"jumpers" poems
dust cloud heavy
in an apricot sky
cottonwood mucker
under ambrose pale
whippet and shepherd
mill at the earth patch
yellow birch hangs
over red bench park
combine shavings
in crack rust brown
scissors chips fall
at the back stop
whiskey jack looters
sing patented chords
siblings (and 2 wheel enthusiasts!)
give thanks
joyous retrievers
master the criss cross
bare maples stand
at settlers way
barred owl and blue jay
whistle in the fore-wind
ghosts
and goblins
pull on the seeds
wind gusts belt
over the west gulch
a blood rush churns
in the chilling fall morn
hallowed grounds still
at the midday
quiet reflections
of the afghan
and hound
jumpers unite
at the oxbow
route runners bend
(on a sultry foray!)
meadows exposed
in the framework
ball parks empty
with pennants past
barrel dirt favors
the brew house
crimson and copper
find bracken ridge gate
harvest hands savor
the honey and hops
blankets of color
for a winter's hatch
brush fire kept
under steady peruse
bark bites fly
and embers glow
pine cones drop
from the timber tops
3 wick candles
grace the dinner place
shiver and ******
at the piper's call
cob web dew
on the shadowy gates
a chilled mist mellows
the season's return ~
poets and artists
and dreamers awake
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
He filled his week bag
with quick picks from the commissary
cover blades and skull cap
canned goods and half stated pearl
liquor bills and bleeders
for the flight of weary
Into the ****** bunks
of the western front
past sivana and nurture sage
past the pomp and ceremony
out of robes and into jumpers
and casings
and masks of gas
Light infantry and yelling men
muscled and scorned
fly boys high in 3 wing flight
mounted gunners filling the night
in hawkers and packards
and scabbard chape
Tarrant tabers and camels
dodge the vicker gun
skeleton hands grease the mill trap
carnage makers mark the rhineland
(buried in bunkers and pile bags and earth pack)
Trench helmets and metal back
under machine fire
minefields burn in muzzle and coil
deep in the shadows
and shrapnel and spear
the razor wire
and dead cold despair
Slouch hats and burning rats
kerosene lamps and droopers
the soldier stares down
the broken lines and limbs
a ****** holds steady
(shelved at a distance)
on ripped and rolled pipe and beam
It was an all in end game
a grapple for the ages;
*** in the fokker pursuit
over rolling hills and fallen comrades
into the bishop bullet
(and sporadic cheer)
which sealed the deal
in an empty field
off the brae corbie road
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 6:50 PM UTC
With each
CLICK
Our breath is held
Will he,won't he
Will he, won't he
The suspense is killing me
And....SHIT
Door left open still
Pestered by the plebeian chill
In this gay little coffee shop
Surrounded by the unrecognised talent of Brighton:sketch artist staring at me, writer on his laptop, songwriter etching vigorously with his pencil.
All of which aren't closing the door.
The eyes roll.
Labouring my body up, hammering my legs across the floor, turning the factory handle.
All is ask is for some carrot cake,filtrate water,polo jumpers, avocado salads,tiger bread, slimmer trousers, slipper sock , a toyger.
Click
And then images of Kim Jong un pass through my head.
If I ruled you'd all be dead
Firing squad for an open door,
Loud music on the train'll be no more.
Stop the screaming misbehaving brats
The rabble of Spanish students
All this PC stuff on the news, train seats filled with cans of *****
Suddenly
The artist strolls up
Let's down his cup.
Closes the door swiftly
And slips back in his chair
Oh, so there is a god.
I guess Jesus didn't lie.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 12:15 PM UTC
Serendipity.
You ******* what!
What you saying, pal?
Serendipity, oh aye, all right,
Aye, seren-fuckin-dipity; whatever!
Tell it to the raggedy soaked-wino,
Look into his rheumy eyes, really look,
Want to kiss his toothless grin, eh? Do you?
