"grammys" poems
oh how we worship the pretty people
despite them being the source of so much evil
and lust to be just like them
we find so much ******** believable and think each of them a gem
the glamorous, the beautiful, the ****
"did you see the new tweet? after the show I hope they text me!"
we follow them through the movies into their church steeples
hollywood and all it's heights of it's anointed peoples
the magazines are their bibles and we hold none of them liable
for the lies they've told or the lives they ruin being unreliable
with every story they're spinning
they want us to believe they're "winning"
marriage, divorce, wife number three
new baby carriage, move to the golf course, life under palm trees
remain calm and know things are always ok if you can sing and be pretty
I pity the soulless with hot faces, no social graces but lots of *** in the city
and we love their scandals we can't get enough
every news stand proving america has more than a crush
on the movie stars, on the models, on their cars, on the rush
of thinking we could be them if we just got a new nose and a tuck
who put Brangelina's kids' new brother on every magazine cover
but never the military heroes who live to protect you while they duck for cover?
**** the sheep who keep the weakness in our families
who want the news filled with the new runways fashion and grammys
instead of the problems that need solutions and what real life should mean
we need action and my reaction is to lift the small faction of thinkers up to be seen
we need a cause to cut loose the famous like weights and hate their **********
ignore the models, shun the actors, pay the teachers, appreciate the surgeons
being pretty is a gift not a skill
being hot isn't exactly curing cancer or healing the ill
but we still want what we can't have, much worse than reality
another prada handbag under the disposable christmas tree
them or us, I don't know what's a worse diversion
I guess I'm just not pretty enough to be a "real" person
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 1:03 AM UTC
The other night I snuck into the Grammys
It really wasn't that hard you see
I was dressed as the Daft Punk dude on the left
My own mother wouldn't have recognize me
I was on the elevator at the Ritz-Carlton
When one of those robots stepped in by himself
So I knocked him out then tied him up
And left him bundled up in the stair well
I put on the suit and the helmet
It's not hard to fake a french accent in those
The only problem I encountered that evening
Was the strong desire to scratch my nose
You know I was the life of the party
Mingling with all of the stars
For awhile I sat in the row with Shawn and Yoko
Still don't know which ones from Venus and which ones from Mars
I'm sure in the circles that those two hang with
They are as normal as all of the rest
Of course most of the rockers I met that night
Put normality to the test
I was a little nervous about preforming
But I just put my boogie shoes on
The only one there who would notice my radical rhythm
Was Stevie and he couldn't see what was going on
When we went up to accept our award
I waved and mumbled under my breath
I must of made it sound mighty profound
As the crowd all clapped and nodded their heads
I really had the best of times that night
Partying like it was 1999
Prince wasn't there but who really cares
When your behind Beyonce in the Mambo line
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 7:37 AM UTC
after earning their first grammy, Eddie
Vedder stood with the other guys
in
Pearl Jam and said "I don't know what
this means or what I'm doing here."
how
do we put a grade on art? do we find
our
favorite poem and give it a smiley
face
sticker with an accolade like "good
goin!"?
do we single out a Mattisse sculpture,
give
it a round of applause and an Applebee's
gift card?
I don't have a grade for the
things
I love. that takes the fun out of loving
them.
I'll listen to your song. I'll play it
again.
I won't give it any stars but I'll give
it
all my attention.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 5:45 PM UTC
Here I am pen in hand
about to write another stupid love poem
still unsure if i have ever been in love
See I used to fake love to get handsy under the bleachers
now I'm so practiced at faking love that I could probably get Grammys
My words have always been adequate enough to put smiles on girls faces
But my words have never been concrete enough to find a place with anyone in particular
Maybe that why I find it easier to bounce around from girl to girl making declarations of love to you and then again to her
I've even gotten so good at faking love that I have fooled myself into believing I'm someone worth loving
So good in fact that there are days when I wish my hands were made of sandpaper because I've been stroking my ego so much that I've started devoloping carpal tunnel in my smile
But then again I've always had pain behind my grin
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 3:57 AM UTC
I dreamed I won three Oscars,
Four Emmys, and a Tony too.
