"hitchcock" poems
I see great ***** every day
in the subway
and, suddenly, my favorite Hitchcock movie changes from
Rear Window to Vertigo.
The movement of the train calms me down and I fall asleep quickly,
dreaming that I'm in Kerouac's car, quietly hitting the road
like ******* hit his canvas.
I see great ******* every day
on the bus that takes me home,
but not one single *****
for me to lay my ear on.
The dream comes to a crossroad where me and Jack have to part ways.
He'll go down in history like a great writer
and I'll quietly go down on memory lane in oblivion.
Memory disappointed me
and left a bad taste
in my mouth - literary *********** ain't what it used to be.
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 1:56 PM UTC
How do I love thee? In a way that's bad,
by which I mean so bad it's almost good.
I need you, and you know it drives me mad.
I want you more than any other could.
And we could write romances, you and me.
I want to hear your Hitchcock movie schtick.
I want your everything. I hope it's free.
I want you in my window, and you're sick.
And yet you know my raving is a sign
I'd rather we were paramours than friends.
You're outlawed from the moment that you're mine
Until the day our bad romancing ends;
I'll love you in a leather-studded bra.
Rah gaga gaga roma ooh la la.
Mar 17, 2011
Mar 17, 2011 at 3:02 AM UTC
JAY
nothin
yep
what
crack
dogpoop
lol
bananas
Hitchcock
what da ****
like mayo?
got beef?
Hussein
Mad Libs
Donkey
Asian Jesus
Brown Rice
Cross-Country
Mexicans
Asian Eminem
Royce Da 5'9
Skype
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC
I never asked you for the things you gave me
I never asked
But you didn't even care
If I had asked,
would you have shut me out?
Or would you have given more?
Of your overflowing wine
of life or love or energy
( or whatever it was
that you folded into my hands
like the most secret-sacred treasure map )
You would sometimes catch me
In a gaze like a doe
Ask me things
That took time to sink in
Because I was being distracted
By my urge to count your eyelashes
We could never go outside in the cold
Because you were terrified
That your breath would crystallize and twist inside your lungs
But you loved to see how long you could hold your breath for
Underwater
There would be pauses
As time stilled to take a look at us
To check that we really were still there
And everything around us swirled
Like autumn leaves or glitter stars
Our glances would solidify
And memory struck out to capture snapshots
Everly, I never asked
Not even once, but you still gave
Everly, I can't quite grasp
I see you sometimes
When the sunshine's wounding bright
Yellow, cheerful, heavenly
And I look into the shadows
To find rest for my eyes
I can never keep straight the present and the past
So when I look in the shade
I see ghosts of you sprawled out, laughing, head tilted back, hands splayed
Your sighs were soft
But you only ever sighed them
When your face shone
With a lovely glow of indulgence
We watched Hitchcock religiously
We wouldn't give them up
You said that you liked Vertigo the best
But you never told me why
I'll hold your friendship
In the cup of my hands
While wonder fills up slowly
Where my thoughts should be
I'll peer over my thumbs
To steal a peek at the clear blue crystalline
Effervescent memories
I will remember you foreverly
My word
Apr 5, 2011
Apr 5, 2011 at 11:37 AM UTC
His silhouette, as he stood by the stone,
Resembled a thoughtful Alfred Hitchcock
With fine cane in hand, slightly stooped
Fingers from his free hand, touching lightly
The carefully carved grey marbled stone
Lost in thought and dying sunshine
A single tear falls, as he smiles
Then cane in hand, turns, walks away
Carrying the name on the stone with him.