Feel his sore-ridden tongue searching you out,
Nay, I thought not, anyway, he hears nothing,
Nothing except the rattle of change.
Tell it to the punctured ****** go on,
Cold body on a cold linoleum floor,
He can’t hear you either, maybe though,
Maybe, slipping away on the last tide of life,
Do-gooder, maybe he will hear you call,
‘Serendipity’ and wonder: what the ****
Until blackness closes in, blanking the stars.
Tell it to the Fourth Bridge jumpers, go on,
Always falling; to them, falling forever,
In hearts and minds, the event horizon of death,
Trapped in limbo, leaving unbearable hurt behind,
Along with serendipity and bad choices.
And the young, oh they need serendipity,
Cruelty of life glittering in furtive wary eyes,
Old already, far beyond halcyon blue-skies,
Used and abused by those closest, the shame,
Erosion of trust and sincerity completed over night,
Christmas ghosts: slovenly laggards by comparison.
Resilient youth! Yep, they ******* need to be,
Grinding machine of town-life hunting them,
Scouring dark corners, gnashing jaws growling,
Crunching down darkened alleys, feeding,
Lapping up the young blood of runaways,
Slavering maw eating them alive; laughing.
With serendipity, they can lie low, maybe hide,
Dream of escape, for they all want out,
Putting misery behind them, quelling cruelty,
After all, they live in a lucky ******* town,
So escape is not impossible, no,
Unlikely, yes, poor wee ********
Serendipity should shout a loud warning,
Run, scrawny urchins, run if you can,
Run for your lives, the rest of your lives,
Town-life’s grinding machine awaits,
Watches for you, so keep running,
Never stop, never look back,
Not ever, not ever,
Serendipity.
©Paul Chafer 2014
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 7:32 PM UTC
He's found himself in the closet
After he lost to himself in a game of tic-tac-toe
And tied his lobster bib tightly
Then hid his cheat sheet, for the pop quiz he knew was soon to come
It's curtains for her
She let the cat out of the bag
And now she's up **** creek with ****** for paddles to go **** herself with
Right in the birth canal
Then we'll auction off the ******
We'll pass them off as European defibrillators
Maybe some extremist will want them
If we spew out enough mindless dribble
The All Time Shit-Show is about to begin
We have
The Chronic Masturbater
The Hypochondriac
And The Pathological Liar
It was either sometime yesterday
Or sometime tomorrow
Or was it sometime today?
That you were all going to make fun of the boy with the cleft lip down at the laundromat?
Out of the three of you The Pathological Lair sticks out like a sore thumb
I can tell he was the runt of the litter
Who always bites off more than he can chew
I see the Hypochondriac has convinced himself he has eczema
He rattles off all his symptoms
Inordinate filibustering
Now there's the Chronic Masturbater
He looks like he's over the hill
He's only twenty one
But the blue circles under his eyes and the deep defined lines on his forehead denote his inelegant aging
I sign all your lives away in my horrible cursive
And now you belong to the ragtag trigger-happy posse of gun-jumpers
My billfold his happily filled
So I must go do some reconnaissance
Spy on those who have quit their day jobs
The fish out of water
You must find that thing that really rolls off the tongue with a nice ring to it
******
*******
*******
*******
No...
Go hang youself with dental flossed you home-schooled fool
Indentured servants we're just an after thought
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
Brackets
Your mum picked you up in daddy’s BMW,
we had to wait an hour while they scrubbed the brains of another son off the roof of the 125
(Why they built a multi storey car park on top of the bus station is a mystery to me.)
You carefully colour coordinated your files and scrutinized your revision schedules,
we watched nicked CCTV footage of two blokes smoking crack and burning down the bowling pavilion next door
(the old boys never did raise enough to repair it.)
You snubbed each other because of different tastes in jumpers,
we watched acid casualties talk politics with football hooligans
(a hastily rolled joint bridged the obvious gap.)
