"goddam" poems
****** in-law *****
sent the fuckin' Pinkertons
shitheel ***********
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 9:49 PM UTC
This Ain't a ******* Country Song
You know I love my Rock and Roll
I wouldn't write a Country Song
'Cause that's not how I roll
This song it ain't bout country things
Like pickup trucks and cars
You'll never find me writing
About getting drunk in bars
There's no mention here of Taylor Swift
or The Charlie Daniels Band
I wouldn't write of how the banks
are taking our farmland
This Ain't a ******* Country Song
You know I love my Rock and Roll
I wouldn't write a Country Song
'Cause that's not how I roll
I don't know **** 'bout Redneck stuff
like hunting dogs and guns
I wouldn't write of Daisy Dukes
showing off some hot babes buns
I won't write 'bout the Opry
I don't know all that stuff
Of Minnie Pearl and Grandpa Jones
And Mr. Roy Acuff
This Ain't a ******* Country Song
You know I love my Rock and Roll
I wouldn't write a Country Song
'Cause that's not how I roll
There's nothing here 'bout Bourbon
or of Racing through the fields
I don't know much about farming
or crop futures or of yields
I listen to The Rolling Stones
Trace Adkins I don't like
Lady A can go away
Kid Rock can ride his bike
You won't hear much about Zac Browns Band
or of food thats Chicken Fried
I might go to a hoedown
If I'd just up and died
My music, it fulfills me
It makes me who I am
But I'll stay away from country
songs, Cause I don't give a ****
No Oak Ridge Boys or Hee Haw Here
Hank Williams I won't buy
I'll never buy a Dixie Beer
It's a drink I'll never try
I won't sing about Kentucky
or of a Texas Yellow Rose
you know this aint no country song
Good god I hope it shows
There's no mohter, dogs or applie pie
no fishin' in the dark
No Everything is Beautiful
No songs by Terry Clark
I'm really open minded
My friends they are the same
We won't buy country music
To us it's just so lame
This Ain't a ******* Country Song
You know I love my Rock and Roll
I wouldn't write a Country Song
'Cause that's not how I roll
I won't mention stuff you'll find
in songs by Nashville bands
There's nothing here about
watching football in the stands
I'll never write a country song
Cause country just ain't fun
Oh crap I just read this thing
And I think I just wrote one
This Ain't a ******* Country Song
You know I love my Rock and Roll
I wouldn't write a Country Song
'Cause that's not how I roll
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 10:33 AM UTC
#
******* ****** demons.. they're everywhere.
And I've known it about this site
for so ******* long.
And the witches.. Jesus Christ--
control freaks, every one of you.
What..
do you think your creativity 'substantiates' you?**
***They're just ******* words.***
**Your creativity comes with an accountability..
but you won't have any part of that.. will you?
If your demons are so ******* powerful,
why do they hide inside of you?
Like a pathetic excuse of a man, stepfather--
Using.. using.. using.. his wife's beautiful daughter..
over and over and over and over again.
It is no different with these Unholy shitbags also..**
("Oh, but don't I gather the most followers with my words?")
***It's just empty ******* babble.
In the Realms, it means nothing.
Absolutely. ******* Nothing.
The ******** inhabitor is just an extension of your
empty, ever-controlling.. soul stealing Mother--***
**It's an extremely-closed loop, Beavis.
End of ******* story.**
******* ******* demons..
the pathetic ******** are everywhere..*
#
Dec 21, 2021
Dec 21, 2021 at 7:43 PM UTC
<>
for the early morning teach
<>
she's young, beautiful and thinks her life is cursed,
in the past, subject of some of my poems, her health to nurse,
yet, as is normative, you fall into & out of a well of touch,
until you accidentally once again path cross,
she provides a precision mathematical status update
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
it is 1:38AM for you,
the not unnoticed ironic minute and hour
when the night ether has prematurely worn off,
rising time close but not nearly close enough,
a dark dose of a sleeping nurse's aide seems inappropriate,
and TV reruns seem like an insult to your brain
instead you turn on some belle string musique,
a Grande Messe des Morts,
a chorus,
singing a high mass for the dead,
while opening all your various email luggage and baggage,
smiling as you read a poetess's message of
laughter behind tears
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
and Mississippi ******
your uncontrollable mixed drink of her emotional
Grenada grenade cocktail,
flavored with musique, paintings, and words and a nearby beloved's
gentling sleep sounds,
has you writing your own protest poem,
your very own,
oy vey, grande messe,
about lives that were supposed to be
pictures of perfect artistry
and for but a word or two,
instead, a painting of a life that got hung upside down,
and indeed,
leaving a grand mess and no one to help clean up
alternatively weeping, laughing as you are thinking,
smiling recall
Laurel and Hardy's summary definition
of living a life's of ill begotten, misventured adventures:
"Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into !"
