"fords" poems
Just a wicked peacenik’n quick draw from the Paw
Game of Thrones’n the Shah, cRussian bones of the law
And still spewing the news like the red dragon’s maw
When the baby-skull splitters want nuclear winter
Ideal New Cold steel and send Chernobyl shivers
Down Roman Republicans’ severed headlines
Till there’s no more dead kids on for prophet front lines
I’m in exile sharpenin’ [sic]kles in style
Pyongyang’n Kuomintang climate denials
Erasing their nation-hate racial profiles
Outpacing their skinhead disgraces by miles
Shell casin’ this place like the Nuremberg trials
For Fords sellin’ swastikas stockpile bibles
Defiled by Normandy tide genocidals
Fresh meat off the boat spreadin’ Plague mercantiles
I smile and **** ‘em with kindness
Then grind
Battle tax in my acid bath
Salt Marchin’ prime
Because WAR IS THE CRIME
I’m the Clown Prince of Rhyme,
Level 9 state of mind
Like the state of Rakhine
The Black Hand before time
Runnin’ Africa’s Luciest Sky Diamond mine
I’m the ronin alone in
The monkey god shrine
And my guile’s reprisal’s Versailles treaty signed
Strippin’ pride from the Rhine
‘Till your Motherland’s mine
Swine
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 2:37 AM UTC
A Breath of wind is wind itself,
should true and steady braided shelfs,
foraged fords from handsome lords,
prayed hopes & proper ropes,
could life and science meet the world beyond Biology?
"A home," it cried, "a home for me with trees and lakes and reverie."
I tried and cried for something else, elsewhere
I found a leaning shelf.
Should what was true and even hold nothing told or helpless here,
I cannot hide a place inside,
though I cannot say I really tried.
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 2:15 PM UTC
Rusty dusty pick up trucks
Old Fords and busted Chevys
Trucks that tear the road apart
And some stuck down the levy
Showing off at the truck show
All polished up and nice
When an old man in a beat up Ford
Looked us over once or twice
It don't matter how the cover looks
It's what's beneath the hood
You may look awful pretty
But, with no power...it's no good
You wanna get the ladies
Remember, it's what's beneath the hood
Although they like a real good ride
There ain't no ride, if there's no wood
I smiled and I watched the gent
Walk and laugh and smile some
He'd mumble something to the girls
And they'd follow to where he'd come
His truck, was old and battered
Wasn't tricked out like the rest
But, when it came to having girls around
This old man was the best
It don't matter how the cover looks
It's what's beneath the hood
You may look awful pretty
But, with no power...it's no good
You wanna get the ladies
Remember, it's what's beneath the hood
Although they like a real good ride
There ain't no ride, if there's no wood
A truck may last a long long time
But you've got to use it right
You've got to check the engine
And try to run it every night
I remember what the old man said
It's about what's there beneath the hood
The girls don't want it pretty
The girls, they want it good.....
It don't matter how the cover looks
It's what's beneath the hood
You may look awful pretty
But, with no power...it's no good
You wanna get the ladies
Remember, it's what's beneath the hood
Although they like a real good ride
There ain't no ride, if there's no wood
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
Firecrackers to frighten the animals.
Shadows of mountains run
On the surface of the fords.
3.9k
I am typing on a keyboard
I dream about fords
But unfortunately
I can't afford them
To me they are a gem
A gem that stems
From my brain
One day I'll have to use a cane
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 11:48 PM UTC
Passing over mountains
and forging over fords
slipping though forests
filled with dappled shapes,
the Coward-King makes his escape
His heart is beating
and his mind is fleeing
As behind Him
burns all he has ever known
His kingdom ablaze
His cities razed
Fields salted
books torn and statues melted
His people fighting in the ruins
dying ,trying,
to let this not be the end
Flee Coward-King
as your nature becomes known
as the mailed fist torches your own.
**** whats been done!
the Great Enemy has come!
the dread Master
of a dark and terrible horde
and his servants seek you
with ****** swords
Dark Knights on vile steeds
Grim men of black heart
Exiles and renegades
each eager to do his part
To bring you low
to make sure you reap
what you've sown
Can you hear the hounds a baying?
Neath the trees swaying
was that the sound of horses neighing?
The shadows playing
Your wits derailing,
Coward-King,
Your fortress walls have failed
and your flight will be to no avail
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 4:45 PM UTC
Car Wars.
You have fords which some people afford
Chevy they abandoned the levy.
Dodge they play that with a ball in some halls.
Honda is for Rhonda as she tries she might cry.
Toyota is just that a toy that runs on pedal power.
This is the car war. Now we have
Cars that run on corn.
Battery cars that even the copper top will pop.
Electric cars that you plug in, but the cord are short.
Car Wars, I believe that we should buy a horse.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 1:53 PM UTC
As I sit and searched my feelings, my thoughts are filled with you.
I think of all the memories created sending a flood of emotions through.
You would always say when someone would leave it was their time, they had to go.
And with those words you had to go but in years I needed more.
You said to remember the things you taught, as you would not be here to ask.
So I put on a face of certitude, a facade in the mode of a mask.
