"droogs" poems - Hello Poetry

What if this was dystopian Britain; My droogs and I, Sipping beverages At the Korova milk bar, I viddy a world of chaos

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Aug 20, 2013

Aug 20, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC

manicsurvival

Clockwork Orange

What if this was dystopian Britain; My droogs and I, Sipping beverages At the Korova milk bar, I viddy a world of chaos

5

we came up from the beach at night the bridge doomed under a sheet of fog- orange glowing. the bus horned down the hill like a life size slug storming to get me. i stood up, staggering with fleet and flight. arms up in surrender. i was told to just sit down;wave them off. the raccoons kept staring. a thousand pairs of eyes reflecting off my lights. i ran but the pavement kept on moving. we were droogs in the night bending backwards and forwards possessed with heaving laughter. we pulsated under streetlights. we melted on walls. we sat in silence as colorful sweat dribbled down our faces. our eyes rolled back. the clock struck midnight as we struggled to count our cash we ventured to the bus stop and waited. there, a hopeless man kept on pounding his chest; testosterone flying in the air. i merely took the greens he offered and left. thanks. i was late for a meeting on the next corner. the appointment commenced. a bump of life swept through us. back in the realm we were again. the bus driver nodded, pupils as big as dimes. dooms day. i need to get off on 6th.

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Oct 10, 2012

Oct 10, 2012 at 2:02 AM UTC

darin-marie

Law of Gravity

we came up from the beach at night the bridge doomed under a sheet of fog- orange glowing. the bus horned down the hill like a life size slug storming to get me. i stood up, staggering with fleet and flight. arms up in surrender. i was told to just sit down;wave them off. the raccoons kept staring. a thousand pairs of eyes reflecting off my lights. i ran but the pavement kept on moving. we were droogs in the night bending backwards and forwards possessed with heaving laughter. we pulsated under streetlights. we melted on walls. we sat in silence as colorful sweat dribbled down our faces. our eyes rolled back. the clock struck midnight as we struggled to count our cash we ventured to the bus stop and waited. there, a hopeless man kept on pounding his chest; testosterone flying in the air. i merely took the greens he offered and left. thanks. i was late for a meeting on the next corner. the appointment commenced. a bump of life swept through us. back in the realm we were again. the bus driver nodded, pupils as big as dimes. dooms day. i need to get off on 6th.

23

Constellations of Time suffocated, deadspace in my neural lapses— —still, I caught the fly with my hand. Constellations of Time— and I am cowboy in the outer expanses of sanity faithful cowpoke and Lenape murderer, native lover, too, dun American guru like john wayne defunct. but when we speak like droogs, this be: America: A Detective Story and I’m the dogged dreams of america: Humphrey Bogart with his dame Liberty No, I am Robert Mitchum, too. Remember Philip Marlowe? I once was america’s psychosis, and still am. [I am the soul who walked above the soul who walked below; Constellations of Time— like gooey cosmic spider webs; [and I ******* hate spiders] Fear of Death …is being stuck, and fear of that horrible cosmic spider coming home for dinner! For, I am Monsieur Bonaparte’s Hollywood counterpart who puts the war before the art, but not the horse before the cart DEATH is where my story starts; railroads, like the spine of a country and constellations of time –im on a plain– ghosts in dust bowl clusters reflect like dust particles, like western stars, scattered— and im on shifting razor planes and who do the math?

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Nov 5, 2018

Nov 5, 2018 at 3:49 AM UTC

Sid_Lollan

Talkin' [to myself] Blues

Constellations of Time suffocated, deadspace in my neural lapses— —still, I caught the fly with my hand. Constellations of Time— and I am cowboy in the outer expanses of sanity faithful cowpoke and Lenape murderer, native lover, too, dun American guru like john wayne defunct. but when we speak like droogs, this be: America: A Detective Story and I’m the dogged dreams of america: Humphrey Bogart with his dame Liberty No, I am Robert Mitchum, too. Remember Philip Marlowe? I once was america’s psychosis, and still am. [I am the soul who walked above the soul who walked below; Constellations of Time— like gooey cosmic spider webs; [and I ******* hate spiders] Fear of Death …is being stuck, and fear of that horrible cosmic spider coming home for dinner! For, I am Monsieur Bonaparte’s Hollywood counterpart who puts the war before the art, but not the horse before the cart DEATH is where my story starts; railroads, like the spine of a country and constellations of time –im on a plain– ghosts in dust bowl clusters reflect like dust particles, like western stars, scattered— and im on shifting razor planes and who do the math?