but 38% worse?
not an even-steven rounded up 40%,
should I write you only 38% of a poem, teach?
or more accurately, more mathematically,
138% of what was writ before?
and you recall your older, prior words
about the love hate affair between
you poet,
and the beauty of written brevity
(her style)
and you give her this then,
this rambling, scrambled, attention paid notification,
word attentiveness, a summary of your readings
of her cheddar sharp and honey mustard sweet retorts of
pained poetry,
it is insufficiently but perfectly sufficient,
a summarizing phrase that opens
and yet
briefly encapsulates all that
you are feeling for her
"thinking of you"
or the 38% larger version thereof -
***"Well, here's another 38% more
nice poetic mess
you've gotten me into!"***
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
He wears his smile in his pocket.
Where no one else can see.
And since none have seen him happy
They’re convinced he’ll never be.
His laughter’s in a fist.
So tight, no one can hear.
With no joy in his voice at all,
They’re sure he’s filled with fear.
All they see is torment.
They don’t look for what he was.
All they see is torment.
Nobody ever does.
All they see is torment.
They’re not sure what the cause.
All they see is torment,
And all his other flaws.
The world’s so filled with judgment.
It won’t stop to find the good.
But when time is so ****** precious,
It’s a mystery why it should.
All they see is torment.
His soul’s as dark as night.
All they see is torment.
They can’t see his plight.
All they see is torment.
All ignore the fight.
All they see is torment.
He can never set things right.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 8:42 PM UTC
Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
Thugs with Pens
Hell-bent; not on cultism
Just airing the other sentiments
That don’t make it to primetime
Thugs with pens
Not poking out eyes
Just venting spleen
Sick of the lies
Thugs with pens
Deserve to be heard
They don’t poison your brain
With stacks of *****
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Can change your mind
In ******* time
Thugs with pens
Can make a dent
They don’t need to insert
Un-readable, un-interesting
Covert small print....
Thugs with pens
Don’t need no script writers
Or advisors nor signatories
Witnesses, nor dodgy men
With gold plated fountain pen nibs
To make amends
Or throw in no hidden clauses
That secretly **** your life blood
Thugs with pens
Don’t aim to pierce your skin
But make their mark
Deeper within
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Completely uncensored
champions of free speech
The establishment want suppressed,
silenced, deleted; terminated.
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans don’t
Schedule meetings
To fix the minutes
And schedule another meeting
And keep ‘minutes’
As square angled
And unproductive
As formal conversation
Thugs with pens
Aim venomous ink
At headless politicians
That squawks like chickens
Bending over
For the *************
Bank-beefing corporations,
Controlling the masses
With ***** little catchphrases
And mounds of munitions
And illegally enforced restrictions
On your movement and free expression
Honest men
Have nothing to fear
From Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
These “thugs” seek asylum
From countries
Where the law’s
Not bought and bent
Thugs with pens & aerosol cans
Are made to wear monikers and masks
Thugs with pens
Don’t turn on its own
Neighbours and citizens
To perpetuate myths:
A ****** ************* lie…
A thing that never happened!
(That’s for all of you dumb wits
out there
Who believe most of the ****
That’s drip fed
Your sensation addicted minds
Most of the time,)
Time you started reading between the lines
In fact get a pen
Or an aerosol can
Write your own lines
Start broadcasting
Reclaim your space
Before you’re completely neoned
Into the shade
And corralled under the spell
Of a TV screen
Or an anger raising headline
That conducts the flow
Of the status quo
Load up your magazines
With ball point pens
And sharp edged writing nibs,
Strap on a belt of aerosol cans
Reclaim your right to free expression
In public spaces
Join the rag-tag army
Of intuitive
Self-knowing men
The End: is well begun,
George Orwell
Should never have written
That blueprint,
‘1984’
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
I do not swear because I am
A sweet and sober guy;
I cannot vent a single ****
However hard I try.