As now, I must face the world without you, much more than one could ask.
We assured you that your job on earth as a mother, protector, plus more was felt.
That your guidance through our lives, was much bigger than just help.
The love I feel when I say your name will always be the same
As my grandchildren continue to grow, they will all know your name.
I will share my fondest memories and tell them how this life I live you saved
and how with little and such a big heart the bountifulness of love you gave.
I will teach them as you taught me, how Fords were designed and made tough
and I will always keep your loving memories as solace while times are rough.
Jul 15, 2022
Jul 15, 2022 at 10:07 PM UTC
I was seven.
The sidewalk lured.
The Huffy beckoned.
The hill...
The hill...
Skinny locomotive legs
Pumping madness blindness happy
Freedom flight pumping pumping
The hill...
The hill...
Baseball cards in spokes were roaring
Soaring wheels and squinting windy
Boymachine thrumming heavy
The hill...
The hill...
Swerving Fords and Chevys curving
Hopping curbs and doggie-dodging
Lightspeed hoping
Seven and no sign of stopping
Hit the rock...
Funny how it all got slow, now
Boy/machine were separated
One went one way one the other
Gravity
The enemy
Apr 6, 2011
Apr 6, 2011 at 9:57 PM UTC
Branches on the path did the rest of the work for me:
All I had to do was tear the rest of the canvas off my
Vans. The rubber sole floated where I threw it, bobbed
Whitely out of view. Now, tell me we can go
To my beloved 60s, the ones I know nothing about
While under umbrella’d leaves just touching the creek
We’re stealing kisses, my heart rides on box-car hitches
And rusted out Fords, all the way to absolute nowhere
But, something mauve glows down the way, utopias
And despots and kids who gave a **** knew what
They ought to fight for and did. Skip the ambiguity,
Stop all the foreplay, give me something real this time
While I drag my bones in a hometown I wasn’t born in
Praying the trees take back the concrete. I don’t know,
Say it’s the whiskey and cigarettes making me uneasy,
But there’s some elegance in the way I saw her move
That makes fidelity a hard, loving hand, just a little too
Hard then I’ll take my borrowed wings some vague
Direction north, past the towers of Lebanon,
Laid to rest with highschool friends, both dead
In wax and paper, tied in all these loose ends.
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC
come round here and get your *** kicked
plastic caskets and old motor gaskets
the drastic practice of spastic masses
all stretched out and kicking *****
if you smile they kick your teeth in
to get in you gotta get beneath in
if you look they will cut your eyes out
it's alright after the crying dies out
the sun shines on the old floor boards
the wrecked chryslers and rusty fords
the fallen live underneath the wrecks
till the junkman comes and collects
Nov 2, 2021
Nov 2, 2021 at 9:27 AM UTC
There is a war waging in my head- not of ammunition, but accusation.
Shouts and cries and threats. Screaming not bullets, but voices.
A war of words.
There is no peace in my head- no calm, no place of respite- only raging fords.
Mind like Niagra, falling, falling, empty and broken.
Not even sleep is really sleep any more, just another battleground.
Dead bodies scattered, A war of words.
A war of words.
There is a Cold War going on in my head, cold like the weather, cold like the rain.
The rain tastes sweet like my sanity;
but sanity is just another state of mind. Just like the river, it never quiets down.
The enemy is the successor and Niagra is falling down.
Bridges in London are falling down, only my fair lady is dressed in army fatigues.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 3:34 PM UTC
Old Fords
Old Guitars
Gold money clips
Friendly girls;
but not so friendly
they want to drive my dream automobile,
sitting on my money clip in their *** jeans pocket
with my beloved Fender in the boot
to the second-hand car dealer
stopping off at the pawn shop
on the way to the terminal
to purchase a one way ticket out of town
without my authorization
while I'm still drooling pools
on my pillow.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 4:05 PM UTC
Thanks Hollywood for riding out from the west, with your slogan six-shooter that’s guilty for the hole in my chest, for making my decision of what's the best bet. You shot art through the heart because it made men outta mice. But my vision kept left, so far it was in the opposite lane when you came round enforcing your reign. It has dodged Dodges, Fords, and all your other brands too, just to weave words from within this wicked n' wild whirl wind where we watch wrecks while fat cats sit back n' get paycheques. So lemme ask, what's next? They'll keep us typing on computers, pressing buttons for nothing. Hunting for faith in a sea full of snakes, and if you ever find some I'll be amazed because I get lost for days in this ****** maze. That's not to say that I stop my pace. Still moving so fast I feel wind on my face, but the breeze is about all I feel nowadays. Cause they shot art through the heart, it was making men outta mice, and what they gave us in trade still filled me with a fiery rage, but those too close got burnt so I learnt to keep it all locked in a cage and if it werent for this ink and this page, then maybe I'd have enough passion to make something change. But they shot art through the heart for making men outta mice, and when they did that they gave everything a price. The only thing left now not slapped with a label is all these free words and what you are able to put together as pieces of poetry, so if Im just one small rock in a world of change, then I must be part of a whole mountain range.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 4:58 PM UTC
It smells like rain this morning
8 in the city sins
Like wet grass, greens
Like electric clouds
Muffler exhaust
From the A.M. Commute
On Desert Inn Road
A millipede of Toyota Fords
And Honda Accords
Mojo takes his usual ****
In his usual spot
In the wet grass, green
It smells like rain this morning.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 11:54 AM UTC
You laughed at me for reading what they're quoting and now i understand because there are cupcakes starved of vitamin D and children blowing out their veins in two different fords in eight different dimensions - because earth is cyclicle and the front tire of an invisible stationery bike, kinda old and kinda not great at running anymore - but shush already enough with the watch me write ******** for fun I watched a man try to **** my mother then casually inspect the crown molding and kneel to the angelic thimble before skipping out into the night - and this makes sense now, watching me read had to be embarrassing seeing the top of my head and then the nonsense between the pages, the so called **** embarrassing enough to make you consider knocking me out and ****** me right there because you probably could but reconsider because of the sewage leaking out from under the flyleaf, not literally but that's what you think - yesterday I reclined on a study desk while he went to town and I may have cried but, eureka, I found myself to be nothing more than a temporary Flowr and the man btwn my hematomas shouldn't have been there, but hell! I rough what I want, and the guy I luv hates running subtitles.
