"honda" poems
Thin and crispy, round and flat
A staple of the proletariat
Two for a tenner
It makes you wonder
And delivered to your door on the back of a Honda.
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
Young people can you feel the suffering?
roca wear, gucci, apple, facebook, mcdonalds, apple bee's,
honda, lamborghini, harvard, Community College
american express, pnc bank, walmart
Wage Slaves, ceos, owners, lenders, renters, indebtedness
Structural dehumanization, systematic mechanization
Exploited labor feeding blood to your hungering consumerism
Young people you are embracing MISANTHROPY!
Embracing the hate of your own humanity! Why the hypocrisy?
Wealthy children, poor children
Trying for enlightenment through education
Parents garnering wealth through the oppression of their victims
Parents garnering debt through the oppression from economic inequality
Still you invest and promote the only legitimization of your being: CAPITALIST UTILITY
Capitalism engineering unrelenting misanthropy
Vicious economic system discarding humanity
Perfecting the concentration and accumulation of wealth
With the expansion of human alienation and murderous competition
Prostituting your body to labor exploitation and consumerism
Where does your wealth end up?
multinational companies? financial corporations? military arms contractors?
Loyalty lies in their pockets, backstabbing everyday tactics
Killing you through the exploitation of your body
Because they know the birth of another proletariat or bourgeoisie can replace you
Entities, not human, how much have they bought you for so that you cannot see!!!
Beware of these misanthropic missionaries granting your body power and agency
When your body can no longer be plundered for profit you will taste tears and blood
Young people will you deliver your forefathers and fathers
From worshiping capitalist misanthropy?
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
An upright abutment in the mouth
of the Willis Avenue bridge
a beige Honda leaps the divider
like a steel gazelle inescapable
sleek leather boots on the pavement
rat-a-tat-tat best intentions
going down for the third time
stuck in the particular
You cannot make love to concrete
if you care about being
non-essential wrong or worn thin
if you fear ever becoming
diamonds or lard
you cannot make love to concrete
if you cannot pretend
concrete needs your loving
To make love to concrete
you need an indelible feather
white dresses before you are ten
a confirmation lace veil milk-large bones
and air raid drills in your nightmares
no stars till you go to the country
and one summer when you are twelve
Con Edison pulls the plug
on the street-corner moons Walpurgisnacht
and there are sudden new lights in the sky
stone chips that forget you need
to become a light rope a hammer
a repeatable bridge
garden-fresh broccoli two dozen dropped eggs
and a hint of you
caught up between my fingers
the lesson of a wooden beam
propped up on barrels
across a mined terrain
between forgiving too easily
and never giving at all.
8.7k
the sun sizzles
on that red car
wrinkled skin sits and
ages as that motor
howls on
waiting for a go.
a mercedes, maybe
or perhaps, a honda.
either way
this is why I hate Florida
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 6:16 PM UTC
you were quiet and i was loud, talkative
you asked to borrow a pencil so i gave you the one with the hellokitty stickers on it just to see you smile
you gave it back with a note and i read in my car in the parking lot after class
it said that you thought my hands were beautiful, but i always thought that they were too small and definitely too pudgy and said so underneath the scrawl of hellokitty’s graphite. oh, and thanks
when i gave it back, you looked confused and turned the scrap over to show me the name on the front and it wasn’t mine
that same day someone slashed the tires on your honda accord
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 11:08 PM UTC
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to get hit by a Mercedes.
I want to get run over by a Porsche.
Something big.
I want to get smeared against the pavement
by a Cadillac Escalade.
I want to get hit by one of those big ********
who drag gasoline across the continent,
but I want the driver to be a manic psychopath.
I want him to stalk me on the sidewalk
and then run me over slowly.
He's not any coward, not like those bald patriarchal
Corvette drivers in polo shirts tucked into khakis.
No, he's a great fat man, a hairy beast with
a crooked stare that slows the pulse on impact.
I want the police to cringe or get scared interrogating him,
and haul his truck somewhere to be inspected.
I want the price of gas in nearby areas to go up
by at least fifteen cents for two weeks.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want to roll over the windshield,
and drag under the bottom for about ten yards.
