"gangs" poems
for leather accrues
The miracle of the streets
The scents & smogs &
pollens of existence
Shiny blackness
so totally naked she was
Totally un-hung-up
We looked around
lights now on
Top see our fellow travellers
~~~
I am troubled
Immeasurably
By your eyes
I am struck
By the feather
of your soft
Reply
The sound of glass
Speaks quick
Disdain
And conceals
What your eyes fight
To explain
~~~
She looked so sad in sleep
Like a friendly hand
just out of reach
A candle stranded on
a beach
While the sun sinks low
an H-bomb in reverse
~~~
Everything human
is leaving
her face
Soon she will disappear
into the calm
vegetable
morass
Stay!
My Wild Love!
~~~
I get my best ideas when the
telephone rings & rings. It’s no fun
To feel like a fool-when your
baby’s gone. A new ax to my head:
Possession. I create my own sword
of Damascus. I’ve done nothing w/time.
A little tot prancing the boards playing
w/Revolution. When out there the
World awaits & abounds w/heavy gangs
of murderers & real madmen. Hanging
from windows as if to say: I’m bold-
do you love me? Just for tonight.
A One Night Stand. A dog howls & whines
at the glass sliding door (why can’t I
be in there?) A cat yowls. A car engine
revs & races against the grain- dry
rasping carbon protest. I put the book
down- & begin my own book.
Love for the fat girl.
When will SHE get here?
~~~
In the gloom
In the shady living room
where we lived & died
& laughed & cried
& the pride of our relationship
took hold that summer
What a trip
To hold your hand
& tell the cops
you’re not 16
no runaway
The wino left a little in
the old blue desert
bottle
Cattle skulls
the cliche of rats
who skim the trees
in search of fat
Hip children invade the grounds
& sleep in the wet grass
’til the dogs rush out
I’m going South!
40.3k
Why is there a little boy lying on the beach?
Washed up.
Lifeless.
All for a new life too far to reach?
Why is there a little boy lying on the beach?
Terrorists
Heartless.
What happened to the human rights we all preach?
Why is there a little boy lying on the beach?
Traffickers.
Gangs.
Displacing people no home and no speech.
Why is there a little boy lying on the beach?
A son.
No future.
We hang our heads and weep!
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
Its a scam, its a scam, see the Crimson Gang deftly scamming them
They by sleight have befuddled gullible masses Moral Compass
Made them see wrong as right twisting their brains from the stem
With deceitful guile they shepherded them all to the fools' campus
Slander and fake News galore fed to vacant hungry masses scrum
Knowledge is power the reprobates declares, do not let it pass
We're the majority the bullies screams, knowing they're just scums
Worthless charlatans who rob successes and **** without cutlass
They take a foregone conclusion and coat it with fool's gold crumb
A victim with no intention of going after an uninterested lass
Dumb masses fed fake news fooled into harassing actions dumb
A non-event becomes a show of the controlling might of our class
Crimson gangs interpret a non-events from his deluded sad drum
Creates a warped sick drama round a hapless victim for laughs
Gives street theater actions to masses, these will oppose and numb
Whilst poor victim subjected to 'voiding' madness wonders past
The Crimson leaders laugh so much like pirates drinking ***
Look how we manipulate the masses, they are so simple and crass
With our devious twisting propaganda they eat out of our ***
We simply use them to nail and crucify our victim to the cross
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 4:50 PM UTC
The sky was under stress
Fire lit up the night
Winds wailed and screeched
Foundations were blasted
Dread, death, doom and demise
A woman crying, "The world nevermore!"
A man thinking "It will be an eternity for daylight."
A baby, so fragile and small, lays in the street.
Danger arises
Hope shattered
Where is the light? And the salvation?
Thugs and gangs roam the cities
Terrorists never seem to stop
People will die 'til the Day.
Lucky seven no longer brings
Death and sickness and disaster come
Will the suffering end
And will the Earth be rebuilt again?