You lounged in the common room in your study periods,
our lesson got cancelled because John had been smashed in the face with a fire extinguisher
(and our tutor used to be a lifeguard.)
You worried about fashion and discussed the injustice of last night’s X Factor result,
we watched Neil’s head crash into his keyboard after he’d scoffed all his methadone in one go
(again.)
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
This is an ode to my friends.
For the ones I've loved since day one
the ones I have learnt to love
and for the ones I hate to love.
This is for my friend,
for the one, I got drunk with first.
We stole a litre bottle of cider and four beers then drank them in the park at midnight.
This is an ode to my friend who cries at parties,
who swears he will die alone.
This is for my friend who laughs at every joke,
the **** and comedian but shakes when no one is looking.
This is an ode to my friends,
for the one who's grandma is dying but they
still, manage to draw on a smile and present a joke.
This is for my friend who has depression,
Or the friend who has anxiety,
and asks me to speak for her at restaurants,
This is an ode to my friends,
who is finally taking control of her body
after being trapped in the wrong one.
For the friend who is scared to leave the house
when it's icy because he might slip and hurt his ***
For the friend, I fancied till I was sixteen,
and even though it's been years my lips still burn when
I look at her.
This is an ode to my friends who leave me out of conversations.
who have inside jokes they sprout when I'm around
This is for the ones that went to the movies to see the film they knew I was dying to see.
This is an ode to my friend,
who broke her leg whilst dancing in her favourite musical,
and the part was given to someone else.
This is for the friend whose mother died when she was 12
but she remains the strongest person ever.
This is an ode to those who
forget I'm their friend,
who ignore me when they're upset,
who tell me daily that they love me,
who cry at Disney movies,
who laugh at videos of past times,
who I hate that I adore,
who I cry over,
because I can't make them happy anymore.
This is an ode to my friends,
for the one who is so self-conscious, he wears baggy jumpers to hide his stomach.
This is an ode to my friend who has scary parents,
for the friends who made a pyramid out of stones and raised a nation,
for the friends who try their hardest and still achieve nothing,
for my friends the world has seemingly forgotten,
This is an Ode to my friends,
the ones I know I will die loving,
they give me cups of tea with two sugars when I'm having a bad episode,
for the ones that cry when they hear a certain song, because it reminds them of when I tried to off myself in the toilet,
for the one that has never had a kiss,
for the one who refuses to get married.
This is an ode to my friends,
the family I chose,
the ones that send me stupid messages at four am,
then question why I'm awake so late.
For the friend that gets blackout drunk,
for the one with weak knees,
who, when she laughs, falls to the ground in a fit of giggles,
for the friends, I will marry, loving.
Speak now or forever hold your peace,
An ode to my friends,
who I love more than anything,
as we collapse through the stars,
I'll hear them laughing at a joke.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 6:53 PM UTC
Butterfly Wings and
Bed Springs
Rollercoaster Rides and
Sea Tides
Music's playing and
Jumpers fraying
All the Queens and Kings and
All these little things
The kingdom of the brave!
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC
*sense is seen
when scents on scene*
1.
jaunty-laddie walked and grabbed the sun out the sky
hid it leisurely in his back-pocket
while the candy jumped out the sweet-jar
and the farmer fed the dog to the food
2.
an elm-tree nearby coughed nervously at the encroaching-air
as the letterbox chatted lively to the ivy-hedge
the wind popped by and whistled out a papery-sigh
that the clouds caught and flung into a blue swing-lasso
3.
working out moves in ab-struck-shin
sweaters and jumpers at the local gym got all scratchy
and went on strike to protest against the über-cool fridge
and gravity took a break
and we all
flew
a way..!
woof-woof
S T - 26th of October, is it?