And in viruperative way,
Though I recall it well,
I never, never, never say
A naughty word like hell.
To rouse my wrath you need not try,
I'm milder than a lamb;
However you may rile me I
Refuse to say: ******
In circumstances fury-fraught
My tongue is always civil,
And though you goad me I will not
Consign you to the divvle.
An no, I never, never swear;
Profanity don't pay;
To cuss won't get you anywhere,
(And neither will to pray.)
And so all blasphemy I stem.
When milk of kindness curds:
But though I never utter them -
Gosh! how I know the words.
3.3k
I am not ashamed to love you
As i sit here and cry
I am not ashamed to have love-d you.
No I am not ashamed to cry for you.
I am not ashamed to love you.
With every fibre of my being.
With every sin, with every moral
with every, ****** hair on my head.
I am not afraid to love you.
I am more afraid of not loving you, than loving you.
I am afraid of you loving me.
I am more afraid of you loving me more than i have even been afraid in my life.
Because than that makes love real.
I lost my love a long time way back when.
It's not important.
There's details in the details.
But my faith in loving you will not wane, falter, stop or die.
I am not ashamed to cry waterfalls of salty tears into my hands for you.
I am not ashamed of messaging you 3am in the morning to see how you are.
and getting no reply.
I am not ashamed to know that my attempts to love you are futile.
Yes, you.
You who would want to punch me in the face, the throat, the clavicles of my heart
to stop me, from loving, you.
I am not ashamed to love you like you were my only love.
I will sing for you in the car my love, i will hold your hand, i will bake you muffins,
My love.
And you would want to **** my very smile with your eyes.
I am not ashamed to lie on my bathroom floor with arms in my chest, with pain in my stomach, and my eyes blind,
from loving, you.
I am not.
I am not.
I am not.
I am not ashamed to be the laughing stock of my friends, family and lovers past;
for loving losers like you,
for loving someone like you,
for loving someone who didn't deserve me,
treated me like ****
beat me,
use me, washed me up and dried me out, hung me out.
No i am not ashamed.
I am not ashamed to cry these tears because i lost you.
I am not ashamed to cry these tears because i am not in your arms.
For my heart beats strong.
For all these years,
through all these lovers,
through all these partners,
through all these ****** ******* tears.
For i love you more, each day.
For in this world where there is more hatred, pain, sorrow, suffering and loss
I would rather be ashamed for loving you,
than hating you for loving you once.
'We can only truly hate something we once also loved'
Logic eh? What else makes sense in this world?
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
This scent of you, it clings to my skin,
it clings like a rash that's boiled over from within.
I scratch at this poison that has marked my flesh,
the scent of you, at your very ****** best.
I throw off the covers and hit the wall with my fist;
should lust be a sin, if lust is like this?
And no matter what with who, how, what or where,
everytime i sleep i can feel your ****** stare.
And the weight of your fingers on the back of my neck
drives me to nightmares, and meaningless ***
Tinged by the moment and forgotten by the hue,
my arms are brusied easily by the scent of you.
I'm running wildly through bracken and fire,
i'm running as a beast would run from apathy and desire.
I, the lone wolf, i'm moonlit, i scratch and i howl,
at the memory of your face, and your sneering sharp scowl.
I, the lone rider, in flight fearless, reckless and abused,
I jump fields, catch branches, torn, bleeding and bruised.
I hide in the woods, and float in the sea
I'm hiding myself from the deepest memory of me.
You're the poision ivy to my deepest forest of bark,
You're the drifting snow to my deepest vision of dark.
This scent of you, it clings to my lips
and i bite my tongue as i stretch my fingertips.
There is no sense in this dirt that flies through my hands
my thoughts are lost as stone is lost in beached sands.
I rip at my skin and i tear at my voice
I made this my dealing, at my beck, at my choice.