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 6:50 PM UTC
Another silent mid-Fall afternoon
Icy raindrops slash into my neck
The forecast calls for falling thumbtacks soon
One thin umbrella folding
Just 18 feet to the front step
With champagne acquainted
But forgot how to sip it
I slurp it down, eager,
'til I sit soaked and dripping
In time, fevered minds
will lower ears made for hearing
under waves of migraines
as mighty storm fronts are nearing
So I close down the bars and stumble home under awnings
Just to search for your name among newspaper cuttings
I've read the whole issue
and I've frowned over headlines
put it down
Now, soaked or dry, I've got only time
I've wasted so much of it losing my mind
I'm blind in the rain that now sticks in my hide
and they were right--
The forecast called for this squall to last all night
Another lonely mid-Fall morning walk
I follow gangs of specters in their steps
And, in the crunching gravel, ghosts will talk
November winds come howling
The second I leave my front step
The flavor's familiar
It comes back every morning,
when sunlight and sparrows
ignore tornado warnings
So the gales pick up strength
and a small bird's bones are hollow
The clouds lay oceans down
setting many sips to swallow
"So goodnight." I depart, but circle back in my wanderings
I'll always wind up here--shaky, ash-faced and yawning
I've read this before
it's printed on poor paper
in red ink
I can't say why I'm still walking by
Those other front doorsteps that I never try
The thick thumbtack rain stopped but I can't stay dry
the ghosts were right--
But if I find your name I might stop by.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 7:09 PM UTC
Please don't do this I dont need this mess,
Your starting trouble and i feel under duress,
I know I look the Geek I'm quiet and so easy to play,
But you just dont know its not always been this way.
It's a cliche I know but I aint right in the head,
For the most part I cant be taken as read,
I have run with gangs in third world hole's
Beaten bigger than you with far darker soul's
So before you get too froggy and decide to jump
Look past my smile at the ******* who will give you a thump
It's not like I want to but your making this hard
Now just walk away before I knock your teeth down your throat.
You ****
Mar 17, 2010
Mar 17, 2010 at 7:43 AM UTC
(Author's Note: For those of you who have read "The Outsiders" by S.E. Hinton, here you go.)
I am used to insults
after seventeen long years.
I should be, I create
half of them
and suffer through all of the rest.
I lived in New York for part
of my life, so
I am also used to violence.
I am able to rebel against everyone,
opposing gangs, the Socs,
even my own little posse of greasers.
They are like brothers to me, and
I am willing to lay down my life for them.
Not that I'd ever say that out loud.
I am not without pride
and I have quite the reputation to uphold.
I am rough, tough,
and a guy you want to have
on your side in a rumble.
But at the same time, I have seen to much
for a kid my age.
Fighting, blood, and a good guy getting in trouble
with the law for something he didn't do.
Death is the worst.
I am affected most by this, so I have built up a wall.
I am truly the one on the edge of our gang.
I am an outsider.
I am a greaser, a hood,
and proud of it.
So you can call me what you want to,
but
I am used to insults
after seventeen long years.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 7:50 PM UTC
As Valentine Day is upon us now
Sending a message to our loves
Like chocolate and flowers
With pictures of white doves
Think back to 1929
And of The North Side Gang...men who
Got a different type of message
And it wasn't I Love You
It was on the North Side
Al Capone's gang took down nine
They massacred these gangsters
They crossed the prohibition line
Five years before they also
Killed the gangs leader in his shop
His front was selling flowers
Hey, it's Chicago....where's a cop?
Now eighty five years later
The gangsters aren't as bold
But, on Valentines they're still there
Running Chicago in the cold
With prices for fresh roses
Through the roof....you know the powers
Are run like gangsters years before
By the people selling FLOWERS.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 6:45 AM UTC
What does a black kid who wants to rap write about well if he's from the suburbs he'll probably leave the pages white like the folks that where out.
Since there is no poverty, gangs, or death to report on. I guess he'll sit in his two parent household and be put down cause that's his home, and try to figure out that why in order to be black does he have go through struggle, live on 64th and Sangamon Chicago that's just asking for trouble.
Why aren't happiness and good times associated with the black culture, instead we like it when we're known for stealing, killing and getting over. I guess it's why light skinned people want to claim different races, why dark skinned woman aren't beautiful because we don't like the color of there faces.
I guess that's why Mike wanted to be white, why every black man woman and child believe that they have to fight, but naw not injustice and poverty, one another the same person you grew up calling your brother.
But what does it matter cause you don't hear my words. I'm just another black man from Richton Park Illinois so I remain unheard.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC
People diein' on the streets.
****** puddles at our feets.
But we could be a family.