I want to separate at the middle and leave organs on his
left side view mirror and hanging on his hood ornament.
I want to seep blood deep into his car,
and when he turns on his heat,
he'll smell my blood full blast in his face
burning.
I want to wreck the car inside and out.
I want to get hit by a car with a McCain sticker on the bumper.
I don't want to get hit by some middle class Ford or Honda,
or someone's shit-level Chevy or beat up jalopy.
I want to get hit by a BMW.
I want the driver to make his tires scream like banshees,
and leave four long streaks of rotten burned rubber on the asphalt.
I want him to step out in business attire, and gasp, inwardly.
I want to flip off the sky, because my aim is bad,
and call him a coward for hitting the brakes.
I want him to think,
"What did I do?
Is he Okay?
What am I going to do?
What if I lose my license?
How will I get to work?
How will I pay for this.
Does my insurance cover
vehicular manslaughter?
I'm not alone right?
I'll get through this.
I'll survive.
I'll just be another statistic.
That's all."
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
She furiously takes notes in geometry class
He throws a paper plane across the room
She gets out her neatly written homework
He gets out a scratch paper with drawings on it
She maintains straight A's
He's lucky to get a D+
She has a strict curfew of 9:00 pm
He stays out all night
She daydreams about what could be
He steps up for what he wants
She reads Shakespeare
He reads... Well he doesn't
She drives the latest model of the Honda civic
He's lucky if his '76 Toyota will start
She's only loved honor students
He's only loved her
She pays no attention to him
He begs for her notification
She graduates top of her class
He barely gets by
She goes off to college
He stays and becomes a mechanic
She marries rich and lives wealthily but bitterly
He regrets the concealed feelings he never shared
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 9:08 PM UTC
I know I shouldn't be sad that my name doesn't leave your mouth anymore.
Or that your head isn't cluttered with me like mine is with you.
I know this shouldn't matter because all we were was an unfinished thought,
but you took the hope from my grip and tossed it over the bridge on your way home.
I probably shouldn't write of you either,
because I didn't even know you long enough to know your middle name.
But there was something about the way you looked in the dark,
under the natural light of the early morning sky that made me crave you.
The way you held my hand in your white Honda,
and told me that you loved where I lived because you could see the stars.
You told me you wished you could get away, from it all, as you sang.
And I smiled.
What else could I do?
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 3:27 AM UTC
up and down the east coast
in a cheap used Honda
sunshine, clear sky
fuzzy AM radio
windows down, cool breeze
no sense of direction
road signs and carelessness
take place of a gps
no contact with the rest of the world
empty highway
scenery all around
laughter
an adventure?
nothing matters but this moment anyhow
not the next minute
nor the next hour
nor tomorrow
we're not in New York anymore
"Are we there yet?"
there is no "there", yet
no pictures
only memories
make it last
Rest up sleepyhead
You'll need it
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 9:30 PM UTC
It started hot and passionate and blinding.
Then it ran,
ran from me
faster than the alpine highway or
an Afro over your cute lisp.
And a bus leaves for 13 colonies and 14 days and
pictures are all I have.
Colorful but in
50 shades of grey.
Then never a breath from you
on the home front.
And disappointment marks my eyes.
Running all over town with eyes
like video cameras and
minds like a metal detector.
We wish we could be a fly on the wall or a plant in the earth or a new hair on your chin.
All moments,
every moment,
we know.
My fiend.
Detect this on your police detector.
Little blue Honda that looks tan in the sun.
White Camry.
Up the street then back down.
Serpentine through the neighborhoods
hoping to see a familiar body,
but not be seen ourselves.
Every day
till July 15.
Then waving goodbye to an empty house I once knew.
Where I stayed too long and talked too much about nothing.
Too many memories to remember and flash before my heart.
Then I blink and they're gone and we've passed it.
And finally I've mimicked Taylor Swift
and wrote a song about Paris.
And boys in Montreal.
Late hours. Early hours.
All hours.
Spent engulfed in our own music from our minds.
Military men. Marines that cheat and break hearts.
not enough sleep.
Lots of tire on asphalt.
Up and down and up and down and back again.
Not enough French
and a brand new white iPhone.