My fireplace mantel was sagging
From the honors I accrued.
I picked up two Golden Globes,
Five Grammys plus a Pulitzer Prize.
The awards just poured in that night.
I couldn't believe my eyes.
They gave me the Nobel Peace Prize
And my very own Stanley Cup,
Then I earned a People's Choice Award
Seconds before I woke up!
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
it's grammys night
and my parents are angry
that i get so excited about
watching people win awards
and perform
but they don't know
what these people have done for me
that's why i like watching them
Mar 14, 2021
Mar 14, 2021 at 9:53 PM UTC
My sister’s a mister. She cares for her plants,
Her orchids from Cuba, Tahiti, or France.
She grows lovely children entirely from scratch
In homemade production runs, two to the batch.
She teaches the women of her little town
To belly, to yoga, to boogie on down.
She’s always found living alone such a bore;
A harvest of husbands – she’s on number four.
She drives a Miata with careless aplomb,
The very ideal of a hot soccer mom.
But me, I was thinking of how to invent
A Booker prize novel to cover my rent,
Or lysergic rhapsodies for the guitar
Or finally learning to drive in a car.
The hours spurted onward in skips and in bounds,
Years twirling away down a hole in the ground;
How gently appalling my ultimate fate,
To grow wispy white whiskers, and sit on a gate.
She spins on the dance floor like wind on the wing,
To Western and Latin and Manhattan Swing;
Her elegant limbs grace the South Jersey beaches,
And people go mad for her raspberry quiches.
Her daughter (my niece) with her blue eyes so dear
Sets the upper crust of Baltimore on its ear,
While her brother my nephew is cutting a swath, (um)
Through the au courant circles of fashionable Gotham.
That’s my sister, triumphing wherever she goes,
And she never had anything done to her nose.
But me, I was dreaming up world-shifting rubrics,
Or imagining screenplays to shame all the Kubricks;
My ****** could make you explode in your jammies,
And my song lyrics won theoretical Grammys.
Of invisible kingdoms I was the past master,
I walked with Elijah, I lunched Zoroaster.
Yet somehow I find myself at this late date
With my brain in the clouds, and my *** on a gate.
Mar 12, 2020
Mar 12, 2020 at 1:37 PM UTC
So I take it reading this your day *****
and you want to go from a F to an A+
sit back in that chair
don't you move from right there
and I'll give you my secret to get the spirits up.
Now you'd may come off as hammy,
but imagine you're at the Oscars or Grammys
You've just won for best whatever
now you're on the stage, be clever!
so your hands and face don't get clammy
So while you're on stage with your speech
think about your past friends for a second each
now that you have them in play
here's what to say
I'd like to thank all the little people I had to step on, I wrote their names down, I'll read them off one each
There you have it, that's my secret to bring cool
and though you may think I sound like an insufferable tool
when I walk across the stage
I hope you won't be enraged
when I come by with millions at out reunion for school
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 10:26 AM UTC
The Grammys Celebrate Workers
“A forklift carrying barricades held up a crowd of commuters…”
-Los Angeles Times
With frosted breath, hands gloved against the cold
A working man forklifts the barricades
Into the streets, that he may block himself
From musical celebrations of work
Inside the temporary Palace of Culture
Musicians are being told what to wear
What they are for, and what they are against
Their speeches scrolled on discreet telescreens
The workers barred from work shiver and wait
For artists great, who never pay the freight
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 11:02 AM UTC
you absolutely melted me
in blackberry fields wild
Barefoot dancing in hayfields
Rolled up ...
Warmth inside rising
igniting a fire
for southern Baptist tithing ...
Melons ripe
chasing lightening bugs
laughter delights...
Mosquitoes bite
dinner bell rings
Harvest veggies bring
drooling sights...
As full tummies
return under quilts
from past Grammys
... end with sounds
..... of goodnight rounds
❤️❤️❤️
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 11:39 PM UTC