We could be a whole.
We could be together.
But no one could be cold.
If we could live on an island,
no hate,
no guns,
no war.
We'd look back and wonder,
what was it all for?
People diein' on the streets.
****** puddles at our feets.
Gangs,
tempts,
nudes,
exempts.
We sit at desk,
eating or eaten.
we laughed at or laughing.
beating or bleedin'.
We know the truth, but call it cruel.
The cruel one is we, the blind fool.
People diein' on the streets
****** puddles at our feets.
Who shot the most guns?
Who then killed them all?
Who didn't mind a casualty?
Who could be responsible?
"Not me!" we cry,
"I'm a good soul."
But even if we declined,
can I be told where they go?
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
A summer of discontent
Uprooted families swap a bombed house for tent.
A summer of disbelief.
Acts of terror but where is the relief?
A summer of turmoil.
Mass migration not safe on home soil.
A summer of confusion.
Gangs, traffickers, corruption collusion.
A summer of down trodden flowers.
The tears we shed from the sins of powers.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
50 quid a night
Bleak walls
***** curtains
'Thieves abound' signs.
What do you expect?
Rumbling
deep and dark
Boeings vying
with Airbus
for air space
Around me
surrounded
held hostage by
a mix of humanity
that defies belief
Tats & shaven eyebrows
Over there a Rolex
Business people
thin on the ground
Holidaymakers
construction gangs
football teams
flight crew...
No pilots, mind
Families
And then there are
the lonesomes
like me
and people shouting
into their digital fruits
Only 50 quid a night
What do you expect?
What you've got...
A melting *** of humanity
In all its gore & gloriousness
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 12:00 PM UTC
London City is the name of the game,
Where no two lives are ever the same.
Every corner Every turn,
Every young person will cause concern.
Life of crime or life of hate,
Watch your back on every estate.
Busy buses and busy streets,
Liars, Thieves, Haters and Cheats!
London City aint no Paradise,
Your luck can change when you roll the dice.
Take a step wrong or right,
No matter if you’re black or white.
Life is life and death is death,
Right down until your very last breath.
Fights and gangs, Knives and guns,
Cursing on daughters and curing on sons.
Using weapons small or big,
Whether you’re drunk or had a swig.
No matter what path you choose to go down,
London City is always your Home town!
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC
Coming from the shadows a six armed samurai,
Followed closely by glowstick wielding neon ninji,
Grips of *** swigging pirates swing from the rafters,
Swallowed alive by blacklight monsters,
Gangs of ***** smoking gurus,
Armed to the teeth with translucent didgeridoos,
Monks parade in swirling vestments,
Whilst the shaman trip in lotus testament,
Gods transfixed by blood tear beauty,,
As humanity’s heroes slay bejeweled dragons,
The king with two faces is beheaded,
By his charlatans, harlequins, fools and jesters,
Chaotic, prophetic killers run amok,
The order of lunatics chant as the time is struck,
A battle royale then follows,
As robots and aliens envelope,
Brilliant beams and whirring mechanics,
Clash with steel, rock, bone and sticks,
Screams from the heads of the thieves,
As their brains are devoured by zombies
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 11:44 PM UTC
BOX cars run by a mile long.
And I wonder what they say to each other
When they stop a mile long on a sidetrack.
Maybe their chatter goes:
I came from Fargo with a load of wheat up to the danger line.
I came from Omaha with a load of shorthorns and they splintered my boards.
I came from Detroit heavy with a load of flivvers.
I carried apples from the Hood river last year and this year bunches of bananas from Florida; they look for me with watermelons from Mississippi next year.
Hammers and shovels of work gangs sleep in shop corners
when the dark stars come on the sky and the night watchmen walk and look.
Then the hammer heads talk to the handles,
then the scoops of the shovels talk,
how the day's work nicked and trimmed them,
how they swung and lifted all day,
how the hands of the work gangs smelled of hope.
In the night of the dark stars
when the curve of the sky is a work gang handle,
in the night on the mile long sidetracks,
in the night where the hammers and shovels sleep in corners,
the night watchmen stuff their pipes with dreams-
and sometimes they doze and don't care for nothin',
and sometimes they search their heads for meanings, stories, stars.
The stuff of it runs like this:
A long way we come; a long way to go; long rests and long deep sniffs for our lungs on the way.