And the sun sets on another day
and still the one thing I want
doesn't go my way.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 11:57 PM UTC
At 2:40 the school bell rings,
I hurry up and grab all my things,
With subtle haste I sprint away,
Holy heck I can't wait 'till May,
I hop in my Honda and turn the key,
I drift my whip as it occurs to me:
Nobody else is home but me.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 2:14 PM UTC
He ido a ver el parque de Lezama
en el atardecer de un día cualquiera,
y me he encontrado uno diferente
al que por tantos años conociera.
Era aquél un jardín ya carcomido
por lloviznas y líquenes y amores,
flexuoso de raíces y de lianas
y envenenado por extrañas flores.
Contraluces de manos vagarosas
de caricias visibles o furtivas.
Generaciones, ¡ay!, que en él buscaron
frondas podridas para bocas vivas.
Cuando la noche lo llenaba todo
y cuajaban en ella las parejas,
erguidas en recónditos senderos
o desmayadas en las altas rejas.
No está siquiera aquel jarrón de bronce
en que cierto crepúsculo dorado
pusimos los levísimos sombreros
y unos versos leímos de Machado.
"A ti, Guiomar, esta nostalgia mía..."
Y en la tarde agravada tu voz honda
estremecía la hoja de los árboles
y el cristal de la brisa y de la onda.
Era hora de estrella y media luna,
de pío agudo, de croar de rana,
de guardián gigantesco y solapado
y de visera en la pelambre cana.
Cada estatua era Venus palpitante,
cada palmera recta era el Oriente,
mientras afuera el tránsito zumbaba
su ventarrón de coches y de gente.
Cuando se entrecerraba la corola
sobre la dulce gota del estigma,
cuando se ahondaban como dos aljibes
en mí la ingenuidad y en ti el enigma.
Ni la vieja escalera de ladrillos
húmedos, desgastados y musgosos.
Todo es argamasa y pedregullo
y barnices espesos y olorosos.
Patricio, enhiesto parque de Lezama
cortado y recortado a mi deseo,
verdinegro por donde te mirase
salvo el halo de oro del Museo:
desde un bar arco iris te saludo
ahito de café y melancolía,
dejo en la silla próxima una rosa
y digo tu elegía y mi elegía.
2.6k
(Preta प्रेत (Sanskrit) or Peta (Pāli) is the name for a type of (arguably supernatural) being described in Buddhist, Hindu, Sikh, and Jain texts that undergoes more than human suffering, particularly an extreme degree of hunger and thirst. They are often translated into English as “hungry ghosts”, from the Chinese, which in turn is derived from later Indian sources generally followed in Mahayana Buddhism.)
The series of blurs that was summer 2006 makes me wonder what kind of evils we committed in past lives. What otherworldly desires plagued us with this need to feed upon the surging tidal wave of young blood? The days from May 16th to August 23rd were black mirror images, indiscernible. I kept the 1997 Honda Accord running, tapping my fingers to the beats of Built to Spill on the dashboard, waiting for you outside your father’s newly constructed home on ice. You would bleed forth, blue sun light reflecting off windows to face like an eight point filter. What we did with the day mattered not. It was as important to us as the script of action flicks. We were the only people that we wanted to know and we were the places that we wanted to go. The day lived and died, as the nighttime was when our karma sprung curse would take us. Turn off blurred screens, ignore details of the war, pull the hatch shaded curtains tight. We shared a bed in which we did not sleep, bodies silent, blaring alarms. The same hungry ghosts feeding and choking on ash all night. We burned out, successful slow turns into frail husks. It was then that we couldn’t get full anymore, we realized that we fit like clothes made out of wasps. It hasn’t gotten better for either, a ghoul roaming in the night, hunting for the next lay like a record skipping. We will asphyxiate on stones or have our throats burned by water. Hopefully we’ve suffered enough to respawn into more advanced forms. I hope I see you in the next life as anything else.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
Calabunga as go off shooting bad guys or good guys as long as I get my money. Eating chimichanga's in my Honda that I "borrowed" for awhile. Anti-hero that breaks the fourth wall, because that's my style. Shoot shoot, bang bang, kapow is this kungpow chicken. Oh you thought I was talking about fighting, haha, that's funny. Where are the hunny's, with all this money, you think they'd be on me. Slip zip I can be freaky with whips, go on trips, have insanity fits. Business is business, marvel universe, I killed them all; just saying. If you didn't know the name, it is deadpool, original rip off, yeah I don't care about haters because they are going to hate. Death stroke can't even get a date, with that ugly eyepatch, he couldn't beat me on his best day.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 10:27 PM UTC