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 10:43 AM UTC
Semantics,
conjuring tricks that
spring up like fleas
jumping off a dead dog.
I shall presume there is a room
filled with people of learning
burning the midnight oil or
perhaps they're burning the books,
breaking the glass to sound an alarm.
There is no harm in the trying
less life when you're dying and
no one is dying to do that.
late night orders.
when wracking my brain
thinking of
cracking *******
I'm wrecking my chance of recovery.
On a three day event when my time is ill spent
on the windings of lanes I once trod
only two days in and I'm looking to sin,
'there but for the grace of God'
It's sleep time in Stratford
and Catford
and all fords we must cross
will just have to wait until
daybreak.
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC
When the skylarks would warble hover and sing
at about a hundred feet, high on the wing, and we…
on a heat clicking Sunday between Salt End and the sea,
well we knew - just from the ozone, on the breeze
that we’d be off …a shimmering heat haze convoy of old crocks,
Bud, Margaret, Brian and me to Tunstall,
a diminishing, mystical land of sun, sand, sea - and tumbling rocks.
But it wasn’t just us…it was a cavalcade - motors galore.
Uncles, Aunties, Cousins, Grans, Grandads and more
in Austins, Morris’s, Vauxhalls and Fords,
And a big old Rover wi’them wide running boards,
a motor bike’n’sidecar with Maurice, Denise & our Val
to wring the best from the day a’la Plage de Tunstall’…
The beach crackled in the heat…
if you walked too slow it’d burn your feet.
and our Dads, our ‘civil engineers’, built a brick oven and in a
giggling gaggle… Mums cooked a real Sunday dinner.
Kids’d run back & forth to the sea and back
buckets & spades, hacking big holes and shots in goal,
cricket with fallen rocks for a wicket and,
after pudding, burying drunken dads in the sand.
Heavy, wet woolen cozzies, sand in groins,
...changing in turn, under a soaking wet, gritty towel.
“Don’t dry me with that, Ow! Buddy hell - watch my sunburn.”
Then, all back in the cars, for our return
into the sunset and driving away.
Chaffing sore shoulders.
Chuffing good day! - yeah…Parfait!!
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 12:07 PM UTC
Wales
I used to live in Chester, a beautiful town
and often walked along the Roman wall and, in my mind,
I saw Roman soldiers sitting by the fire roasting mice.
On Sundays, I liked to drive to Wales a beautiful country of rolling hills
and sheep with coal dust on,
Back then and this is years ago, you could drink tea in a pub,
I once drank coffee and it was ghastly.
I liked this country it had a dreamy quality.
Now I´m watching a crime story from Wales and it had nothing to do with
the land I remember.
This country I see on the screen is dark with old houses and people
who carries a dark secret in their hearts?
What do I know? Perhaps the lovely barmaid had killed her father
dropped him in a deep well only a detective who knew the mind
of Wale's psyche could work out.
As it is I prefer to remember Wales, crossing fords wondering who deep they were, the narrow roads and sheep on hills.
I stick with what I remember, the TV. The program is entertainment.
May 25, 2021
May 25, 2021 at 11:47 AM UTC
Farewell to Benbecula!
Pennyland of the fords,
Dark island of my birth,
Dearly I hold
The days of old;
To you I'll never return.
The voice of our ancestors,
In their song of peace I hear—
I will go home from now on,
That day is near.
Farewell to Benbecula!
Pennyland of the fords,
Dark island of my birth,
Dearly I hold
The days of old;
To you I'll never return.
So goodbye,
And for the last time I'll stay
In these dark seas of ice.
I hold the hope of our last parting,
But no hope can ever reburn
What a sweet melody it was....
Farewell to Benbecula!
By river, by shore and by sand:
Pennyland of the fords,
Dark island of my birth,
Dearly I hold
The days of old;
To you I'll never return.
Jul 9, 2019
Jul 9, 2019 at 3:46 PM UTC