I draw upon my body like a breeze skims the ground,
there is no more wanton whimper, than there is my sound.
And at night when the nightmares come and i scream in my sleep,
the scent of you overwhelms my body, and i sow what i reap.
I lightly collect my feelings and throw them in a box,
I wrap in chains and cover it in locks.
I have been fooled, i have been fooled and blinded by you
and this scent lingers, in a memory of a distant bluish hue.
I watch as you walk away, your hips sway, tail high
And i howl and i scream and i sit and i cry.
And whilst i linger alongside this sharp vivid movie scene,
i count my bruises and feel quietly serene.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 5:59 PM UTC
All the pretty birds
perched on leafy branches
chirp to the waking morning,
“I am here. Where are you?
I am here. Where are you?
I am here. Where are you?
I am here. Where are you?”
And the puppy dogs
all starve for something
While the cats of fortune
laze about the alleyways.
But the pretty birds
all the morning long,
“I am here. Where are you?”
The tardy businessmen
and their non-fat lattes
squirm in BMWs,
Honking at traffic
with the most colorful swears,
“I am here! I am here!
I am here! I am mad! I am here!”
High-octane housewives
power walk the parks,
Gabbing. And the old folks
tossing breadcrumbs to the ducks,
Mumble to long gone loved ones,
“Where are you? Where are you?
Where am I? Where are you?”
But those ****** birds-
Those pretty, ****** little birds-
They have it figured out.
They know the secrets
to Happiness:
‘I am here.
Where are you?’
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 4:27 AM UTC
A Woman took My Name,
While a Girl stole My Heart.
On seeing the Girl with Me,
The Woman's headaches Start.
The Woman has Sharp Eyes,
The Girl's Eyes are Blue.
The Woman has chained My Life
and wants to stick Me with Glue.
The Girl holds on to My Heart
While the Woman holds on to Me.
What good is this Life of mine,
When My Heart isn't Free.
I'm caught in a ****** Triangle,
Where the characters are the Same.
All I do is play Hide and Seek.
When they keep calling out My Name.
Jul 17, 2023
Jul 17, 2023 at 11:32 PM UTC
Don't you call me Bubba
Don't ever cross that line
I may be somewhat redneck
But, don't you ever cross that line
Don't call my sister Buehla
Don't ever cross the line
My sister, is my sister
And she's on my side of the line
Bubba, Buehla, Bobby Sue
To us they sound the same
You've crossed the line
this time, Bud
Those aren't our ****** names
I may be a redneck from
Below the Mason Dixon Line
But, Bubba is my cousin's name
It sure as hell ain't mine
You may say that you're sorry
To some that may be fine
But to me, you're only sorry
Cause you got caught across the line
Don't cross the line with me,, no sir
Don't make me hunt you down
Don't cross the line with me, no sir
I'll run you out of town
Bubba, Buehla, Bobby Sue
To us they sound the same
You've crossed the line
this time, Bud
Those aren't our ****** names
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
"It's ****** depressing, when you think about it."
I looked up from my cigarette, which I had been admiring soberly in the dark moonlight.
"When you think about what?"
"When the person you're talking to is more interested in their stinkin' cigarette than your "spilling of the heart.""
"I apologize, sincerely. How may I make it up to you?"
My partner sighed.
"I don't know Nolan, tell me one of your horrible stories that always make me feel better."
I thought for a few minutes before I stumbled upon an ill fated November morning in my thoughts.
"Well Tyler, this one time I was fishing with my dad and his friend, Todd, on Todd's boat. We were out on this God **** chilling lake at 6 in the morning and I had fallen asleep. Todd's boat was small and only had two seats, the driver and the passenger. So, being the youngest on the boat I had to sit on an ice chest by the motor. It reeked of oil and nasty stuff yet I somehow managed to fall asleep. When I woke up, my dad was yelling, telling me to stay awake. I figured, seeing how I was on a boat, I might as well fish. I picked up a pole and cast it out of the end of the boat. On my first ill fated cast I got tangled with Todd's line. So, we reeled in and untangled them. On the next cast the same thing happened, only I dangled with my dad's line. They told me it might be better if I stopped casting out so I returned to my ice chest throne and almost instantly fell asleep. I woke up to my dad yelling at me again. We were at shore and they were telling me to get off and sit on shore until they were done. So, I went on shore and fell asleep almost, again, instantly. I woke up via my own devices and I started throwing rocks into the water, trying to make them skip. I watched my dad and Todd fish from their tiny little boat. They were right out in the middle and a leak had sprung. They started coming back to shore but, as if on quee, the motor died. Long story short, the boat sunk. My dad and Todd were fine. Todd wasn't even that made because his boat was a God **** floating stick, basically. I just find it funny that my ableness to fall asleep and my patrons impatience caused me to be warm and dry while they ended up wet and pissy."