Sleep is a belonging of all; even if all songs are old songs and the singing heart is snuffed out like a switchman's lantern with the oil gone, even if we forget our names and houses in the finish, the secret of sleep is left us, sleep belongs to all, sleep is the first and last and best of all.
People singing; people with song mouths connecting with song hearts; people who must sing or die; people whose song hearts break if there is no song mouth; these are my people.
3.6k
Blood is the color red.
Evil and fire.
Love and lust.
Rebirth and Jesus.
Danger and anger.
Blood is the color of red of war.
For many who have lost their lives.
And shed blood for freedom.
Blood represents death.
Blood is the color of red running through our veins.
Blood shows no prejudice
Regardless of our skin color
All blood is still the same.
Blood is the color of red cloth.
The killing in the suberbs.
Shows your race.
The slang of gangs.
Blood is the color of red in red wine.
Our grapes of wrath.
Fermenting and full bodied.
The smell of wickedness.
Blood is the color of red in our love and our passion.
Of St. Valentine.
Of our hearts and our mind.
Days of remembrances.
Blood is the color of red in " blood red lipstick".
Attracts us humans through love and lust.
Steals our innocence.
Robs our purity.
Blood is the color of red of Jesus Blood.
It keeps the body of Christ alive.
Brings cleansing to the soul.
Is the rebirth and resurrection.
Blood is a primary color.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
At the beginning of time
they saw him as a slave
Now, it’s the police prime
to shoot him into the grave
Peers scared he’ll steal their toys
Teachers still stereotype that his a black boy
Expel him giving his future to the gangs
Either jail or stuck between devil’s fangs
Scrabbling through the trauma
Living through hates non-understandable
Unaware, untrained he’ll be a black man
Until then, either he stays in a comma
‘Cause I don’t know how the black boy can survive.
Oct 27, 2020
Oct 27, 2020 at 7:00 PM UTC
I am the oppressed,
and you are the master,
holding me since birth,
as I am evolutions disaster.
I have a tendency for violent outbreaks,
created by institutionalized racism,
they say be "normal", there are choices...
yet within our beliefs there is a chasm.
For I was born without an option,
and went where I was led,
my only freedom was my adoption,
into the gangs for whom I bled.
While society cites me as a statistic,
I am just an average man,
pushed to the point of being sadistic,
because for the blacks there is no plan.
Do not group me with the heathens,
or make me out to be a sociopath,
I went where I saw life's beacons,
and as a child I was caught in that wrath.
Someday this will all end,
that day that I will be dead,
revolution will strike society,
like a bullet in the head.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
A thistle is just enough
to encumber a ruff
rider through the hills
never mind the flour mills
to process and possess
and gain interest
on fervent capital gains
which are not worth the pains
for glory be told
for those who'd rather be old
and grey without headfeathers
and times naught but better
have then the vanity
to spew chicanery
to delve into the society
of anti-sobriety
and them then who lost
streetwise cost
but for the depreciated stock
which will be bought up by the flock
will credit its debits
to gangs that met its
match to the makers
and the tough men shakers
who make it possible to move
product without anything else to prove
than to their mothers
dead fathers and brothers
that one can make a living
off of ******* soul ******* and killing.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 6:38 AM UTC
I know That Times Will Change.
The Struggle is the same.
The Battle lines are always where they've been.
We've been charging for so long.
This time we must be strong,
Or be scattered like the leaves blown by the wind.
Yesterday as I was walking.
I heard these two men talking
About a third man who wasn't there.
I heard them put him down,
Just because his skin is brown.
It's no wonder that the world just isn't fair.
I heard a woman say
She did not have equal pay
As the men who did the same job that she did.
When she asked the bosses why,
The looked her right in the eye,
And told her to go home and raise her kids.
In the poorer neighborhood
Where the roads are never good,
And the prices in the market are too high,
When you bother to compair,
The food is cheaper where
The well-to-do are sure to shop and buy.
I know that times will change.
The struggle stays the same.
The Battle lines are always where they've been.
We've been charging for so long.
This time we must be strong,
Or be scattered like the leaves blown by the wind.
They said in the news cast
A man was beaten bad.
He was on his way for treatment when he died.
He had dared to love a man,
and they called that love a sin.
I think the only sin was how they lied.