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 10:12 AM UTC
Yeah it's one shot one ****
Plottin' against my enemies will soon to be killed
Bullets feedin' ya last meal
Dope rhymes sedatin' like pharmacy pills
Since hataz got no chill heads I'll drill now you leakin' out like oil spills
Or a radiator angelic caters none could create a
Flows nasty as mine poppin' a multiplicity of shells I'm one of a kind
Thoughts intertwined
****** into a demons intervention contenders in suspension from the soul lynching
Caught in the realms of heaven and hell & you can smell
The ashes burning fermentin'
time runnin' slower than molasses
My murders be classic enemies dramatic causin' static
Shoot more than Bird combined with Magic
Workin' my Johnson on the tracks tonsils sittin' as a hip hop consul underground magul
**** longer than Repunzels hair follicles
Cookin' up sigils into a *** of gold no rainbow snortin' sir nose
D'void of Funk rattlin' the earth from the bass in my trunk blazin' skunks
Abraxas I'm embracin' one of my goetias when facin' ain't no replacin'
Fools givin' chase
and to tastes of demonic faces
My flows replenish like **** laces
Blunts turn into ashes dump it out on the masses
Epidemic mase deaden your pace hazardous like toxic waste
Adversaries don't wanna face
Off like Nicolas to Travolta livin' in an ultra violent culture
Cleatin' into ya flesh I be the stalkin' Vulture mulchin' ya
'til ya
A dissembled particle blank photo in the article from curvin' emcees with my surgical
lyrical sickle stare into ya eyes as the blood trickles
Down ya body you easily brickled rhymes artificial
My soul sour as a pickle no tickles
Could move me or influence thee my legacy
Lay cinematography like A. Hitchcock in the 50s huh
Ya soon to be a death reel for thrills
Rememeber
All I need is one shot one **** forreal!!!!
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 4:57 PM UTC
The look of sane
and perfect skin
Comes your way
well within
Take the step
but don't look down
Vertigo spinning
Madness sound
Beauty kills
with steps of cold
Off the edge
boldness goes
Insanity sinks
the devilish plot
Watch again
Alfred Hitchcock
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
Take me to the place
with streets of gold
and flowing green pastures
where there's no lack of sunshine
even when it's raining
and I can eat with my favorite people
whom were long gone before me
I can spend my days writing
about whatever thought fills my mind
I'll go on far out adventures
maybe to the moon
or atleast to the stars
I'll climb a tree and read a book
It'll be a living fairytale
There'll be lots of swing dancing & Frank Sinatra in this world
With a wonderful fill of Audrey Hepburn & Alfred Hitchcock movies
I can see a drive in theater in the distance
Along with a cute little diner
And a Polaroid camera
To capture my fantasy
And keep it locked away
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 6:57 PM UTC
I pondered the world around me
Looking
Staring
Around to what was seen,
Then I happened upon a bird
"Just sitting watching me"
I waved once,
I waved twice,
It just put it head to the side
Maybe to get a better angle on me,
It tweeted
And left, the last I thought to see,
But where one once was, now I count
Two
Three
Four
Five now perched upon the fence
On the tree, I was getting a
"Alfred Hitchcock"
Vibe, with all little eyes looking at me,
I smiled an awkward grin, teeth did show
Scattered to the wind,
I closed my eyes, noises
Singing awoke a slumbering me,
Six,
Seven,
Eight,
More birds, sitting on the fence,
But also congregating on the branches of the tree,
I waved once more,
Eyes watching upon me,
This is getting creepy
So I stood on all fours licking my teeth
And purred a
"QUESTION"
"Why do you congregate"
"And watch from a far upon me"
Tweeted words sung out to me,
"It just catches our attention that you being a cat"
Not once,
Not twice,
But three
"Times you have waved at us sitting"
Upon a fence,
Upon a tree,
"Childish games of youth"
I purred back,
I have a good life, I am not as wild
as you think, I wave to say hello
To listen to you sing,
"I walk up to the fence"
Pat once then two on the head you see,
"But there is a moral to this tale"
"What is that the birds sing"
As with reflects to fast to see
Not one
Not two
But three
Birds in mouth, they fly, flutter away
And with a mouth full I say
"Don't believe in what you hear or see"
"Were just more sneaky now"
Now shoo be gone, unless you wish
To all so taste my teeth upon your bodies.. and they flee.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 10:09 AM UTC
Last night
I picked up a self help book
I drank some "meditation tea" whatever the hell that is
I listened to an awful song
that wouldn't remind me of you
I tried yoga
I even prayed to God
God knows it's been awhile
since I felt existential
I went to my favorite grocer
and talked to the most inviting cashier
I thought it might help
I "channeled" my energy
I lifted weights
I flirted with my trainer
I put on red lipstick
I weeped.
