"drumsticks" poems
100 pounds. And Mommy wants to raise me
She takes my plate
It floats from her hand
And falls down
Three drumsticks
Splat
It was all on the floor
Her voice
And I kept looking past her head
Because my eyes couldn’t face
Rage
So, no longer could I cook
To her, I needed discipline
One rod to set me off
To the sky and push my head against the ground
The fact was I am
Fat
Every supper, she took the bread.
The flour is mute in the edges. Its texture is soft on the tongue
There were always blue dolphins in my glass.
They wish to swim within an ocean
And I set them free
Because I didn’t want my stomach to be
Empty
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 11:34 AM UTC
I've picked on all those Christmas sweaters
and the letters we recieve
I've written about Santa and the Angels
and the things we all believe
But, I have never ever written
About the food we choose to eat
I've never picked on Christmas Turkey
and all the other kinds of meat
At our house for our Christmas dinner
We'd get turkey, maybe duck
It was always something different
And it wasn't just to save a buck
One year we sat down to dinner
something different every year
we had pig, goat and chicken
and one year we sat down to deer
Birds of every sort have fed us
We've eaten things I can't describe
But, with every meal we drink a little
to **** the taste, we must imbibe
One year we had some seafood
Drumsticks there to be had by all
Octopus, was on the menu
It fell off a truck back in the fall
To tell the truth , a Christmas Turkey
Is not something that we get
I love the surprise at the table
Eating what we've not had yet
What we get, our dad runs over
most times squirrel or a deer
We get more food when he's been drinking
So we always send him out with beer
I know that we once had rabbit
Thought it could have been a cat
Another Christmas Dinner surprise
And that is all I'll say on that...
Merry Christmas...enjoy your turkey
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC
The first song I ever drummed to
Was also, unfortunately,
The last song I ever drummed to.
But I'll never forget the way
The drumsticks fitted into my palms
And the rhythm just seemed to flow;
It all seemed so natural
The way my hands hit the drum and
My leg slammed the pedal,
All that anger channelled into a
Beautiful beat.
To that magical instrument I not yet have,
Fear not for we will one day reunite.
I will play you with
The beat of my heart,
Let the music flow and
Emotion part.
Thank you for returning
My right of expression.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 2:53 AM UTC
I have an affinity for ice cream.
I can eat bowls upon bowls at a time.
I impress myself.
It's funny how the things you love grow from the things you never questioned;
Never appreciated;
Never even noticed.
Jumping out of the car the last day of school.
It was hot.
But it was California.
And it was home.
And my dog waited in the backyard.
Happy we were home.
And I stared at our pool and I wanted to jump in;
But I didn't have the courage
Because I didn't want it enough.
And the refrigerator would be full of Drumsticks.
(chocolate on mint)
And I would eat one or two a day.
And sometimes the ice cream man would come.
(he was terrifying, but he had ice cream)
And I would stand outside and eat my ice cream because we weren't allowed to eat it in the house.
And my brother would finish quickly and go inside and play video games.
(or run down the street to see his friends)
And I would try to be a cliche
(just like in the movies)
And put on the roller skates I rarely used and try not to lose control as I shuffled down my driveway.
But I never had anything of value to do over the summers.
I never went to camp.
There weren't any summer traditions.
I had ice cream and board games and my dog and the pool I was afraid of.
I counted down the years I still had left at home
(petrified of what would happen after)
And I didn't understand why mom wasn't as scared as I was.
(1,2,3,4,5 years left at home; 1,2,3,4.....4 years left at home)
They never taught me how to ride a bike
And I never learned to love the water
And my skin never browned
And I had to stay inside
Except for when there was ice cream.
I could always go outside for ice cream.
Nineteen years of life.
My mother hates ice cream.
She tells me I'm just like my father.
My temper, my moods, my impatience.
Sometimes she says I get his savvy;
His ambition;
His humor.
Sometimes.
My father loves ice cream.
(I love both my parents)
(I think they love each other too)
So I took my father's ambition and ran across the country
Where I'm hopefully learning to be a good doctor
And I met these people that I love
(that I call my family)
And we like ice cream.
We like ice cream and pie.
And going to the beach when the weather is nice.
And ice skating.
And coming home to each other.
I'd say I have an affinity for love;
I'd say I have an affinity for life
But you can't eat love and you can't hold life
Because both are fleeting
(but so is ice cream).
