"crosstalk" poems - Hello Poetry

Hop hopeless off the L searching for hell "works" "works" "subs" "subs" "Bars" "Bars" "Xanny Bars" The Avenue Chant Howl the diseased infected addicted **** The Avenue Chant an open drug bazaar is a beautiful thing for one playing the beautiful ***** Requiem for a Nightmare You ask what I need knowing what I want Hop down the corner You know the best spot they got the fire I got a house to burn You ask, can I get one? I think in first person with a laugh perhaps I would give you a leg for one I see you could use it We keep walking you keep limp, limp, limping down.... Cambria Crutches clacking off the littered decaying pavement The boys are out in town (when aren't they) the block is hot (as always) I wait around the corner You do my ***** business Our ***** business Everyones ***** business You swing back, deed done, dirt in hand awwww yeahhhhh the stamp is cobra I remember this **** mm. this **** is good The printed snake swims up and out siphoned from a tiny baby blue bag cleansing all insecurities, all fear, all humanity. We limp along You tell me how you ended up on these streets wife kicked you out, job fired you, veterans insurance cut you. The American dream as it looks, on Kensington streets, circa2013 etc. etc. etc I feel bad, but, not really, emotional skeleton, Numbed. I leave you with some rocks, not much, then go off kicking rocks all the way Redrocks H>O<W long can I continue without being caught in crosstalk. A skinny white privileged boy from the suburbs seeing his future trotting away before his eyes The everlasting haunting crouching limping creature of death A rotten old one legged ......junk Y

0

May 9, 2014

May 9, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC

caligulas-exit

one legged *****

Hop hopeless off the L searching for hell "works" "works" "subs" "subs" "Bars" "Bars" "Xanny Bars" The Avenue Chant Howl the diseased infected addicted **** The Avenue Chant an open drug bazaar is a beautiful thing for one playing the beautiful ***** Requiem for a Nightmare You ask what I need knowing what I want Hop down the corner You know the best spot they got the fire I got a house to burn You ask, can I get one? I think in first person with a laugh perhaps I would give you a leg for one I see you could use it We keep walking you keep limp, limp, limping down.... Cambria Crutches clacking off the littered decaying pavement The boys are out in town (when aren't they) the block is hot (as always) I wait around the corner You do my ***** business Our ***** business Everyones ***** business You swing back, deed done, dirt in hand awwww yeahhhhh the stamp is cobra I remember this **** mm. this **** is good The printed snake swims up and out siphoned from a tiny baby blue bag cleansing all insecurities, all fear, all humanity. We limp along You tell me how you ended up on these streets wife kicked you out, job fired you, veterans insurance cut you. The American dream as it looks, on Kensington streets, circa2013 etc. etc. etc I feel bad, but, not really, emotional skeleton, Numbed. I leave you with some rocks, not much, then go off kicking rocks all the way Redrocks H>O<W long can I continue without being caught in crosstalk. A skinny white privileged boy from the suburbs seeing his future trotting away before his eyes The everlasting haunting crouching limping creature of death A rotten old one legged ......junk Y

71

I've inhabited the inner industrial walls of my head ever since I can remember. Willing to sacrifice trivial pleasure for thought, potential and significant conversation was too often dismissed as lo-fi dissonant crosstalk. There wasn't an abundance of characters in the confines of my elitist circle, which was essentially a nonlinear grey area suppressed and pulled back out from time to time for self-evaluation. I was far too conscious of new-fangled opinions and young judgment. Because so little of what I did wasn't preemptive, even the yellow and orange playground equipment was compromised, which was honestly never to inviting.

0

Feb 6, 2014

Feb 6, 2014 at 2:38 AM UTC

peter-2

The Hard Parody of a Post Kindergarten Pessimist

I've inhabited the inner industrial walls of my head ever since I can remember. Willing to sacrifice trivial pleasure for thought, potential and significant conversation was too often dismissed as lo-fi dissonant crosstalk. There wasn't an abundance of characters in the confines of my elitist circle, which was essentially a nonlinear grey area suppressed and pulled back out from time to time for self-evaluation. I was far too conscious of new-fangled opinions and young judgment. Because so little of what I did wasn't preemptive, even the yellow and orange playground equipment was compromised, which was honestly never to inviting.

16

"and who might you be?" he asked in a voice hahdah than a newenglandbed "just a fellow poet who was read your poems in fifth grade and fell in love with words" "a )poet(? why of all most the amazing things on earth would you want to do that?" "it never was a want"

0

Apr 14, 2015

Apr 14, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC

joel-m-frye

Crosstalk

"and who might you be?" he asked in a voice hahdah than a newenglandbed "just a fellow poet who was read your poems in fifth grade and fell in love with words" "a )poet(? why of all most the amazing things on earth would you want to do that?" "it never was a want"

10

the tragedy had no hero: everything happened one night no palace, no gardens, no crosstalk but steel, coal, wool monologues in the dark and three fields still, it was a tragedy: it had tragic heroes you and me, burdened by a fate not ours, not fair the story that never changes: lies and power, violent guile richly dressed thieves stealing villagers people with bellies the underfed visions of paradise through the hell of others a revolution of haves against the have-nots they didn't take my land they gave it to you they took it from everybody - - the commons!

0

May 26, 2015

May 26, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC

untrue

the tragedy

the tragedy had no hero: everything happened one night no palace, no gardens, no crosstalk but steel, coal, wool monologues in the dark and three fields still, it was a tragedy: it had tragic heroes you and me, burdened by a fate not ours, not fair the story that never changes: lies and power, violent guile richly dressed thieves stealing villagers people with bellies the underfed visions of paradise through the hell of others a revolution of haves against the have-nots they didn't take my land they gave it to you they took it from everybody - - the commons!

22