41

A dab will do ya... So thought the eager young man But for me No such sentence can be formed A monster lit up by dance floor discos To high to think Rolling in the deep ******* has ravaged my state We dance like fiery mad demons Demonstrating our lust for life At night we come alive At dawn we love Her soft skin is milky upon my touch We unwind and laugh at our mistakes

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Nov 22, 2013

Nov 22, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC

justin-mark

Drugs for Droogs

A dab will do ya... So thought the eager young man But for me No such sentence can be formed A monster lit up by dance floor discos To high to think Rolling in the deep ******* has ravaged my state We dance like fiery mad demons Demonstrating our lust for life At night we come alive At dawn we love Her soft skin is milky upon my touch We unwind and laugh at our mistakes

14

Go read your lolicon you ****** infant! Impress the primates with your big boy lingo and bottle an emotion, excrete a dialogue, call it ******* art. The coffee here smells like tobacco, and tastes like it too. I thought I liked love but I just want something real. But what is the theme? South African radicalism? Come my droogs let us speculate of the falling walls and crumbling symphonies, the dystopia I hide my cutter in. I saw them take away experience, take away love and replaced it with java script, I watched it happen. Soon we’ll all be binary and who am I to stop change.

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Dec 31, 2016

Dec 31, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC

israel-baker

Flattery 2

Go read your lolicon you ****** infant! Impress the primates with your big boy lingo and bottle an emotion, excrete a dialogue, call it ******* art. The coffee here smells like tobacco, and tastes like it too. I thought I liked love but I just want something real. But what is the theme? South African radicalism? Come my droogs let us speculate of the falling walls and crumbling symphonies, the dystopia I hide my cutter in. I saw them take away experience, take away love and replaced it with java script, I watched it happen. Soon we’ll all be binary and who am I to stop change.

1

There is a way out east, like no other, where the trees curl up with a cloudy blanket over the, endless waterfall of tar and gravel, and parallel lines clearly converge but, where is so unclear. We don’t eat people on the road, Oh friend of restless career searching and creating, rather, the space between what is right and wrong is traveled. Traveled with cars Traveled with blistery sun feet Traveled with lonely wait hearts, and dreary friends that change, warp, and fuel some new premise Traveled with testing motor bikes, and soft tires Traveled by bridges, and communist toll gates Traveled by homeless men who live, breath, and eat in boxes all day, and never see the second light. It’s not clockwork. we’ve taped over ever turning menace, and stopped all the discriminating gears from turning in the night where hopeless humans rust away in the clanking of all hours. Stop, and perk your ears friends, if it is the turning you wish listen to the movement of the earth, and the heartbeat of the trees, extract wisdom from the hills we like to blast through, and certainly climb on the rocks as you do. Listen to the contact of beer mugs while you drink in all the stories of travelers your friends. Listen to the droned out motors of the many happenings of the highway and know you are not alone. But, to be alone, oh, to be alone: it’s a gift in a way. But, eventually, all people need an activity close to that of eating one another, where we can dine with droogs, and experienced veterans, kiss soft-toothed girls in the light of a hometown moon, and pray for glass-faced news. This huge, supersized, magnetized, kind-loving world keeps turning: by sphere, by map, by heart I swear to you, travel the distance between all things right and wrong.

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Mar 19, 2014

Mar 19, 2014 at 9:29 PM UTC

matthew-macdonald

The Distance and Back

There is a way out east, like no other, where the trees curl up with a cloudy blanket over the, endless waterfall of tar and gravel, and parallel lines clearly converge but, where is so unclear. We don’t eat people on the road, Oh friend of restless career searching and creating, rather, the space between what is right and wrong is traveled. Traveled with cars Traveled with blistery sun feet Traveled with lonely wait hearts, and dreary friends that change, warp, and fuel some new premise Traveled with testing motor bikes, and soft tires Traveled by bridges, and communist toll gates Traveled by homeless men who live, breath, and eat in boxes all day, and never see the second light. It’s not clockwork. we’ve taped over ever turning menace, and stopped all the discriminating gears from turning in the night where hopeless humans rust away in the clanking of all hours. Stop, and perk your ears friends, if it is the turning you wish listen to the movement of the earth, and the heartbeat of the trees, extract wisdom from the hills we like to blast through, and certainly climb on the rocks as you do. Listen to the contact of beer mugs while you drink in all the stories of travelers your friends. Listen to the droned out motors of the many happenings of the highway and know you are not alone. But, to be alone, oh, to be alone: it’s a gift in a way. But, eventually, all people need an activity close to that of eating one another, where we can dine with droogs, and experienced veterans, kiss soft-toothed girls in the light of a hometown moon, and pray for glass-faced news. This huge, supersized, magnetized, kind-loving world keeps turning: by sphere, by map, by heart I swear to you, travel the distance between all things right and wrong.

46