The blue honda pulls up to the curb. A strange lingering fog is tinged purple. He steps out of the car, and looks around. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it in a moment of awe. What meets his bleared city eyes is a sight like no other. Looming in front of him is green woods, seemingly taking shallow breaths in the mist. Then, shadowy swirls form into tentacle-like wraiths. He stood frozen for what seemed like forever. Then a shadow slowly crawled onwards him, slithering on the gravel. It tentatively touches the tip of his shoe and he scrambles back into his car and locks the door, trying to steady himself. After telling himself repeatedly that it was just his imagination. Not real. Not real. Not real. Feeling better, he picks up his phone and calls his wife back. The phone rings, and the normal sound brings him back to the present. He looks towards the woods. He quietly scoffs to himself, what an idiot he was, it was only his imagination. Something catches his eye.He doesn’t see anything. Looking towards his phone something catches his eye again. Upon a second inspection he looks and finds nothing. He looks down on his phone, why can’t his wife pick up already? Something catches his eye a third time and he looks, there is no mistaking the shadows leaking towards his car. he hangs up desperately and attempts to call again.It rings once and the shadows seem to leak into his car, it rings twice, and the shadows seep into the open window, it rings four times, and she finally picks up.
Her lone voice rings out
Hello?
…
Are you there?
…
Honey, are you ok?
...
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
The aroma of coconut milk
permeating the frost
of the windshield.
Vague scent of cigarettes and Febreze
in your hair.
Your teeth between my thighs.
Your tongue
circling mine
like two hyenas
scavenging .
You taste like
the tea you drank
half an hour ago.
Neutral
This car has been hit before.
I am frightened by your
automatic seatbelts.
Jul 25, 2011
Jul 25, 2011 at 2:55 PM UTC
and so my life rushes by.
no more razor scooter afternoons,
Barbie jeep and a kickball marathon,
walking home from school in spring, swinging a Powerpuff Girls backpack.
jumping on hot black trampolines, burning our small feet,
running to the park to see if we were able to hold on to monkey bars.
no more alligator tag evenings, falling down in wood chips but brushing it off-
I have always been a tough cookie.
and I become an adult soon enough, a victim of my own past and a
culprit of my future, but nothing in between.
Honda Civic and a movie marathon,
liquored-up nights,
high as the midnight sky, staring up at stars as far as the atlantic.
Jul 17, 2011
Jul 17, 2011 at 4:40 PM UTC
Do you remember days gone by
When car songs ruled the radio
Think about the passing years
Where did these songs all go?
Little Honda, Duece Coupe
I miss my GTO
I miss the beach boy harmony
Where did the car songs go?
The Little Old Lady From Pasadena
My Hot Rod Lincoln...oh
Daddy took my t-bird away
Where did my car songs go?
Way back in the sixties
The car song, it was boss
Where has the music travelled
It's this generations loss
Do you remember days gone by
When car songs ruled the radio
Think about the passing years
Where did these songs all go?
Little Honda, Duece Coupe
I miss my GTO
I miss the beach boy harmony
Where did the car songs go?
Hot Rods, and dune buggies
The cars would go go go
Where are the car songs hiding
Does anybody know?
I miss my barracuda
My "Woody" was the bomb
There's nothing out there like it
Where has the car song gone?
The music they are playing
Just puts me fast asleep
I need to hear my car song
No more "Rolling In The Deep"
Do you remember days gone by
When car songs ruled the radio
Think about the passing years
Where did these songs all go?
Little Honda, Duece Coupe
I miss my GTO
I miss the beach boy harmony
Where did the car songs go?
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
To the cutest girl
Amongst all the lunks
Purple, white and black as the sky
(As you know)
Hard work and a trusty Honda
Such things will get you anywhere in life
Be it an outcome which requires this
Such slender *****
Enjoy your night!