Ice cream is the summer before 8th grade
When I spent all my time with a girl I loved and learned to hate.
Because we fought over boys.
Because that was middle school.
And 8th grade was horrible.
And I never ate ice cream.
And I never tried to roller skate.
And California became too hot.
So if I were to develop my own ice cream flavor,
And call 31 and tell them what it would taste like,
It would taste like a pensive child
It would taste like mint
It would taste like chocolate
It would taste like missing my friends
It would taste like missing my parents
And I would call it nostalgia.
And I would laugh while I ate nostalgia
Because the thought is absolutely absurd.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 10:45 PM UTC
Vibes caught
static between
snares
hips swinging
searching for music
that played their truth.
The bass line
wasn’t just music
it was breath
pulling ribs apart
to let
the rhythm in
Fingers slid down
necks like frets
pressing
into chords
that hummed notes
down thighs
in time
Wanting
too blow
saxophones
Spitting all over
the reed
Jazz
isn’t something
you hear
it’s something
that happens
to you
cymbal crashed
piano keys
Play confessions
no hymn
would dare too
black and white blending
spilled burbon over
smoke-stained wood
Feet tapping
out codes no one
else could decipher
syncopated riff
breaking patterns
breaking rules
The off beat
gospel you
couldn’t write down.
The room
swayed with them
walls leaning in
leaning closer
to the crescendo
the saxophone
came in
it was a third hand
tracing lines
down spines
nobody dared
to blow before.
This is jazz:
argument
turned
foreplay
rough pull
dissonance
before harmony
slips in
like a satin sheets
you weren’t ready for.
Hands hit bodies
like drumsticks
slap rolling
inhale percussion
moaning muted horn solo
They weren’t just
feeling the music;
they were
becoming it
beating out solos
on each other’s skin.
The sweat smelled
like vinyl records
warm grooves
pressed
into the air
spinning
slow spins
catching sparks
needle skating over scars
was a minor chord
that somehow
still felt major.
learning
how to recognize itself.
Passion spilling out
her mouth
scotch over his
mahogany wood
The rimshot
of her sigh
Improvision
improvisation
of his kiss
Scatting sound
echoing
from lips
His horn
hit her high note
one that split
the room in half
she leaned closer
saying
“Do you hear that?”
But he wasn’t listening
to the music anymore.
He was listening
to her pulse
that slick
heartbeat drumming
solo against
his wrist.
This is what
jazz does
You don’t
just play
It consumes.
becomes the air
the walls
sweat
the skin
It’s the music
you don’t hear
but feel
right there
in the space
where your ribs
can’t hold
the notes.
Jazz
doesn’t end
it just fades
into the background
waiting for you
to join again
Nov 25, 2024
Nov 25, 2024 at 7:13 AM UTC
little drummer boy play your rhythm on my spine
let me be your snare, make music out of me
little drummer boy it’s been a long and lonely winter
and the heartbeat of your drum has got me through the coldest nights
little drummer boy oh won’t you bruise me with your drumsticks
break my bones and tear my skin, break my entire world apart
little drummer boy play your rhythm on my ribcage
leave my pale pink skin black and blue and purple and red
little drummer boy oh won’t you break me into pieces
for all i am to you is an instrument to be played
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 11:11 PM UTC
Drumsticks pound at a continuous beat
For every fourth count they sound
And they resonate like the drone
Of a hive of bumblebees.
Common sense tells oneself to hide –
Run far, far away from the sound of the drone –
For if one gets too close, a sting will ensue.
I, however, cannot run;
The hive is in my head,
And it gets louder every day.
No spray, no poison can terminate
No net, no flower can rid
My mind of the little terrors
Lurking at the end of my ear canals.
For the monsters are trapped –
I am trapped – in an invisible prison,
A prison which was has no key, no guards.
With impenetrable walls of steel
And the torture of loudness that
Not even an immortal could endure.
But the worst term of my sentence is time –
I will be here for a very long time –
As I will be imprisoned here
Forever.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 10:53 PM UTC
I saw a Bengal tiger
in Eureka, California
Sadly, they had not “found it.”