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 1:01 AM UTC
A billion hours ago
I would have told you
those same words:
Come back to me
I can't live without you
I love you still
I miss you
There is only you
I can't move on
I love you
I love you
And only you
I felt like I needed years
I needed a lifetime
to move on from those tears
from those kisses
those infinite moments
those tender hugs
those warm hands
and from your eyes
Turns out
I just needed
a break
from all
your ******
lies.
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 10:55 AM UTC
a scratching modest,
not demanding or shrill,
the need is not great
but persistent,
the urge asks politely
for satisfaction.
if you would be so kind sir,
perhaps my dear,
you could find it within you to,
accommodate a humble request.
write us a poem about nothing,
this bequest,
about this or that,
need not be rant nor praise,
observe, distinguish, or separate,
let It be about nothing much at all.
let a modest whimsy bring rhyming smiling
to many a lip, perhaps a tear or two
would not be out of place,
to keep the inner ear of the soul
straight on the line that demarcates
sanity and sobriety, from the madness of daily life.
couplets and stanzas, irregular, no matter,
iambic pentameter, overkill, too much bother,
perfect simple limericks for a kind hearted fella
would be most satisfactory
-----
Cute but pointless.
No, insufficient, a poem deserves its own import.
So here is the truth,
Here is a sanctified poem
About something!
~~~~
I got friends in this place who deserve better.
They deserve a poem that says:
We are all broken, demonized.
The edge is always near,
But never having laid eyes on you,
You have trusted me with thy struggle,
And I, with hints of mine.
So here is
The Poem,
a
Medal of Honor
I award to us.
A poem about the only four letter word that really matters,
A thousand times more powerful than mere love,
I award to us for bravery conspicuous,
For telling the truth, the hard way,
In words that reveal the persons we are when unmasked,
I award us the
**Medal of
Kind.**
And someday when our hands shake, hard hugs exchanged
And our smiles won't stop
Than I will say unashamedly,
****** I love you...
My men,
My women
My friends,
My comrades
You know who you are.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
in my coat pockets you will find:
a bunch of crumpled up receipts scribbled
with love letters i thought of reciting to you;
a pack of cigarettes that i feel is more
for the artistic sense than the addictive;
a mini-lighter on which i wrote the name
of my favorite rapper; and
a beanie she bought me only a year ago.
i’ve taken you on seventeen dates already in my mind
and i think i can imagine the sound
of your voice when you say
“i love you” and the shape the creases on the
edges of your lips make when you smile
back because i said “i love you too.”
but this is only my imagination and sometimes
that ****** thing just runs wild.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
This small boat of mine is battered and chipped.
And
I don't know,
Who I am, where I've been,
Why glacier shackles crown my wrists,
How I survived this gunshot wound shaped like sin,
Or what it means to not disappoint my father,
And be a ****** Man.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 11:09 PM UTC
This is a tale featuring the great superhero, SNOGGO
That ******* dangerous horrific and scary beast would not terrify me. Who was I? Some little stupid ******* weedy spastic? No, I was the great fearless SNOGGO! Yes! Yes! Yes! I was the magnificent SNOGGO who had faced (without flinching much) so many humunguously terrifying events! So I picked up the mighty hammer and struck out fearlessly: 'Wham! Thump! Crash! Boom!' I gave the terrfying monster a ******* great bashing.
