"chinas" poems
Take a butchers at this me old Chinas.
Slip ya Plates o' Meat into ya Jacks,
brew up a nice cup o' Rosy,
and if you haven't got a Scooby what I'm on about,
feel free to fire me off a Jimmy Nail
and tell me it's a load of old cobblers.
Can you Adam an' Eve it,
I left me Dog 'n' Bone on the Apples
and when I went to call the Trouble 'n' Strife
some joker had Half-Inched it.
But that's not the worst of it.
When I got back to the Cat and Mouse
she'd done a bunk in me shiny new Jam Jar.
I couldn't believe me Pork Pies!
So here I am all on me Todd,
me only transport a ****** old **** van ****
Gordon Bennett!
I'm goin' down the ****** for a few Britneys,
gonna get totally Brahms and List
and blow a big fat raspberry at the whole thing.
Tomorrow's another bale 'o' hay.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 3:20 PM UTC
If hip-hop is the night club of music,
The place where everyone wants to be,
Then, metal, you are the abandoned trainyard,
The gritty reality of close friends,
Bonding over empty cans.
Bluegrass might be a picnic,
With blankets in the park.
And rap might be the ghetto,
Urban streets,
Perpetual fear.
However, you have a different touch.
Sure, phat dubstep beats sound great,
When blasted by waves of bass.
But what of the feeling,
From uncountable bass pedal strikes.
Creating a wall of hard-pressed consistency.
And when the bass drum stops,
You know you'll hear a well-practiced,
Well-executed,
Well-written fill.
From the snare, to the toms,
To the chinas and splashes.
32nd notes all around.
And if punk is a bunch of teens,
Landing one out of twelve tricks,
At the local skate park.
If reggae is a house party,
The place your parents don't want you,
But where you feel happy.
Then metal is where you feel REAL.
A darkened elementary school,
Yours for the weekend,
Reminding you where you came from.
Years and years of practice,
All leading up to a perfectly nailed arpeggio.
You don't even hear the pick as it sweeps,
String to string.
You only hear notes and scales,
Arranged just so.
Pure dedication,
Displayed by the clean solos,
And harmonies,
Which fall back into downtuned chugging,
Rhythms,
Simply rhythms,
True unison,
The brotherhood dynamic,
Of a lesser-liked genre.
And the sounds of the world,
Are the way you go to school,
To work and home again,
And silence,
Is nights spent alone,
Silence is the absence of passion,
Silence is suicide,
Death.
Metal, you are my resonance.
My threshold.
And the words,
Repeated throughout my mind,
Are not shrill notes on the treble-clef.
They are not auto-tuned, worthless.
The words I feel,
The words I live,
Are the common words and phrases,
That no one can understand,
The deep grating and churning,
Of vocal chords that learn not to ring,
But to shout.
To scream.
To growl, like the guttural and primordial calls.
Of our wild side.
This growling echoes,
From throat to mind.
Metal is my flag,
My skin,
My pyre.
Jul 24, 2010
Jul 24, 2010 at 7:51 AM UTC
What can I say of a father
Who was too ill to notice my birth?
Whose gentle nature at once endeared him to me
and caused me the greatest pain of my whole life.
And Dad, when I went to wake you all those mornings in vain,
Did you notice the fear behind my squeaking laughter?
Or the sound of my retreat?
Did your love for me grow when I sketched your sky
And folded the laundry while you were away?
I think of the slow droning burn of the days,
How my life was a struggle for power, a struggle for words.
I waged war at seven.
There had to be violence and noise and ruin,
For the tumult that surrounded me never ceased
And had never before been produced
By my own small body,
Though I believed I was the perpetrator all along.
Our finest chinas grew fewer as I grew older,
And the laziness of my household grew too.
Gnats swarmed our remaining plastic bowls
As the rooms expanded both in fullness and in void.
A lack. A lack of mom. Dad away in the shed, tinkering.
Sometimes, Dad, your face took on a look of health.
A health whose glow radiated unto me, your satellite.
And in those moments of brightness, i believed in god,
In everything, in your capacity, in your love, your promises,
In my own beauty.
I brought you my words and lavished upon you my art, my books,
My trinkets of artistic arrangement.
I showed you the house of my creation where there were girls
With blue shoes and there was peace within the six pink rooms.
The moon learns in time that there are passing phases
And that the constancy of the sun’s luminosity is illusory.
But i was too young to know of ancient cycles,
And in my beating heart it was unlove
and there was no trace of hope when you turned face
And eclipsed me.
Mar 21, 2021
Mar 21, 2021 at 3:45 AM UTC
with immediate effect chinas embassy in london to be at the tranis house at hampton court. the old lodge at hampton court where i lived in history in england needs to be tidied and checked by the police before i can go in. im pleased to see some eternity fund going where its needed around the world.
the banks are very nearly uncorrupt following hard work by bank of japan and america fall and bank of england hutchinson.
remember it against the law to raise a price in england scotland wales northern dansana and southern dansana, china or france.
house prices cannot increase more than 5percent a year unless restoration work or extentions have been completed.
it is illegal for interest rates to rise at all in china france and uk.
vat must be added as usual
if anyone( princes only please, wants to do trade please contact me here if you are a king or president or the embassy in your country.
embassys must assess if product would cause loss of jobs in home country if it is so china will not move forward. to trade with china england and france all food must be healthy.
to reiterate trade is 1percent inport 1percent export no other charge. exise must be paid in advance
Dec 17, 2020
Dec 17, 2020 at 10:36 PM UTC
El placer de sufrir, de odiar, me tiñe
la garganta con plásticos venenos,
mas la cerda que implanta su orden mágico,
su grandeza taurina, entre la prima
y la sexta
y la octava mendaz, las sufre todas.
El placer de sufrir... ¿Quién? ¿a quién?
¿quién, las muelas? ¿a quién la sociedad,
los carburos de rabia de la encía?
¿Cómo ser
y estar, sin darle cólera al vecino?
Vales más que mi número, hombre solo,
y valen más que todo el diccionario,
con su prosa en verso,
con su verso en prosa,
tu función águila,
tu mecanismo tigre, blando prójimo.
El placer de sufrir,
de esperar esperanzas en la mesa,
el domingo con todos los idiomas,
el sábado con horas chinas, belgas,
la semana, con dos escupitajos.
El placer de esperar en zapatillas,
de esperar encogido tras de un verso,
de esperar con pujanza y mala poña;
el placer de sufrir: zurdazo de hembra
muerta con una piedra en la cintura
y muerta entre la cuerda y la guitarra,
llorando días y cantando meses.
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I put up walls higher than Chinas
I have stitches from past traumas
Trust became my enemy
Love made me a widower
My heart stopped
But my eyes are still open
I dont want to die
But I think im dead anyways
Nov 11, 2021
Nov 11, 2021 at 2:02 PM UTC
Mi niña se fue a la mar,
a contar olas y chinas,
pero se encontró, de pronto,
con el río de Sevilla.
Entre adelfas y campanas
cinco barcos se mecían,
con los remos en el agua
y las velas en la brisa.
¿Quién mira dentro la torre
enjaezada, de Sevilla?
Cinco voces contestaban
redondas como sortijas.
El cielo monta gallardo
al río, de orilla a orilla.
En el aire sonrosado,
cinco anillos se mecían.
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