"cuntry" poems
Below is the first of two poems inspired by this piece of music, this one from a few years ago, in the midst of my divorce. The second, the better of the two, is:
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/pachelbels-canon/
The music:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kllZlF6mB2s&feature;=youtube_gdata_player
~~~~
Bereft of words,
one more time,
concussed by the hammering of
cacophonous silences
disabling my thought processes
In vanity,
for when denied,
Le Poet-Poseur angrily asks:
Did not Mary
have her cherries
by command?^
But when the trees bow to me,
the collective of leaves mockingly
whisper sweet nadas, baby.
each leaf wraps my tongue,
in a sushi compote of sand,
"hush-a-bye, baby boy poet"
June chilled.
But not chilling
Today, on a overcast Saturday,
forces have mogged^^ me on,
transmogrified into a
Seventh Day Non-Inventist,
the creativity disrupters
Sadly,
Amazon doesn't sell,
original poems for redistribution
Pilings of papers,
variant demanders re my
labors past and future,
**** work-product of
teams of lawyers & harlots
Four years on, demanding now,
300 files subpoenaed,
need I say, they want me to re-tour my life my cuntry,
once more
Dummies!
these esquires ****** for hire,
my greatest invention,
my poetry,
they'll n'ere posses
cause I give it away,
domain denied
In need of a ****** shot,
drink repeatedly from the
Kanon by Pachelbel,
cannons of human-law
surmounted by the one divine
This note,
the work product of
Pachelbel & Lipstadt,
harmony restoration,
a shared refuge,
a shared refute
Welcome friend to
a place that cannot be
bought, seized, sold
Pleasure thyself with each
note, scale repeated
Though the reign of the heavens
doth suffer violence, and
violent men do take it by force,^^^
peace and pardon,
earnest reward of
poets who lived gently,
giving gentle, freely away
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 7:32 AM UTC
lonesome for the country
i need to get outta town,
with this city
in for a penny
in for a pound.
i need to get back to my roots
i wanna fill my boots
with some hallowed cuntry sound.
a skate board flys by
clack-clack on every side walk crack,
same rhythm same rhyme
as that lonsome long snake
rollin' down the line.
movin' up the steel to a muddy sky.
a pedal steel wails as a cop goes by,
72 chev malibou sails through a red light.
on every corner you have to look left,
you have to look right,
you can't go lookin' up the steel to a muddy sky.
this city she has her shades of blue,
a man on the corner with a national,
two hands poundin' out a delta groove..
head tilts back sings you godda move,
you godda move,
movin' up the steel to a muddy, muddy sky.
© 2005
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 11:11 PM UTC
I want it all that comes with the game
The money the cars
The cash and the fame rapping on a stage
Fans screaming my name
Houses in different states
Investments real estates
Cross Cuntry trips making great escapes
Mansions in the sky's
Cribs on lakes
All these fancy things
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 8:09 PM UTC
Pandemic
I.
Staring at the empty screens
Of all our ineptitudes,
Our demons whetting whistles,
Our joints atrophied.
Staring at the walls –
Surely not the news.
Can’t bear to look at a mirror anymore.
There’s something deeply unpleasant
Growling back.
Or the pub across the street with its
Christmas lights burning,
And the bar dark as the world was at night
Before we killed it with our fire.
II.
A million hours and a million monkeys
With half-baked ideas and reddening eyes
All trying to pen the next dime novel:
Pandemonium or Apocalypse Today,
Praying pulp doesn’t pulp before being read or read about
By the tired eyes and hands counting
Cheddar and pages and hours,
Until we all clock out.
My contribution to a dying ocean of death –
At least that’s what Bo reckoned
(Among many others drowning)
Is a journey through childhood
And wannabe streams of King and ‘cuntry.’
The old post-colonial riddle:
Can we be sorry for what we’ve done?
Endless masks thrown to the ground
Amongst self-respect and science and what
Used to be described as thought and thinking.
At least that’s what we kid ourselves.
Civilisation was never particularly civil.
III.
Start making the tin foil hats –
We won’t be leaving the house anytime soon.
We’ve a television series to finish scribing –
Eight years down and surely eight more to go.
There’s a four-hour silent French movie to watch
And what about your vegan friend –
Who hasn’t finished his journey to salvation yet?
There’s an endless stream of distractions to go:
You’ve read twenty-five books so far –
And it’s just gone July.
There’s an endless stream of desperation
And an endless stream of angst
And an endless stream of nothing
And death is just the beginning
Of
Your
Nothing.
And as the bard rightly charged:
“Here ain’t no place for dolls like you and me.
Everybody’s on a barge
Floating down the endless stream of great TV.”
So among the burning, we find a seat,
Nestle into that newly worn spot on the couch
And pretend we’re not there.
Jul 31, 2020
Jul 31, 2020 at 8:19 AM UTC
When I had fallen off the horse,
I could say it was a blur, a blur of a thousand drinks
A blur of two lost lovers holding hands,
LOst my beer in the sand,
She lost her man
Cause I'm a drunk,
and nowadays country music sounds so hurt!
it seems as though
it seems as though
it seems as though
The horse kicked me good
Drunken flashback to the summercamp,
We're talking and laughing under the sun
You smile at me, it's just like country!
Cause I'm a drunk,
and nowadays country music sounds so hurt!
it seems as though
it seems as though
it seems as though
The horse kicked me good
Fast forward to me being a drunk,
I only hear rap-country on my *** walkman cassette
Where is the country and where is my beer, it's all messed up
I can say I've missed the Country Western Days,
I can say I've missed it
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 7:19 PM UTC
It's Red! - This Day,
So filled with brain washed emotion, connection,
and stupid teddy bears;
When each day I highlight my love for you,
And not bereft of this single commercialized spotlight on my $2.99 "Kittens" Calendar
I both know and feel, how you feel about me!
As expressed last week when your, surprisingly, powerful thighs clamp my head like a vice,
Whilst shuddering from ******** release, as a result of my lingual dexterity in Downtown Doucheville, America; I do so love the beauty of this part of the Cuntry!
You gather me up into your soft breast filled embrace as the high of your clitoral adventure subsides.
I smile with a sense of prideful accomplishment, my lips,
still slick with your perfumed moisture.
A Saint fails to manufacture this, and a single Day can never encapsulate the incredible love with each moment I get the Blessed opportunity of spending with you.
Chocolates and Roses **** ***
and...,
well by the way...,
I'll remind you...,
******* *** Day is Today...!!!
-----ChawzzyScript
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 6:17 PM UTC