I blogged
I analyzed myself
and my family
and mostly my dad
I "ate my feelings"
I googled "how to get over someone"
I ripped your love letter
in a million pieces
I reminded myself of all my "blessings"
I drove an extra time around my block
I stayed up way too late
watching infomercials about beauty
and vapid mind numbing consumerism
I tried to learn the guitar
I called my brother
just to hear his voice
before the beep
and just to hear mine
after it
I smiled and stared out the window
and pretended I was in a Hitchcock film
I went outside to smoke a cigarette
and I don't even smoke
I just wanted to feel the biting cold
against my hidden skin
I went shopping and bought an overly
expensive sweater
that won't fit me
unless I grew about ten inches
I read the Catcher in the Rye eight times
And I made this ******* list
that makes me feel so utterly hopeless
and chaotic catharticism
what a messy heart
staining my perfectly
neat life.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 1:59 AM UTC
Whispers in the night,
Filling your mind with trepidation and fright
Taunting you
Feeding you lies with its twisted sighs
All these monsters you hide on the inside of your mind
Are waiting
In the dark corners of your phsyche
To come and get you in your sleep
A twisted face
With twisted words
Pecking at your sanity
Like Hitchcock and one of his birds
The worst?
Its that you can't escape,
Before you were even spawned
You had sealed your fate
What did you do?
I wonder
Who's life did you plunder?
Who's daughter
Did you slander
To deserve this curse?
I can't think of a torture
That could possibly be worse
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC
My dreams are dreams of black and white.
I dream of the late Cool Hand Luke,
And Big Daddy in the rain.
I dream of Hepburn, where it's hot,
Of Skelton upon his stage.
I dream of Jeannie,
Of Lucy's man,
Of Hitchcock's crazed suspense,
And of my freckled friend, named Opie,
Relaxing with Papa Griffith.
Jethro swings from chandeliers,
As daddy fends off fiends.
Granny ***** that little hand,
Signaling the end.
Jul 17, 2011
Jul 17, 2011 at 12:22 PM UTC
Welcome to suspense
Thought provoking horror
Invoking the mystic art of story telling
Compelling tales weave in and out of a curious yet terrified mind
Stimulated senses, feeling dread, body tenses, psychologically on edge
Eyes widen, teeth clinched as the next scene unfolds
Security blanket wrapped inside tight fist closed
You travel into the unknown; you want to know what's there,
that is why you are here to experience the unseen
The strange and obscene
This is the emotion of mystery; pondering what the outcome will be
The fate of our beloved hero or heroine has already been determined by the grand puppet master
Ladies and Gents the Director of these wonderfully constructed ill-fated events presents the conclusion
that blows the mind, jerks the tears, and chills the spine
You have just become a victim of a maetro's imagination, "to provide the audience with beneficial shocks"
Just having a little fun with this one
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 6:01 AM UTC
*A Story of Scientology and the
Mental Health System Connection*
What you are about to read will shock you. Some may find it extremely disturbing. I will tell you from the outset, also, that i am quite "insane". According to the psychiatrists "Schizo-Affective". Manic-Depressive with Paranoid features.
I will freely admit that what you will read here will sound crazy. But please read on. It may be horrifying. It may be weird. It may seem extremely paranoid. But it still interests.
It is my desperate hope that you will read. And believe me. For, my "diagnosis" notwithstanding, I am as sane as the next "normal" person. *I AM NOT A LUNATIC!* What you are about to read really happened. *To ME*. It has plot twisting tension that could be put to the credit of Alfred Hitchcock. And a psychological horror that Steven King could emulate. How could I compare my writing to the genius of those great & talented men? I don't. Because, dear readers, I did not conceive of it. It was done to me. I merely convey the technology and techniques used to make any "normal person" appear a ****** Toon of 50 mile high proportions! It exists. And it is excruciatingly painful to be the subject of it.
So why would a girl from a comparatively small city, with no seeming accomplishments to commend her, and is actually quite unimportant, be the subject of such hateful torment? *What has she done?* I will convey ALL of the reasons. I did play a part in it. I had a tri-fold lawsuit against a once-high-profile video dating club, who wanted to prevent litigation by thoroughly discrediting me. And I had a very virulent and hateful foe...
The "Church" of SCIENTOLOGY.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 8:56 PM UTC
I miss you something terrible.