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 7:59 AM UTC
there, the air is thicker
it hangs full, like the ladies
all the sadness lived in the
capsules of trapped air in
woollen jumpers left behind
men with their toothless
smiles and shining skin
coax laughter from a steel drum
the market boasts a rainbow
of sarongs, papayas, star fruits
offered in jangling song
it was a medicine.
the coral blooms in the reef
are teeth in a dog's mouth,
guarding.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 10:20 AM UTC
Jackrabbits jetting
joyously through Juneberries.
Jovial jumpers.
Sep 29, 2025
Sep 29, 2025 at 1:14 PM UTC
There’s a difference between calling a girl fit and hot and calling her pretty and beautiful
When you call me beautiful I imagine you noticing the way my hair falls from the clip over time
I imagine you noticing the way my giggle sounds and the way my smile lights you up
When you call me pretty I imagine you noticing the complexities of my eyes, the way my freckles come out in the sun and and depth of my dimples
Pretty is noticing the way my legs are sculpted when I walk ahead of you and the way my nose flares when I genuinely laugh
Fit is the body two ***** and a waist
A pair of lips you can only imagine what they do
Hot is the low cut top exposing my cleavage and my ability to open my legs for you
Fit is a one night stand word or the words of a man in a club hoping that that night you are feeling especially vulnerable and insecure
Beautiful is the text she gets when she lies in bed at 11pm asking if she wants to go on a walk
And although she professes to him excuses when she walks out the door of a lack of make up and three jumpers to keep out the cold and her insecurities encapsulated by her self destructive smile and her hair pushed behind her ear
You lift her face and examine that untouched smile
The rawness of her appearance and the purity of her eyes
That is beautiful
And you call it so
When fit is the way a body looks and how much makeup can look like none
Pretty is the way she smiles when she sees you and the way she feels looked upon.
Sep 24, 2023
Sep 24, 2023 at 8:00 AM UTC
I.
A louse in a house
or a mouse on a blouse.
A bell that goes ****
or a gong that goes ****
A gap on a map
or a cap on your lap.
A drink in the sink
or an ink that stinks.
A spleen on a screen
or a queen who is green.
A bow in the snow
or a crow that glows.
II.
A wash or a whip,
a lip or a lop,
a top or a tip,
a car or afar,
a bar or a war,
a door or a snore,
a bore or a nail,
a flail or a whale,
a run or a bun,
a sun or a moon,
a spoon or a bus,
a fuss or a sigh,
a cry or a cheer,
a fear or a smile,
a while or a pen,
a den or a cat,
a mat or a hat,
a bat or a glass,
a vase or a weight,
a mate or a fork,
a cork or a mop,
a cop or a stop.
III.
Apples and artichokes, ants and antelopes,
bees and beers, books and brains,
cucumbers and chimneys, ***** and coats,
dogs and drains, dots and dominoes,
ears and eejits, elephants and exams,
flies and flutes, files and friends,
grasses and guts, giants and gyms,
horrors and hiccups, horses and hills,
igloos and irons, irises and idiots,
jumpers and jackets, jodhpurs and jellies,
kings and kettles, kites and kittens,
lions and lamps, lemons and lunches,
mums and monsters, mosses and moths,
noses and notes, nightmares and needles,
oblongs and orang-utans, organs and oranges,
paintings and pennies, ponds and pants,
quiches and quizzes, questions and queues,
rainbows and rings, rascals and rabbits,
snakes and sprouts, sweets and salts,
trumpets and trains, tables and toasters,
umpires and ukuleles, umbrellas and uniforms,
violets and vests, violins and vials,
wheels and wings, windows and weeds,
xylems and x-rays, xylophones and xysters,
yachts and yoghurts, yards and yaks,
zigzags and zephyrs, ziggurats and zombies.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
*dandelion seeds
too tight to fly--
frozen Spring lovers
stream breeze--
pollen ripples into sun,
brace of current bed
inflorescent burst--
hikers' boots beside a pool
on sun-baked rocks
green buds ***** the air--
in corymb echoes,
fuzz of leaves
water-sounds cascade--
moss-drops, trickles; dog-splash, falls;
gurgles under foot
the tones of waves
tiny on the smooth shore
lipping on
stem-length stars,
streaming rays of sun
and water's deep shade
gentle eddies over stone--
one world,
one world
froth twirl and tendril
under Spring brook shade--
so clear beneath
burl-sprouts misted bright,
cups of water,
forest thirst
waterfall gasp--
the cold! the winter! now swim!
