Give them hell
Raining down on your fists
Show them the consquence
of all the nights
when their hell weapons kept you up
and made it a living hell
Kept you thinkin "that coffin better be just my size"
give the bastards something
Give them something they didn't pay for
Let them try to bring you down kid
Give them hell kid
I see that
her thermostat again.
Comatose is a wonderful degree.
abandon the circular life,
the line life.
"life" has no
need to explain its course.
Life simply is.
Life simply happens.
Life simply exists.
Even when you're "dead".
Questions lurk below every theory.
So ask away & Find out for yourself.
That the Dumps
adequate to inhabit.
Fight or Flight.
is my only option.
Out o' here.
In times of desperation,
it is understandable,
to be influenced by instinct.
it is inexcusable
to forever live
You deserve better.
Cause you're the best. <3
deep below the wishing well,
in the tomb of wishful pennies,
live a team of diligent elves,
working day and night.
they grab each cast away coin as it falls,
clutching them to their grimy chests in hunger.
they box them all up
and melt them down in flat sheets by the dozen
in factory fashion
and they build from them tools and weapons;
whatever it is that they need.
their business is balanced on the backs of believers
who pour out their hearts to deaf coins
in scrunched eyes and in whispers
and a flick of their wrists to the darkness below.
perhaps if they knew the fate of their coins,
the industrial dungeon just storeys below
they might have spent their wishes on a shooting star instead,
destined to shatter through space.
stick a nickel in your mouth because you like money
melt it down and let it coat your tongue like honey
and you still can't taste food two days later
because you've got a solid metal tongue that can't taste flavor
coin tongue click your teeth for Charon to deliver
and cut your tongue out to pay him to cross the river
when you burned your last nickel in the furnace
it dissolved like the sun as it churned and spit
solar flares lick your eyes because they love you
fire only wants to kiss you like doves do
doves do burn too, feathers like ashes like carbon monoxide
they were plastic so you passed out when they fried
a little molten rubber with a little bubble
and a prize inside, pop it because it's trouble
and supple, with evaporated eyes
no doves just trinkets and magpies
a little bit of gold is the same as mass hypnosis
dove or chicken nuggets or gold nuggets for strong doses
of oxytocin and candy corn, serve them together on halloween to children
because they need thick skin and ritalin
in them to keep them quiet, and so everyone's got a little disquiet
in their stomachs, because we're all high
on coins coins and brightly lit rooms
and when we have to turn the lights off at least turn on the nickel moon
and in it she stood
awash with crescented chrysanthemums
with honeysuckle skin and wisteria eyelashes
and with it i said
if nights were like coins
id spend them all on you
and twinkle them between my fingers
shaking them up and admiring
the glint and value of
the night and its stars
and the coppery, nickel-y dusk
that stains my hand with
the bouquet of metal and flowers
from nights and coins
alongside only you
with a perfume of
and pressing summer heat
and my whispers and promises
that tell you
that if nights were like coins
id spend them all on you
laugh at me
You are normal
Popular psyche exam
You forget me so easily
How the mighty have fallen
If I use that trite expression
Would you still listen to
Jazz and shooting stars
Slipping through the
confines of your eyelids
I was the master Now the Slave
Once a biochemist-
Now blind children divine the future with my finger-bones
Where is the peace i deserve?
How dare this life pour itself out upon me!
I have spent too much time inside this mind
Trying to understand your question marks
Rereading your sentences-learning to read between lines
I am a young god or a soul
I am an aged demon full of electrons
Draw the line here
I am a poet to snakes
Dreaming of becoming a bird
Birds dreaming of mouthfuls of insects
The glint of a gold coin discarded and under a hedge.
The unmistakeable chink and tinkle of the shrapnel congregating at the bottom of my pocket.
I can find any combination of currency in a lovely jingle jangle of metallic discs.
The cashier slips me a note and some change on top which spills onto the counter.
A 10 pence piece tries an audacious spinning escape morphing into a ball.
The change rattles again as it all settles at the bottom of my pocket after dropping in the new recruits.
I slide the discoloured crinkled creased five pound note into my leather wallet nicely nestling next to a ten pound note.
I love the smell of dirty money!
Transactions have redundant residuals
The remnants of commerce and trade
In pockets the small dust of currency
The left over cash of price paid
The clinking froth of things purchased
The metal remains of exchange
the leavings of costs and desire
the chinking bulk of loose change
It fits in you grasp like genitals
Warm, round with a vague sense of sin
What used to be golden and silver
Is now mainly nickel and tin
We are tired of the weight in our pockets
We are shamed by the drag of its need
For if it should fall from our fingers
We forsake our grace for our greed
For there is something quite reassuring
When you empty your pockets at night
You glimpse a glance of old memories
The sixpence of childhood’s delight
I don't like change,
I keep it tucked away in my wallet,
the only space for it,
no good space,
it just sits there,
weighs down on the frayed stitching in
my old jean pocket and makes things
too heavy on one side,
never worth much,
always just the leftovers,
the things I couldn't trade in for something else so
I got them back,
a stale metallic smell,
not worth as much.
The plantations have been privatized
The cotton fields paved with concrete
They still exist
Despite how much you resist
Needing working bee's
And insist you enlist
From the stone like mass
Sky scrappers are erected
At the tiptop, a dick head runs the show
He tells all the little white men
Who work beneath him
What to do and were to go
You're too tired to even think
But you have to work
If you want to eat
From slaves in shackles
To droids with imperceptible chains
Leading and whipping the pack,
Grinning like a fool
All complacently cozy cuddling your coins
In an ornamented box
Where your view of the stars is blocked
Politicking away with a bottle scars of yesterday
Telling yourself "Everything will be okay,
It has been this far."
All the while Uncle Sam blows freedom smoke
Up your ass with his federal cigar
Buy, consume, sell
Get drunk, stay distracted, inhale
Imbibe thoughts instead of ale
You could read a book for fun now,
Or to cure boredom in jail
Who will place two coins on my eyes
Down the river Styx
My soul will glide
Two coins for the boatman
Ferry me away
To the throne of Persephone
Snatched from light of day
Two coins I cry
Two coins for my eyes
Through dark waters I float
To where my body must lie
Two coins for Charon
That looks away
Never seeing my face
Or the light of day
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3),
Tammy M Darby