I was enraged yet not terrified more than was absolutely necessary. Did you erroneously imagine I was just some little weedy wimp afraid of attacking a terrible adversary without a platoon of Hummers (whatever they may ******* be) full of mercenaries recruited from the slum trailer parks of Hades? 'Take that you stupid evil cunty ideologue!' I yelled, *'Take that! And that! ******* take that!'*
My God, I bashed that vile and 100% hideous creature ******* senseless. I was so ******* brave, just as brave as the worthless ***** who will soon be called heroic US veterans killing innocent Arabs left, right and centre throughout the entire ******* Middle East to please their Zionist taskmasters, God ****** them. I was incandescent. I was SUPER-FUCKING SNOGGO! I would triumph over adversity in the name of ******* freedom's ******* bell! Ding-dong!
As so it came to pass that, finally after a tremendous struggle in which I nearly lost a fingernail, the immature pink dwarf hamster lay lifeless before me, squashed into a puddle reminiscent of a flattened dead hairy ripe tomato. *'Bring it on, you ****** pansy,'* I bravely thought as I ****** my comrade's flaccid **** eagerly as we cowered manfully in a burnt-out mosque, preparing ourselves bravely for a spot of rendition among the local orphans.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 1:21 PM UTC
Man,
i have one hell of a mean appetite,
my brain is stuttering
and my fists are ready to fight.
Feel my mettle,
heat the core,
watch my face,
as my feet hit the floor..
Come one step deeper,
one head **** behind,
they say scream harder,
as i begin to lose my mind.
But there's no vouch in my voice,
and no breath beneath my chest,
i can hear the thunder roaring,
in the beating within my breast.
And i can't see the boundaries,
between where me and i begin,
you want to see me roar,
as if the game is ready to win.
I'm one step caning it,
3 steps naked on your floor,
I beg you to be harder
as you come through the door.
No-one asked for this music,
as i turned the juke-box on,
but i danced the night away til my feet bled,
and sang where there was no song.
I am 10 beats harder hitting,
My heartbeat is keep time,
throwing my hands up to the sky,
and i look for the horizon line.
Pull me in harder,
throw me out with the acrid air,
that you left with the ruffled sheets,
and memories of me being there.
I have a deep insatiable hunger,
that is lost upon the ground,
and i have a rumbling scream,
that is vacuum packed in sound.
Running, running like there are care packages,
being dropped from the sky,
yet everything is an illusion,
and i'm left digging through a 'wondering why'.
Shadow boxing in candle light,
with someone i barely know,
and i am ready, and i am ****** willing,
for you to enjoy the show.
******* harder, faster,
til the sweat becomes pearls of dew from my lips,
and i bite hard down upon some skin,
and rip apart the sheets with my fingertips.
I taste, and choke, and i come up for air,
Hunger; hungry desire is written in my skin,
and i let my body release endorphin's
and i dance with the passionate demon within.
Eat me, excite me, exhume my heart,
my hands are shaking with pure white heat,
so i will sit quietly breathing nothing,
and calm myself from the soles of my feet.
Man,
do i have an appetite,
Come feed me
with cucumber sandwiches,
and cups of tea.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 2:40 PM UTC
The Dragons took a Bat,
in their Hands and out fell,
the ****** Virus.
I wonder, what would fall out.
If each one of them,
had their......Balls
in their Hands.
Aug 1, 2020
Aug 1, 2020 at 7:47 AM UTC
I first found Sundance bleeding in the desert like a dog.
Dirt stuck to him in broken window panes,
he bent his neck toward me in parts.
Spoke through eyes red like Arizona rock.
******* was so *****
looked like the desert spat him up.
Turns out it was the next town over.
They’d never done a proper hanging, before.
What happens when you’ve never done a
proper hanging before is loose hands.
Loose hands have a tendency
toward knives.
Sheriff sort of looked like a cross,
on his back,
that big knife stickin’ straight up like
a piece of glass.
Almost looked like Christ,
all curled up,
shining bright,
golden in all that dust.
Sundance drowned the devil in the Rio Grande.
Sundance had hands that were ****** quick.
I once saw him on a slow day.
Even then, they didn’t get to see the lightning,
people on the wrong end.
All they got was that black-hole barrel.
Must have looked like a third eye, on the other side.
Must have looked like a sunset.
Sundance’s tequila-blues,
a little shimmer, orange, red.
Six sunsets in three seconds
he was that quick.