I can't go ten minutes without
thinking about you.
Painfully perusing the
Could've beens, would've beens,
should've beens.
You would have celebrated my
adulthood at my bat mitzvah.
You would have given me advice
about high school and
Navigating through love and the
weird puzzle of self identity.
You could have read my writing.
You could have appreciated the way
my taste has developed.
We could have talked horror movies:
Stephen King to Alfred Hitchcock
I think I could have talked to you
about anything.
The way I feel vastly alone and
empty
Like I'll never truly love someone.
Did you make me this way?
My family compares us a lot.
They don't compare you to anyone else.
Just me.
I miss you something terrible.
You'll never see me graduate high school.
Hell, you never saw me graduate
middle school.
You'll never help me pick out a
college
And then listen to me cry to you over
the phone when I'm scared I won't
make friends.
You'll never see me get married
To someone who I actually care
about.
My memories of you won't last
forever.
I miss you something terrible.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
~
"Suspense is like a woman. The more left to the imagination, the more the excitement."
~
A mixture
of sinister and sweet,
smoking gun at your feet.
Reclining dead
in a meadow,
or wishing you were
as you gaze out your window.
Bottling undecided dark,
catching keyed-up light,
in random, misleading angles.
The uniform hour
holds Grace, Grant,
and the mystery
it entangles.
Don't look directly
at the camera,
icy blonde afterimage.
Everything you need
is written on the page.
Number 13,
Mrs. Peabody?
Don't you know
all contemporary
escapist entertainment
begins by turning your back?
Lingering on what
suspicious minds track.
The migrating voyeurism
sits as the crow,
wired and unfriendly.
The method is an organism,
an implication, a crossbow,
thought, but unseen.
He will push the girl,
until you succumb
to dream sequences.
It's snowing humiliation
at Winter's Grace,
for out of the male gaze,
invading your space,
you become gifted
at doing nothing well,
in sheer
under-things,
(for inner circles & triangles of fur
are all the rage in Europe).
Yes, he hates pregnant women,
because then they have children.
So leave him
to his work,
to analyze your handwriting,
and build that ramp
directly into your trailer.
His larger than life silhouette
will fill the silver screen
with tension,
trip wire,
and a ****** ambivalence,
that ends with
the violent sound
of someone
packing a suitcase.
He enters by virtue of this door,
and you leave through another,
and another,
and another,
until the final scene
alters your state of mind.
Your pretty little feet
dangling precariously
over the edge...
Sep 19, 2020
Sep 19, 2020 at 4:36 PM UTC
Sand in between my toes
Salt on my lips
The warm sun on my face
A sweet breeze in my hair
Today will be perfect
That is................
As long as the thirty sea-gulls lurking near don't pull an Alfred Hitchcock
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 10:01 PM UTC
if fish flew farther
fishermen could catch them
without going to sea
the dark sushi bar
has an especially dark
corner booth for you
finally some sun
to keep vitamin d up
and cool down the pale
the mountain does not
bend, even though it itches
the rock slide teases
Alfred Hitchcock is
dead and yet chocolate syrup
still makes a sweet blood
i don’t understand
dungeons and dragons and so
very many things
they call me crazy
when i wear my bra outside
my shirt on some days
an ode to white walls
blank canvases crisp and smooth
that never can last
the usher shows you
to your fifty dollar seat
behind a large hat
i have slept 12 hours
and yet i am still sleepy
chronic fatigue *****
rob plays games like a
fiend—new media crumbles
beneath his fingers
May 17, 2010
May 17, 2010 at 7:19 PM UTC
Like Hitchcock would have said:
Let's go out
On dark waters
Too deep
Because that's where all of you perverts want to go anyway
You don't care about happiness in fairy land where it's raining flowers
You want AIDS, ADHD, narcolepsy, funerals, junkies, alcoholics, *** **** ****** brothels, snipers, war veterans, drugs, criminals, motorcycles, accidents, models, size queens, gypsies, hairy hung cops, shemales, **** ****** robbery, space aliens, punk, romance, opera, revenge...
And probably some splatter and gore on the side
No problem
What do you want to know?
I have no secrets
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 4:46 PM UTC
Last year, despite his long gone testicles,
& 91 dog yrs of innocence,
Old Jack got dragged around the whole back yard
By his bone, by a coybitch he lives with.