the first breaths
Spring Misogi--
pummeled muscles--
grin of mossy heart
your wet shirt against my chest
--hot love--
thunderous winter-melt
we sink laughing,
numb in Spring's fluids--
our voices drown
papaya lunch--
a tropic fruit
and i am home
sweaty backpack--
two beloved women hike,
my heart weightless
cliff-jumpers--
green from nostalgia,
i hit bottomless
cameras first,
avert canopy surprise--
Spring screen
black-backed iridesce--
warm beetle slips
in and out of scree
barefoot in the stream,
our hands and voices smooth--
ankle sprain
Spring paths--
a parent's visit
breathes new life
my womb-maker
from another life--
ageless comfort
her haiku eyes--
water shining sun green
bloom here again
*
\|/
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
BULL FIGHTING
(WITH A CLASSICAL TOUCH)
* By Raj Nandy*
(I)
The Minoan Civilization of ancient Greece,
Was well centered in the Aegean island of Crete;
And around 1600 BC this civilization had peaked!
Seeing their frescoes, and paintings on potteries
and vase,
Scholars concluded that ‘bull-jumping’ was
perfected as a gallant art!
Those jumpers grabbed the bull’s horns, -
And receiving momentum from its violent
head-jerk,
Vaulted over its back in a somersault,
To land on both feet to break their fall!
I was spell bound by Minoans courage and agility,
Their acrobatic feats performed with such
dexterity!
Those bulls were not killed and no blood was shed,
Some acrobats might have been injured instead!
What a shame for our bull fighters of date!
(II)
Today bull fighting has become a popular sport,
Where the bull gets slaughtered amidst loud applaud!
I recall those Roman amphitheaters that remained
jam-packed,
When the Gladiators performed their fatal acts!
But even those Gladiators had a chance to survive,
Our cornered bull has no place to hide!
Friends, to see blood is an age old thrill,
But none would like to see their own blood spilled!
(III)
Our Matador today is like a popular Rock Star,
While the bull becomes a martyr in the pit by far!
The bull’s mighty horns are sharp and strong,
Can lift up a man like a rag doll!
But when the Picador lances the bull’s ****
The bull never gets a fair deal and jumps!
Next the Matador waves his ‘muleta’- a red cape,
The bull makes a final charge but cannot escape!
I wonder if the bull sees red!?
The Matador then amidst much pomp and applaud,
Spikes the neck severing the bull’s spinal cord!
He is greeted by flowers and cheers of ‘Ole’! ‘Ole’!
Let us learn from those Ancient Minoans, -
That's all I have got to say!
- by Raj Nandy
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 9:28 AM UTC
there are nights where i stay up daydreaming of a wonderland
a wonderland of vignetted sepia books and tea stained lips,
a wonderland where the sun hides for a while, and lets us be real
a wonderland where no one else exists
so that my arms persist on staying around you
a wonderland where my hands lay in yours
while we read sappy poetry
poetry no one else we know would find interesting
but poetry that means the world to us;
a wonderland where rain falls in my backyard on orange trees
to the setting of our eyes like big blue seas
never parting
leaves rustling
a wonderland where music plays and sways so sway with me
to a light thunder storm
and kiss me slowly
so we can keep each others lips warm
because its cold in our winter wonderland
but a little cold never stopped anyone
a little cold in life slows us down, but we put on our jumpers and forge on
so forge on
my dear winter girl,
because i know that sometimes
a house isn't really a home
and it gets hard when I'm alone
so come whenever you feel like you cant stand
and lay with me, in our own winter wonderland.