In Bolivia we met two hundred Federalies
and I first saw him shake.
He said everything’s upside-down on the other
side of the equator and sunsets happen
the wrong ****** direction here.
Said we got lazy and let the Texas
spin us over the wrong way.
I bet he was quick enough to see the lightning
before the black.
Sundance told me when the world ends,
it’ll start in Texas.
Said there’s a few canyons there that’ll swallow
the whole ****** planet if we’re not too careful.
Said we’ll be wakin’ up next to ****** snakes,
before anyone notices.
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 6:31 AM UTC
When I go out each day,
Despite what I might say,
There's an immense rage--
A mental cage--
That just won't go away.
I keep it all inside,
Where I wish that I could hide.
'Cause without that net,
There'd be much regret,
And so much more homicide.
There's poison in the masses' veins.
There's torment waiting to be aimed.
And I see it in their eyes.
And while I wish that I could maim--
To reciprocate their ****** blame--
I guess I'm just not that sort of guy.
The sort of guy who gives a ****
'Bout all those who they torment, it...
It's not something I'm proud to say,
But I'm gonna say it anyway:
I feel it when I go out each day.
I see them cry; I see them hurt,
And, sure, I go on high-alert--
I WISH that I could care for them--
But then I remember a time back when...
When I hurt the same and they...
They'd do what I do...
When I go out each day.
Now ask yourself:
Am I that way...?
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 3:48 AM UTC
The name of this tune is Mississippi ******
And I mean every word of it
Alabama's gotten me so upset
Tennessee made me lose my rest
And everybody knows about Mississippi ******
Alabama's gotten me so upset
Tennessee made me lose my rest
And everybody knows about Mississippi ******
Can't you see it
Can't you feel it
It's all in the air
I can't stand the pressure much longer
Somebody say a prayer
Alabama's gotten me so upset
Tennessee made me lose my rest
And everybody knows about Mississippi ******
This is a show tune
But the show hasn't been written for it, yet
Hound dogs on my trail
School children sitting in jail
Black cat cross my path
I think every day's gonna be my last
Lord have mercy on this land of mine
We all gonna get it in due time
I don't belong here
I don't belong there
I've even stopped believing in prayer
Don't tell me
I tell you
Me and my people just about due
I've been there so I know
They keep on saying "Go slow!"
But that's just the trouble
"do it slow"
Washing the windows
"do it slow"
Picking the cotton
"do it slow"
You're just plain rotten
"do it slow"
You're too **** lazy
"do it slow"
The thinking's crazy
"do it slow"
Where am I going
What am I doing
I don't know
I don't know
Just try to do your very best
Stand up be counted with all the rest
For everybody knows about Mississippi ******
I made you thought I was kiddin'
Picket lines
School boy cots
They try to say it's a communist plot
All I want is equality
for my sister my brother my people and me
Yes you lied to me all these years
You told me to wash and clean my ears
And talk real fine just like a lady
And you'd stop calling me Sister Sadie
Oh but this whole country is full of lies
You're all gonna die and die like flies
I don't trust you any more
You keep on saying "Go slow!"
"Go slow!"
But that's just the trouble
"do it slow"
Desegregation
"do it slow"
Mass participation
"do it slow"
Reunification
"do it slow"
Do things gradually
"do it slow"
But bring more tragedy
"do it slow"
Why don't you see it
Why don't you feel it
I don't know
I don't know
You don't have to live next to me
Just give me my equality
Everybody knows about Mississippi
Everybody knows about Alabama
Everybody knows about Mississippi ******
That's it!
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
What made me an atheist!!
I get the question a lot!!
And my reply isn't for the
faint-hearted
Giving back in return what the
the priest gave me but in return.
Over the alter,
all you heard from his lips where
profanities!!!
Oh Jesus,
goddam it!!
holy mother of god!!
He took the bread and his ****
drank the wine...
And I thought if a man of the cloth could
say the lord's name in vain so much
how could there be a lord if
he was blasphemous to such a degree...
I left him tied to the alter, a cross down
his throat... swallowing his faith,
but his god couldn't save him...
I did the sign of the **** you as I left....
Nov 28, 2020
Nov 28, 2020 at 3:50 PM UTC