In a place kept afloat by something ephemeral as ***** smoke
A cage, not more than twenty feet long
by twelve feet wide
Held power in check
But a few steps away
He or she
they did not say
played with a round pillow in front of us
crushed it with a mighty paw
like one of our skulls might be
If we came upon her
a frightened ape
in the steaming green jungles
of the part of the world
Where Kolkata rests
on Kali’s Ghat
The city of creative Destruction
Where millions eat
sleep and **** in polluted air
and brush their teeth with their fingers
at the gushing water
of a communal fountain
Where milky sweet chai
in a small clay cup
costs two cents
provided with a smile
and allows the man to turn a profit
In a way, I understand why we did it.
It is great to see such a grand thing so close
Orange fur and black stripes
beauty clothing strength
And the fear of it.
Without metal bars
vertical iron rods of power
I would be nothing but a warm
squishy snack
My head as useless as a coconut
Skull only a shell for the meat inside
My legs, fast as they are,
Would amount to only drumsticks
Yet is it not best
to leave such powerful beauty be?
It is a great arrogance that chains
such a powerful thing
For the benefit of ****** poets,
old couples, and howling children
Selling the soul of a wild beast
Second by second
glimpse by glimpse
for the price
of a fairground ticket.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
Chickens
clucking
white
feathered
pantaloons
Cute
I don't want to eat you
cute chickens
in crisp pantaloons
Not hungry
Drumsticks
Wings
Two ******* please
Cole slaw
Biscuits and honey
Mashed potatoes and gravy
Confused
I don't want to eat you
Chickens
clucking
white
feathered
pantaloons
Cute
I don't want to eat you
Popeyes,Lee’s, KFC-
Are your chickens this pretty?
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
an impurity
inherent or invasive,
identity, purpose, all unresolved,
substantive, long-lived, minute sized,
flexible, formed, yet more,
clearly shapelessly, so well visible
we'll disguise it
to survive it
without passport, an émigré
illegally legal border invasive,
but somehow more knowledgable
of the unmapped byways within,
more than me - how can that be?
never motionless, indeed,
always hurried, even when energy gathering,
despite it's detailed timetable,
detailing plentiful stops and
interminable unexplained
screeching wailings,
it has no smooth gliding,
nor rumbling grumbling halting,
to a final destination imprinted
this impurity,
a beheaded brainy horseman
searching for what,
I'm not permissioned,
unquenchable questioning,
all I am allowed is
sensory
surceasingly, unseasonably seeking
the undresser,
the verisign
of veritas
eyes mirrored reversal internal,
you can't understand why finishing
this poem is so hard
because you don't want to
confess this
impious impurity,
no étranger, it is but
copious insecurity,
of the all of you,
the ecstasy of
the rushing,
the upsetting,
universal unique to us, you,
unholy, ecclesiastical, catholic,
that impurity is just
the heart pumping the
mottled blood of
life coursing through your words
and out your fingertips,
onto those
stained drumsticks
used
to play the keyboard alphabet
about an
out-of-tempo
impure ecstasy
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
And you're rocking again, but not like you use to.
Your knees are no longer drums
but they are still bruised
And your fingers are no longer drumsticks
but your knuckles are still red
There is no melody to air guitar to
And there is no chorus to yell out
But oh darling,
there is fighting
So keeping rocking away.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
Just when I thought my muse had left
a splintered staccato formed words on a page;
seems I still have a taste for the treble clef.
Haste in the morning fuels the morning breath
for two lovely dumbstruck lovers looking young for their age
just when they thought their muse had left.
I’m not sure I remember the rest;
The words stop like drumsticks dropped in rage,
but I still have a taste for the treble clef.
Desperate to try as my cousin suggests
burning through candles, tarot, and sage
just when I’m sure my muse has left.
I vote for stripping this verse and shredding the rest
Getting in with producers and out with the wage;
We still have a taste for the treble clef.
Tequila sunrise and a Mumford sunset;
Is freedom a ***** once you’re out of the cage?
Just when I thought my muse had left,
seems I still have a taste for the treble clef.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 6:57 PM UTC
I heart you like
My heart hearts beating,
Little drummer boy
Keeping the pulse;
Still a little kid
Marching along,
Never going to
Put the drumsticks down.