He's a lucky dog, but he's 98
Now and down in his hips. He cries at night,
Housebound by his infirmities and I
Talk to him, touch his head and give him pills.
I remember my grandmother's voice--
You old dog you; I love you like jackfrost;
Mothers are like that, yes they are. She lived
To 95, forgetting for the last
Four who she was and where she was and why.
Should you or I be 1/2 so fortunate.
An old dog doesn't know he's dying, just knows
It's harder to live. I blow smoke in his ear
And we watch ****** stories, real and imagined.
Forensic files, Hitchcock. He struggles to stand.
I'm slow at doing what I have to do.
This morning, like most, weather permitting,
We're 2 blocks down the street from
Where we live. He struggles to ****
Cancer blocks his peristalsis, makes it difficult
To squat. And I stand ready with my Kleenex,
In case he gets it out on neighbor's or
The sheriff's lawn. Go ahead old friend, let it
Go. I'm right behind you.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 10:32 AM UTC
I barely know much about him,
Just another homeless man
I give my aluminum cans (minus the pop)
"Where's Wallace?"
Got Glad bags full of tin
Look for his shopping carts
If you connect the dots
Within its circumference
You may find him
in the shade
Or sleeping on the lawn
Outside the closed apartment gates
Or between the carnaceria's walls
Alley cat black
A good guy at that...
He's one of many
The growing crew of indigents
Nothing new to city streets
I met the semi permanent fixtures
The regulars that camp out
Here on the boulevard, near the Strip
Know them by name
But barely know who they are
I try not to get that close
Because you know what they say
You feed one pigeon
They all flock at once,
And Hitchcock's horrors are
My own,
Nowadays when it's a luxury
To have a home,
Mine is precarious
We all protect our own,
That's what they say...
Wallace mostly dives alone
In the darkness of night
Or the end of days
When they throw away the food
Rules of expiration dates
With what I give, it's always fresh,
Perishable even for microwaves
Those convenient stores that let him in
But he's burnt most bridges
With his angry mouth
****** it up" dropping F bombs
Even half asleep
I barely understand him
But I begin to when his wife
Visits the prison of his concrete streets
Brings him the warmth from home
Her petite loyalty bigger than any shame
I notice that she doesn't notice
The looks of blame
From the eyes of disapproving
Bigots and creeps
Wallace becomes someone else
As they sit together
It's more than just being fed
It's an intimate meal.
(there's tenderness I see)
I couldn't come near to understand
How and why he lives
This way, under this desert city's iron sky,
What a fool he is for romancing the night
Collecting minutiae treasure
All with broken worth
A vagabond crusade with the finger to the world,
I can only hope for the best
I have no opinion
But should he decide
To wake up or realize
Such folly of a life
I say, it's better to grow and get old
Together with his wife
But then again
I barely know much about Wally
Or how the streets are calling
Away untoward
Those nights that're howling
These streets he's prowling
Much ado about
Wally.
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 1:13 AM UTC
I followed a man down a dark road
That twists into a mute galaxy.
And all that follows is Silence.
But the Silent inherit the stars
In a quiet struggle of wills
While the lines on the clouds
Fade into the withered sky.
And all that follows is
An anonymous cry.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 9:44 PM UTC
This was a horror day,
Hitchcock's Day of the Bogans', let's say,
Grand Final Day of 2017,
The A.F.L.'S very worst dream,
When Crows played Tiges, so it seems,
Until power blacked out at 2:30,
No play was to be seen,
Then! A bomb scare at the M.C.G.,
The whole match was on stall,
But wait! That was not all,
They had to evacuate them all,
The bogans had a mighty brawl,
So Tigers played with themselves, good call,
Then! Seven inches of rain on the M.C.G.,
A field of rain and mud was to be seen,
They had a regatta, it was now Henley,
The A.F.L's very worst dream,
Hitchcock's Day of Bogans at the M.C.G.,
Grand Final Day in 2017......
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 11:18 PM UTC
Birds in my youth
where delicate like petals
Hitchcock put a stop with that
with his film The Birds
even so I muddled on in my youth
and found a woman
now Birds is just custard
that we have on pudding on Sundays.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC