"informants" poems
Knights clad in paper armor
Draw their pen-shaped swords
In preparation for battle
Against the dragon named Algebra
All year they've trained for this day
Poring over musty tomes
Filled with archaic battle plans
Entire armies have been lost
In the dangerous search
For the elusive variable called X
The informants A and B
Have consistently given
Inconsistent information
And the number line
Has completely deserted them
The numbers taunt the knights
Mocking their puny calculators
Confident in their unanswerable status
Yet one by one
The polynomials fall
The dragon bows it's head
The Knights have won the day.
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 7:24 PM UTC
[Intro: Quavo]
**** man. Brrrrtttttt
Hello?
What the hell you mean Ma? I ain't did ****
****
[Hook: Quavo]
Feds hit the spot man I ain't saying nothin
They came around about 5 o' clock this morning (12!)
They telling me I'm copping contraband from informants
Channel 2, Fox 5, I'm America's most wanted! (Ooh!)
Hot boy, hot boy, hot boy, hot boy, hot boy
Hot boy, hot boy, hot boy, hot boy, hot boy
Feds hit the spot say I'm copping from informants
Channel 2, Fox 5, I'm America's most wanted! (Ooh!)
[Verse 1: Quavo]
Yeah, yeah, Quavo
I pick up my **** and then hit the door (Oh **** **** 12!)
Surrounding my house and they kick the door (Boom! Boom!)
"Don't move, get on the floor!" I hit the window and fell on the curb
I'm trying to get up and take off, the officer speared me, like Goldberg
Say "Where were you 3 o clock on the dot?" "My Momma's house" "You a ******* liar"
Have you heard about your new worker? (Nah) Know I put him in your circle
I witnessed you purchase the pound (nuh uh)
I witnessed you purchase the brown (no you didn't)
I witnessed you purchase the white (no!)
Say goodnight down the road for a long flight
[Hook]
[Verse 2: Takeoff]
Hot Boy like Silkk the Shocker, pull up on your blocka with the Waka Flocka
Momma hit me on my cellular told me that Quavo got caught by the coppers ****
They say they've been investigating and Migo gang we connected with the mobsters (Huh?)
Can't talk to you ****** my lawyer talk. **** the prosecutor Mr. Marcus
**** Lookin out of my window, I see a black truck and it's empty
Walk to the door check the peephole (what that is man?)
Then I start hearing a noise and it makes me paranoid ****
Thinking what the **** is going on? (What the ****
All of these tools like it's Autozone
If I get caught I ain't coming home (No!)
[Hook]
[Verse 3: Offset]
Offset!
They said that I sold to informants
I told them I just got off touring
They circle my house like an orbit ****
He telling me he gon extort me (huh?)
50% of my income, unfortunately he not gon get none
Life sentence or freedom so pick one
**** ***** you trying the wrong one **** *****
Quavo call my phone, his spot got raided it just got kicked in
We all met up in the Westin
Who know what the **** going on it ain't making sense (who know?)
The police talking they got evidence
I told you ****** bout serving them Mexicans (I told you ******
**** There go 12 ****
I picked up my **** and I moved out the residence
[Hook]
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 9:13 AM UTC
The envoys of Athens
in their comfortable carriages
democratically stripped of finery
are dignified by the inability
to make a decision, divided
by all the nuances of reason
They'll have to wait
because we don't have any news
from our informants yet
We sprinkle the goat
with lukewarm water, it does not shiver
so the god will not speak
until the stars are right again
and we are informed
about the politics of the monarchs
We save expenses nor pains
We are the dedicated priests
of a notable consulting business
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 5:01 AM UTC
How important knowledge is, north is south when west is east.
In frenetic use of ease, when lines are dispersed by incorrect use of these.
Meaning knowledge can be news, when news are new and they inform.
When plastic's gold and this is news.
How important knowledge can be, inflated news, so overrated.
Streets inform, informants guard.
And useless thoughts, they are all useless.
In the useless world, where everything is news.
Jun 29, 2011
Jun 29, 2011 at 9:59 PM UTC
Your 'Top TRP' news team has just learnt that
A consortium of fanatics and hypocrites now claim
That the proprietorship of 'God' is now with them
And will spew hatred on anyone disobeying them.
Our unnameable “reliable” sources tell us that
Anyone desiring to worship 'God' “more perfectly,”
Henceforth, must follow their rules quite strictly
Or floggings will be handed out quite promptly.
Our brave insider informants have divulged that
At last have awaken our pious priests and scholars
To discuss these “disturbing new developments;”
But they're upset most about lost revenue streams.
The atheists were seen rejoicing and saying that
There is no need any more, *“for us to self-promote
While our competitors repeatedly self-mutilate.”*
But have they forgotten, Stalin also preached hate?
Our unquestionably reliable survey tells us that
We are angry, sad, glad, disgusted and also clueless
In roughly equal measure. But most are just curious:
“How all this bla-bla will effect commodity prices?”
There was however, an 'odd' man who said that
God is Love and God does not hate. Will turn to rust
He who chooses hate. *“Not in someone's deep pocket
Will I find God. But God I'll find, always in my heart.”*
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 9:19 AM UTC
Words will be written.
Thoughts will be told,
Information put forward.
Dreams bought and sold.
Tales of Inspiration.
Gutter-trash news.
Chaotic Information.
Informants ruse.
Politicians false pledge
Juggling board
Politics on the edge.
Should they fall on their sword?
Do they never blunder?
This Pie-crust elite
Information to wonder
While they're dragging their feet.
Our earth, our nation
With over fished ocean.
De-forestation.
No sun without lotion.
Extinction of the wild
The draining of fuel
No food for a child
The greed of the cruel.
This world where we live,
Earthquake and Tsunami
Have we nothing to give,
terrorised from the sea.
Maybe acid filled rain
don't forget Global-Warming
Is this world that we drain
perhaps giving a Warning.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
We have against all odds arrived at home, Monroe had said.
Inman did not consider himself to be a superstitious person, but he did believe that there is a world invisible to us. He no longer thought of that world as heaven, nor did he still think that we get to go there when we die. Those teachings had been burned away.
At the time, it was a sentiment Ada took with a great deal of skepticism.
All of their Charleston friends had expressed the opinion that the mountain region was a heathenish part of creation . . . Ada’s informants had claimed the mountaineers to be but one step more advanced in their manner of living than tribes of vagrant savages.
He had grown so used to seeing death . . . that it seemed no longer dark and mysterious. He feared his heart had been touched by the fire so often he might never make a civilian again.
But he could not abide by a universe composed only of what he could see, especially when it was so frequently foul.
Ada believed she would ***** towers on the ridge marking the south and north points of the sun’s annual swing. . . . Keeping track of such a thing would place a person, would be a way of saying, You are here, in this one station, now. It would be an answer to the question, Where am I?
We have against all odds arrived at home.
But what the wisdom of the ages says is that we do well not to grieve on and on. And those old ones knew a thing or two and had some truth to tell. . . . You’re left with only your scars to mark the void. All you can choose to do is go on or not. But if you go on, it’s knowing you carry your scars with you.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 3:25 AM UTC
a. seriously! b. but seriously what? what, can't death be faked with amiable limbs and you still will be pressing for a sickness in the realm of psychiatry, you playing a double-irish game with me? oh how i began loving to hate people.
in secular society, everyone thinks
they've been educated in psychology,
and are qualified to prescribe
medication, when in fact they're just
pathetic informants of deviation that
could easily pass, should the one concerned
by a homosexual: well! my *** is ready!
come on!
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 8:58 PM UTC
I will speak interms of confusing metaphors and allegorical descriptors
for You will never know what I mean,
and I will never know what I mean,
all You and I will ever know is what is said
Beyond that thou art which is not
Who I am and what I am is anybody's guess,
Where I am is in poetry,
when I am is poetry
How and why I am is a poet.
an artist chosen by this art
A puppet of words that string me along,
That dangle my reflection on the scene.
and What's this scene?
The dream of this stage, an age to redeem this day, this momentary cage of sound and phonetics, playing on the morphemes, that sort these informants into proteins that fire the works of this neural chemistry.
A cosmic tapestry... And I've lost the plot of this pointless exercise in passing the time as I pass this chime down to the last rhyme.
With no point but a line, a single continuous line that's only sometimes audible.
With no beginning and no end but always a middle.
A halfway mark between now and then
Half and half all the way to infinity,
Trapped in this trinity plus one.
The subject, the object and the verb plus all the fillers in between,
Adding the jective into obviously obnoxious obstancy.
Abstracting words from subtracting the colors of birds...
Man I really don't know when to stop.
Nor does he, when he spots the plot that keeps the inserting eye from searching the skys to admiring this fly.
Zipping in and out of space, never able to pin it down between his chopsticks.
So maybe I should stop this
Right here, left now and take flight,
Tata bye.
Oct 21, 2020
Oct 21, 2020 at 12:13 PM UTC
convened
in my living room
summoned to a setcat
to decide by voulbee or fratricide
the next Father of Thieves.
Blahznivee Semyon rises up
like a winter sun over the steppe
peels off his sable coat and hat
he garnishes round after round of applause
for his tattooist's magnificent skill,
and the number of skulls etched in his skin
one skull for every ****
Arkady the Krahsnee comes to the front
draws a cross across his chest,
wipes caviar from his pickled lips
sheds his necklace of bloated tongues ripped
from the mouths of informants who sing
and with a halo of bicycle chain whirling overhead
steps drunkenly into the ring
The display turns black
chairs are pushed back
***** in every hand.
The soldiers prepare
with a toast and a prayer
and a drop of blood from each man.
Now squaring off
Dva Rusahky:
a fat taloostee,
the other slim-tenki
wade into the fray:
bez nervee, t-shirts, boatkee or fear
they destroy my hanging chandelier
their bratvas stand around and cheer
pass round smokes and mugs of beer.
Černobog’s hammer sits
inside a chalk line circle
like an ********
waiting for a fist.
Black stars collide
shoulders knees torsos
wheel thrown into ****** slabs
hole punched and wire cut
falling on cigarette butts
nicotine thumbs empty eye sockets
vitreous runs and pools
seeps into screaming mouths
through mangled cheeks.
Teeth litter my rug
like chiclets in berry jam.
Here's a finger,
make a splinter
wounds are washed
in chilled Żubrówka.
Semyon lifts the hammer, the winner
a new skull in his flesh, still wet
when he buys my silence
with a Russian dinner
and a round of Russian roulette.
Feb 19, 2021
Feb 19, 2021 at 3:32 PM UTC