As long as there is still
A rhythm to keep me flowing,
My blood runs redder through me
When I see you; and those eyes
Piercing, I'm flush all throughout
Little drummer beating faster,
Hear it so loud through my chest;
Church bells tolling couldn't hush,
But then you speak, his drum
Resonates to a flutter; light
Pitter patter, gentle lullaby
Of your voice, my little drummer's eyes
Are closing now, beating low
Like a whisper, this moment is sweet
Sweet serenity, as your gentle touch
On my soul is weightless like a feather
Upon a lake just floating with the current,
And then you start to leave,
Drummer boy is quickly making haste
Banging getting faster stronger
Surely you can hear him now,
Marching no more; he is sprinting
Lion in the Sahara after a gazelle,
But my legs aren't moving,
I'm just watching you walk away,
I know something my little drummer
Doesn't, you'll be back again,
And he'll lose his cool once more...
© okpoet
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 5:31 AM UTC
Tss-dat-ts-tss-dat-ts-tss-dat-ts-tss-dat…
The beat repeated over and over as the band plays on.
As it approaches I feel the butterflies flutter.
My arms start shaking nervously.
My hands begin to sweat and grow clammy.
The drumsticks become harder to hold with each stroke.
The band crescendos….
LOuder!.
LOUDer!..
LOUDER!!!... Then,
silence.
Only the drums are playing.
Tss-dat-ts-tss-dat-ts-tss-dat-ts-tss-dat.
Everyone is waiting, all of their eyes are staring.
The band now holds the beat, as the drums take the floor,
Center stage.
Shivering in a cold sweat, fearing failure, I change the beat.
Bass drum and hi-hat start off…
Boom-tss-boom-tss-boom-tss-boom-tss
A snare rolls…
Dadadadadadadadadadadadadadadadadadadada… it crescendos… GAT!
*** dum da de dum bop a duba de dop pop…
I play several measures.
All of them unique, but connected.
Finally the band joins back in, and the pressure is off.
Back to the same old groove, the comfortable beat.
Tss-dat-ts-tss-dat-ts-tss-dat-ts-tss-dat.
The audience roars with applause.
I look to my father, and the smile on his face is all that I need.
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 10:28 PM UTC
my body lays flat on the bed
a body part pointing to each of the four world corners
my sky a light oak tree ceiling
Lana Del Rey is on the radio
the thoughts
How does she understand me so well?
How come I’ve never felt like that before?
occur and intertwine at the same time
the way she shares a little piece of her soul
her wandering, capricious, lusting soul
it’s beautiful
I want to be able to do that too
I wonder
which part of the body holds the soul?
first I cut my toe off
my curiosity simply took over
my foot quickly following along
a rush
floods over me
a leg must lend it’s life
then a finger
my right arm
my collarbones could be used as drumsticks
there are no drums in the song
my left hand is taken apart one finger at a time
I cut down the lifeline
I watch the blood spill out
it stops and
I heave my shoulder joints
next my eyes are up
I rip them out and turn them 180 degrees
so they stare into the sockets they left behind
eyes are after all said to be the window to the soul
I guess they aren’t
the ears are next in line
the other leg
I cut the skin on my throat into star shaped pieces
they sned down onto the gray carpet like alphabeat pasta snow
my nose lands atop my foot
it’s a strange sight
why you call them apple cheeks
I don’t know
they just look like bald rats to me
my stomach I slice open along the scar
I got the summer I crawled into a spruce tree and
caught a broken branch on my way down
left to itself
my heart lays flat on the bed
Lana Del Rey is on the radio
a body part pointing to each of the four world corners
my sky a light oak tree ceiling
I didn’t find my soul
only blood
nerve strings
pulsing muscle
a liver
two kidneys
among other things
maybe the soul isn’t connected to the body
maybe it doesn't matter because
I feel whole
I feel like
I’m in one piece.
Jan 13, 2019
Jan 13, 2019 at 10:58 AM UTC
Can we jam, brothers and sisters?
Dare we meet at the impalpable chat room
that exists beyond our third heaven?
Dare we to speak in tongues and timbres,
our skin taut across hollow shells,
our veins strung across cadaverous bodies?
I'll grab my drumsticks if you grab the guitars,
and there's somebody on the bongos
slappin' the skins with zealous fervor--
where my tambourine girls at?
Don't worry, I haven't forgotten our forlorn hero
sitting behind the keyboards--
Tickle me those ivories with pious hands and aching fingers,
shake em down sweet Jerry Lee!
And so we begin--
I lay down the drum beat that bops heads and scatters feet,
and the bassman always on top of things
slaps and slides and skips and sizzles
hot diggity dog!
I hear that sweet guitar scream and moan,
praying for death under hazy lights
and we all coast with eyes rolled back into our skulls
and torpid lips drooped open over slack jaws.
