"crooners" poems
Antsy aardvarks all
accept ants accordingly
as an addiction
Bamboo bayonets
bought by barbaric, beastly
barons bite beatniks
Cloistered cobblers can
color candy-cane conches
concealing crooners
Daffodils doodle
daydreams down, debauchery
demons deafening
Every eon each
electric elephant eats
eleven elk eggs
For fun fantasies
file films filosophic'ly
filling filaments
Go get greens
Get grass grayer gal
goonie ghoul
Hello high hammock
how hooligans heave haddocks
heathenly hecklers
Igloos ixist in
icy islands interning
internationally
Jello jam jizzy
Jacks jostling jewels juney
jump jump joop jail
Dec 27, 2009
Dec 27, 2009 at 9:11 PM UTC
Where are
The ecstatic saxophones that
Slung forth swank slurs of
Beauty,
The *** *** ***
Bass lines,
The snaps and snares and the
Sweet rhythm of the Night?
Music had character
And minds followed, in following
Soared.
There were no glittery vampires,
No prepubescent
Brother boy bands.
Soulful crooners never
Warbled over Alejandro,
Or the boots with the fur, with the fur.
We wrote letters and shared thoughts and ideas
And convictions.
There was no need for the techno
Middleman
To wrap our
Real thoughts in LOLs
To make opening
Up to another
More efficient.
Mass media
Gluttony drowns
America till I strain and struggle
Only to barely stay afloat
In this sea of apathy.
But you won't buy and sell my soul.
I'm not going to
Be your
Consumptive,
Quiet,
Couldn't-care-less,
I won't get in the way,
And I won't raise my voice,
Good American,
2.5 children,
Christian,
Conserva-libera-publi-crat,
Self-centered, Illiterate, Ignorant
Sheep
Only to follow the power.
**** no,
I'm mad as hell;
I want to leave the next generation
A world where
You can confess your
Love and be a man or
Love another man and have
Basic human rights, and it all
Starts in your
Mind
And your
Expression thereof.
It's the saccharine pop
Culture that has
Made free-thought unfashionable, a crime.
Art is
Revolution.
Hang
Up,
Log
Out,
Unplug and just look
At what you've let the
World become in
Letting yourself be
Little more than
A faceless source
Of merciless dollars.
Wrest free our
Culture from the
Calamitous and indifferent
Claws of rampant capitalism.
Express yourself or submit,
Stand up for a free America.
I will not be sold.
Oct 26, 2010
Oct 26, 2010 at 2:23 PM UTC
We married in the back of that old Rambler in that syrupy summer. Kitkitdizze mortared under pestal of our tires and its grind made an aroma of peculiar pungency. The moon was plump as an unshelled fava and I was about to peal her. This was all the commitment ceremony we needed. Stars be our witness. Outsiders we were, and the cliffs of the Malakoff Diggins where we did our rambling. I initially met her at her wedding to him, whence she gave her away, though rumor had it she and she were once an item prior to he and she ever meeting. Still, more ****** talk spoke of them being a three. This was all good with me, being that I had had that other he who was still bound to that she who had two hims herself. Lucky gal. Notice, I'm not naming names here.
It was our life and we lived it in polyamorous faultlessness. Gurus, rock stars, poets and other worldly scholars were all in the club. As gluey as all that free love was, most became unstuck in their ways. Hot, hot, hot sticky June crooners. Man I can't wait for summer to come again. Who's getting married in the morning?
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 1:08 AM UTC
when i think of the word
beauty
i think of
the canvas of your skin painted with
every little freckle
every nostalgic bruise,
the galaxies inside your bones,
the celestial bodies glimmering in your eyes
your curving lips that hinted
a smile brighter than a multitude of stars
your voice softer
than the french crooners we listen to
every gloomy evening
when i think of the word
beauty
i think of no more but you
and the cosmos that hid under your skin
and how i am merely an wonderer
and you are an entire world to explore.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
Adam Zambataro
carving arrow heads of bedrock
wearing red socks and a red hat to match
a thin stache above his lip
he sips his beer
staying clear of any wack conversation
says "it lacks demonstration of good character"
doesn't care her **** are big
or that she digs similar tunes
50's crooners. He lights a 27
parties are fun and all, but bed will be heaven
a tired face, and a spent look in his eyes
he makes his decision without compromise
he puts on his jacket and makes his way home
a quiet cold walk where he can finally be alone
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
I dream of Paris
Drunk in colours of Pink,
And warm, soft hues
Of gold and blue.
The leaves, they fall.
They waltz and dance
among feathers white,
In a wind, their guide.
Then a pitter, then a patter
Then a lightning trembling Paris' every café.
The leaves, the feathers -
They dance no more
But float in waters that they have always known.
Morning comes as night is forgot -
And crooners croon
And painters paint.
And the glamour of the Tour Eiffel is captured through.
As cafés brew
And Tourists walk
Over stories told,
Over stories untold
And the struggles of the night before
makes todays skies so clear and oh so blue.
Dec 11, 2021
Dec 11, 2021 at 5:33 AM UTC
Let's take one
like a thief would take jewels
or a tired mother would a nap
cheap sunglasses
and spare change
counting dimes for gas
and nickels to tip the waitress
barefoot
radio on
blasting ancient crooners
or classic rock
going fuzzy every hour or so
as we leave
every new home
we make
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
yet another savage tragedy
ravages, emotionally,
the trap queens in bandages
screaming to their bae’s
about the vastness of calamities
blunt tips glow showing smoke blown
extensions flowing growing tired of
liars on the youtube
seeking gifs and snap-chat
besties to wrestle
with the cultural festivities
being given proclivity
to policy lunacy –
smart phone glued
claw hand and shrewdly
planning to revamp the system
with hello kitty ***** twisters
and metrosexual waterfall trips…
it’s truly a pip
these auto-tuned post baby-boomers
no relations to crooners
thinking the sooners are only
Oklahoma….
My youth tirade
is partly a parade
like a brass band on Burbon
playing unafraid –
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 4:21 PM UTC
Saccharine sheen I once saw in a dream more silver than a movie screen.
Blues inflates your pouty mouth
rock n roll shouts in your hip bones crooners sway as easy as your tongue mountains made and crumble as bodies repeat slide into one.
Move over
slide your hand across my shoulders. Brush off those boulders
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 1:34 AM UTC