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 1:04 AM UTC
It's been a year since I dropped out
Been more than busy, there's no doubt
Didn't mean to step before I left somthin'
That lit your soul on fire and got your hearts pumpin'
I'll lay down words that get the rhythm bumpin'
Don't need music when the words are thumpin'
It's been a year since I dropped out
I'm back y'all so scream and shout
I still got the rhymes that make words hop
And the liguistic skills to make the beats drop
I hit bottom but now I'm back on top
I'm back for writin' and to talk shop
It's been a year since I dropped out
It made the women cry and my boys pout
Don't worry y'all, I'm back to lay em on ya
I missed y'all, especially you Rick, Bex, and Tonya
Though y'all didn't make the list, I'm still fond of ya
I left in a Limo and drove back in a Honda
It's been a year since I dropped out
Been more than busy, there's no doubt
I'm back y'all, so scream and shout
I'll make the women smile and show em all what I'm about
It been a year since I dropped out
Been more than busy' there's no doubt
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
The tension was so hot
We could of cooked muffins on the hood of your Honda
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 10:38 AM UTC
It was 3:30 in the morning
The aunt died, heart attack they said.
I only have a pale memory of her
The pink-house, protest and abuse.
Grandfather plucked us from there
the next day
The pink hibiscus my mother planted
did not depart.
She is dead today
I went to see her in black clothes,
The house, an empty aluminium box-
With kids playing ‘ring around the roses’,
Uncles debated politics and aunts gossiped
And some moaned inside.
I waited outside with few strange women,
They asked me questions
plenty of them
The anti-social me smiled.
The morning was usual
Mother made noises in the kitchen
with her steel plates and old radio,
Father forgot the fish on his
green kinetic honda,
Cats had a feast that evening
I did yoga, read newspaper and did-
not take a wash.
The dead body arrived late noon
in an ambulance with her expatriate son.
There was a sudden burst of cry-
inside- her daughter and grandchildren.
She looked like the fish to me,
The fish my father brought that morning
from the market, cold and dead.
Her daughter’s cry reminded me of-
an elapsed day in my pink house.
My father kept pink flowers on her feet
and prayed
I did not move, sat with the same chitchatting
women
The chanting became loud and it reverberated.
The body was finally taken to the fire
My mother came late, she wept.
The body burned down in minutes,
Dear relatives decamped.
I sat on the same chair
with my cousins
drawing the family tree, locating stories
and laughed over family jokes.
Then we sat tight lipped with brandy fumes
and cashews.
I came back home with my father
in the green kinetic honda,
I looked for the fish and the cat
I could not find both.
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 11:27 AM UTC
Norm sits in his honda. He has whisky breath so ***** he feels it change the color of his teeth as he breathes. His voice has become all gravel from a circus pipe-dream about how he'll leave here one day. He feels it like rusty train tracks tracing his bones. It itches his joints, the rusting. He starts the ignition and heads home.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 7:08 AM UTC
and we went in your moms Honda
and i called you baby the whole way and
you loved it and
we spoke some deep ish for a while about the past rather than the future
we’re both afraid for what earth has in store for us
i reassured you that i have and always will love you
and then i touched a nerve
and you didn’t want to kiss me anymore
so i kinda just watched the moon past the hill
on a boulder
and looked at the city
as a couple ants started crawling up on one of my shoelaces
we both thought about how we could’ve been kissing already.
but we’re both somewhat stubborn so none of us brought it up.
so i walked down the stupid hill
as you played with your bracelet.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 9:38 PM UTC
we were driving
with our love child
dead in the trunk
dead in my gut
thunder road on
repeat
reading in the
passenger’s seat
six pack in the back
fingers moving up
bare thighs
begging for some.
a bottle of sailor jerry on the
beach
licking the salt off
each other’s lips
and the word forever
worn as a promise ring.
snapped a photo,
me in a red
bathing suit,
which you kept on
the dashboard of
your Honda civic
98. it’s still there,
i hear,
lying flat
even though
forever
couldn't make it through the year.
we were driving with
our love child
dead in the trunk
dead inside my gut
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 8:56 PM UTC