Not a word is said from a human voice,
we speak through hands and feet,
basking in colors eking from every kick drum stomp
and the desperate wail bleeding from amplifiers.
Feedback sings and screams, fighting the silence we taunt
and hold at bay.
Around every corner the colors trail
coursing through our vesselious bodies
propelled along the dizzying venture.
We somehow spot every pothole and take detours,
embarking down backroads and backalleys--
We can turn the wheel,
but don't think for a moment we know where it's going.
And the mirror's have all vanished,
we know not from where we came.
Someone shouts from the discovery
as we exit a phrase to enter serendipity,
toying with destiny, clay in our hands,
stretching out the ****** perennially--
We laugh as the gods try to remind us we are Man.
And the screams and the moans
sensing the ****** is getting close
so there's a crescendo I ramp up the tempo
ahhhhhhhHHHhhhHhHhHhHHHHHhhhETERNITY IS NOW AND WE HOLD THE KEY TO HEAVENS GATES AND TIME STANDS STILL AT HIGH NOON IN THE TOWN'S SQUARE WHERE TRIGGER FINGERS TREMOR AND WE SPEAK TO GOD ON HIS PRIVATE CHANNEL COMING THROUGH WORN SPEAKERS CELESTIAL CREATURES IT WOULD BE SACRILEGE IF WE WEREN'T SUDDENLY SO HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY HOLY
So I say again, brothers and sisters,
can we jam?
SO I SAY AGAIN, BROTHERS AND SISTERS,
CAN WE JAM?
SO I SAY AGAIN, BROTHERS AND SISTERS,
CAN WE JAM?
So I say again,
brothers and sisters,
can we jam?
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC
Melody expresses pain of the heart
that tongue cannot say when lips part
Secrets and lies can sting the tearduct
assumptions are termites that cling and destruct
their moods like waves in fluctuation
please free this heart of aching palpitation
release the torture of this bipolar oscillation
that the tune of this life creates
in the sound of my aching heart
The sensation of a heart tear
rebellious rips of guitars one cannot bear
when memories return that ones used to share
the rock of my soul, the roll of my head
the sway of the waltz now dead
Frustration strips like the sound of guitar
it roars emotions like a rock star
threatening to free hairs on your head
feelings that scream, leave ghosts in debt!
Drums of pounding passion, degradation
of harming words that echo atmospheric perforation
Drumsticks of cope try to pound through
yet the drumskin of hurt won't budge
Melody expresses pain of the heart
that tongue cannot say when lips part
just like the tune of my aching heart.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
I was walking up a hill writing a song when I passed a man with drumsticks and glasses on.
I stopped him and asked "wanna be my band?" He tilted his head and said "I'd be glad to keep time and accent your rhymes!" So off we rolled toward
downtown sound a magical haven for the musically inclined.
We talked to the owner (she's beautiful and free and everything that brings happiness to me) and she said "sure your traveling act can stop for the night knock out your rythms and make everyone feel alright".
checked the levels warmed the tubes and
so we did and it was spontaneous and from the fingers
the sounds were off and out of time
loud and alive with a dense misunderstood honesty
as soon as it started it was over
the man with the glasses and wood bit drumsticks we shook hands and parted ways
the kick of his drum follows my steps i hope i meet that man again
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 2:54 AM UTC
Pulling out my six-shooter,
Loading it slowly,
The smooth brass is cold in my hand,
And I snap the cylinder in.
Pulling back the hammer,
I wait in silence,
Running my fingers across the trigger guard.
Waiting...waiting...waiting.
The clock strikes midnight.
I can no longer wait,
As I flip the safety off,
Sleek metal barrel shining.
Pointed at my head,
I shut my eyes.
I don't want to watch myself,
As I take my own life.
Remembering back to the day before;
As my drum sticks slipped out of my hands.
I thought something special was there,
But I had wronged everything right, in my own mind.
I left my dreams, my instrumental love.
Newfound friends now drip in tears,
Assembling at my dark funeral.
The man I wanted nowhere to be seen.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 5:10 PM UTC
I've been up for too long,
now it's time to come down.
Maybe face that the ideas
weren't really that good and
wouldn't have made me rich!
(Grandeur!)
Return to my natural state of
ink and guitar strings and broken drumsticks,
and tears,
so many tears as tears on the
pages, and I am
still unable to cry.
Have no doubt though,
they are there.