There's an teen-ager in jail
Being held without a bail.
His only crime was coming to our land.
Before they let him go,
They'll strip him of his hope,
Then send him to the gangs across the Rio Grande.
I know the times will change.
The struggle stays the same.
The battle lines are always where they've been.
We've been charging for so long.
This time we must be strong,
Or scatter like the leaves blown by the wind.
We've been fighting for so long.
This time we must stand strong,
Stronger than the leaves blown by the wind.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
If, entrusted were I, with a magical purse,
one that held what was needed, but not monies curse.
One that neither bulged, nor would ever be empty,
so when I reached down within, there I'd find plenty.
A handful of tolerance, I would pull each day,
to pass out to those in need, I met along the way.
I would take a fist full of hope, to toss aloft.
Scatter it among the throng, letting it land soft.
I would enter into the turf of gangs and their wars.
Trading peace for their guns, so they would **** no more.
I would go to Washington, there I would invest,
two handfuls of honesty, perhaps ten, would be best.
Charity, I would share, with those who live large.
Help them to give some away, so no one need starve.
I could change so many things and alter many lives.
But, I could also do harm and make so many cry.
As it is so easy, to think one self's above,
to take control of lives, forgetting about love.
So for myself, I'd take a bit to keep myself humble.
So that I and my purse, never, ever stumble
Dec 21, 2010
Dec 21, 2010 at 2:28 PM UTC
Foster, what family? Lower class, dream of vacation
******** what trickles down, affecting a life situation
White to Blue Collar; a rebuild or invasion?
Millions inside the boxes of convention
Justified superficial, backhanded salutations
Refute Love, proposed as mankind’s invention
Pulled by a string of instant gratification
Finding freedom’s temporary
If ever, long term locations
Constricted, system of classifications
The socially admissible connections,
Not to mention gangs of corrections
Flowing through the previous, my own generation
For the infinite hours
One after the other
Trade integrity for the illusion of power
Not all those with a gun should be considered a coward
Face the souls sold on Wall Street,
Remember those from Twin Towers
Ground zero, abandoned. Now bare, desolate
The idea of terrorism denied, while some wrestle it
Rationales dislocate, post hairline fracture
Frontal lobe imposter, posing in rapture
As if talent, love, or hate could ever be captured
Held at gun point, then forgotten years after
My children will one day look to me for the answer
What’s society, this twisted maze we live in?
I will gaze in their eyes with the same exact question
And don’t ever allow me again not to mention
Real criminals can’t learn from minute or life-long detentions
Some incapable of that level of retention
As our battered soldiers forever sleep at attention
Politically correct, tongues in consistent hesitation
Kiss police *** only to go to the station
Before the thought of who signed the citation
Treated as if it were a felony violation
Our basic rights according to our nation
Arizona & Co for minority elimination
Die fighting the statute of poverty’s limitations
vi.i.xi
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 6:22 AM UTC
Her bed wouldn't release her,
Despite the alarm clock's vicious bite,
had a late one last night,
hey, Jenna,
Mother called,
time to get up honey,
get your *** moving,
and I'll chuck you some money,
maybe get you fast food breakfast,
won't tell you again,
that time was the last.
Jenna fell out of bed,
chucked on her clothes,
looked like a clothes horse,
with a pierced nose,
She wiped on her daily slap,
told the world that school was crap,
wiped on a phoney grin,
Mamma said she must go in,
In a very loud voice,
She spouted,
only thing worth having,
was not education,
but in her classes gangs of boys.
Had enough of dictatorial teachers,
she could still hang out in bed,
learning from dreams,
instead,
She so hated mother's nagging,
practised in old bagging,
She had no yearning for learning,
all she wants to do is sleep!
(C) Livvi
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 5:46 AM UTC
behind barricades
before the red bandanna meant you were a Crip or Blood
undaunted, refusing to be
..........intimidated
nameless
.....(known only
to
..........................YOUR LOVE
as "love")
the streets are red with the ******
dreams our youth is bleeding
on these streets
but then the gangs recieved from the c.i.a.
control over the drug trade
and killed us all
-----
(behind barricades)
the liars are everywhere and those most visable
are
the greatest of the liars
speaking softly sanely
to you all................
.....................in
words-
impossible
--
love is a powerful feeling
only love
means a thing
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 4:13 PM UTC