
And somebody did
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 11:26 PM UTC