I'm withdrawing, pushing friends and family
away, it has begun.
I'm agitated. Always.
I wake up ready to scream
because even when I'm asleep I can't
sleep and my dreams are
of guns and terror and fear.
I run, but my body is not trained
well enough to run fast and far
enough to pull this thing out of me.
I'm scared.
But I will make it through,
knowing the next high is just
one low away.
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 11:39 PM UTC
As the seasons changed like lanes on the highway of 2013
in the colours racing By the side of the road
you caught my eye, holding drumsticks and a little cardboard
sign with the destination:
Home.
Wanna ride? Hop in. You're not alone.
If our first date is imprinted upon my memory-
our first kiss is carved into my bones
and as we tickled, and grabbed, and sighed rummaging through our pieces begging two to align- there was poetry in trading your broken heartbeats with mine. And as we arranged them upon that little cardboard sign we found that if we held them quite firmly, we could make one whole heart- breathing carefully on it to make the fire start and we vowed.
We vowed that one heart would beat for us both, if we held on tight,
and the vow made that day for a while felt alright.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
Bow to the strings
Three clicks of the drumsticks
Then the bass chord rings
The singer sings
The notes carry on with wings
Give flight to this music
Lock it in your sights then use it
Wrong the right, but dont abuse it
Day or night, just stay true kid
Whether your roped or cuffed
These stores are gonna open up
Break free from your half filled cup
Over flow your own, yeah fill it up
No matter how full you feel it'll never be enough
Even if your rich, even if your clock clicks and your bell rings
You'll never get sick of the rot this rich brings
Keepin your chick just to help sell things,
stable you are not,
your hopeless,
Your beat, your melting
Now you feel the heat that this hell brings
-J.A.M
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
I step through the door
of the place which feels
more like home than my house
My ears fill
with sounds of drumsticks on drums
mallets on marimbas
My eyes fall upon flutes, clarinets
trumpets and tubas
I look up at my family
none of which are related to me
yet they
make
this
place
home.
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 11:19 PM UTC
Chill baby, it's the all acoustic set. Going home for the holidays.
A few laughs with Pops,
And never mind the drumsticks, her comes the *******
Here comes weeping
In a Shiite village,
400 dead in Sadr City,
And pass me the yams.
Did you see that interception?
Here comes the 3rd and long.
Here the sun falls away
In the twilight of winter.
I dream the Electro Light Fantastic. I'll see ghosts in
The mirror when I'm dreaming. None the wiser,
I saw it in fits and starts.
Better than waking on
New Year's morning in jail with the crazy lady 2 cells over yelling for a cigarette
Every twenty minutes
" Officer, can I have a cigarette?" I want to tell her
To shut up, Instead I ask
Her to get me one too.
And then I knew it's all come round.
Young and Stupid reporting for duty.
Not that it's my rag mag
Sad rag, nothing doing while
I try these new wings on for size. Its just the all acoustic set in a world of static.
Hazy cigarette voices
In trebelo. Though I threw
It out with the cookbook,
I have it all hanging on my sleeve. I thought it was all the rage. Later I found it was
Taxing on my soul.
This all acoustic set, away from the city lights and cyberspace. Left to one's devices, one sinks further into the page. What do you
Expect when candlelight
Falls across the flickering wall?
Two league below, a U Boat
Swims the Atlantic, Lost
In possibilities. Some mind
When I'm tongue tied like a lizard.
Kinda brings up Helsinki,
And she comes in all bells
And whistles. Me, I'm
All acoustic, something like a blank face, Low on cash
And overdrawn on character.
And the sun lights before
Columbus dragging up the rear. Man these ghosts
Linger in the hallway,
But it's better than crashing
The car into the statue
One Thanksgiving Eve.
The all acoustic set says
Death is a bore, Especially
After the ride in From France
I gave up meat some time ago, I gave up on you after
I got to the moon.
Well, it gets me out of the sun awhile. We'll get better when
The world catches up.
Sorry I changed the end around, but I thought it
Was the only out of Knoxville
Never mind The sage gravy,
I've got to tighten the lug nuts. A tither, but nothing on the rent.
And Hitchcock does the math,
While I corkscrew around the truth. While others weep
I dream of women laying in the sun. I guess it's better than ice cream in the rai n.
Who said pumpkin pie?
Mar 2, 2020
Mar 2, 2020 at 10:14 PM UTC