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 11:19 AM UTC
Snowflakes fall to the earth like suicide jumpers.
And I laugh because if I don't I have to listen to the silence.
Or worse.
And I laugh because I don't want to hear myself crying.
Waiting for icicles to form, and splinter, and crack under their own weight --
These are the games that plague souls;
Wishing away the snow with feet planted in blizzards,
Staring at the moon and trying to bathe in the last dripping morsels of sunlight shining onto the earth.
I lay buried so far beneath laughter and snowflakes that I am too cold to touch.
Touch me and scatter the blisters on my tongue,
For words are only dipped in honey, but it cannot hide the hollows inside.
And here I am, like a snowflake.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 7:25 PM UTC
Make a wish, and then its gone
A curl of smoke now a spent dry wick
Happiness held for a moment
Then the sickly spittled cake
For the birthday boy, mum loads him up
And jealous friends crowd round
Skirting round the edges,
Dad takes a snap at mum’s request
Happiness held for a moment
Further out, against the wall
Elderly relatives watch it all
In prickly jumpers, sovereign chains
Fisherman’s friends and pocket change
Slow and still, they watch it all
I unpack the plastic crap my parents bought
Parents doing all they ought to get me hooked
That plastic smell like sniffing glue
The cheap thrill of something new
Happiness held for a moment
Party bags at the door and then its over
Thanks are forced from mouths
By parents eyeing the morning
Outside the orange October light fades
On streets the lamps are lighting
The hush of school tomorrow hangs there
Among conkers and chimney smoke
Back inside my home the smell of boys
Hangs in the air; a fug trapped
In deep pile and double glazing
The telly’s on now and **** are burning in the ashtray
Now they’re asleep, and its over
I sit surrounded in my room at the back of the house
The orange light is coming in through thin curtains
I can’t move for presents, I feel I am imploding
Like a crinkled balloon, expelled of everything
Feeling everything and nothing
Happiness held for a moment
August 2021
Aug 24, 2021
Aug 24, 2021 at 12:52 AM UTC
The Christmas tree resplendent, decked in magnificence
where peeping out from underneath, bought with benevolence
were gifts, keeping occupied, excited little fingers
the best so far, a wind up car, the worst, two woolly jumpers.
The aroma from the kitchen, kept wafting through the door
with greedy tum' a-rumbling, ( there's more presents to explore )
the table set in splendour, upon that festive day
the brilliance of the cutlery, displayed in bright array.
Crispy roast potatoes, Christmas ******* by each plate
brussel sprouts and chestnuts, ( our dinner guests were late )
roast pork and juicy crack-a-ling, fresh stewing apple sauce
sage and onion stuffing ***** were all for our main course.
Unwrapped and sat a-steaming, and crowned with holly leaves
Christmas pud' and brandy sauce, stared at with disbelief,
tangerines and nuts to shell, dried fruit and pre-stoned dates
and then... as a special treat, dark chocolate 'After Eights'.
Much later still, before bedtime, clothes filled with corpulence
my little belt let out a notch, to ease circumference
and then to bed, much over fed, with dreams of clockwork toys
of Boxing day, of games to play, of Christmas filled with joy.**
... ... ...
'trademark'
Apr 12, 2011
Apr 12, 2011 at 3:36 AM UTC
My suitcase is packed,
Memories within,
Won't fit any more,
As it's full to the brim,
Down at the bottom,
My memories from old,
Just beneath my jumpers,
That stop me being cold,
Just above them,
My adolescent years,
Leaving school and working,
Facing adult fears,
Marriage and family,
Lay on top of all that,
Five beautiful children,
Three dogs and one cat,
Then it's an empty layer,
But not to be treated less,
This is when the kids left home,
When they fled my loving nest,
In between are memories bad,
I tuck them to one side,
Or cover them up with happy times,
I still remember when I cried,
Then comes more difficult ones,
I struggle to remember them all,
But some I do intermittently,
I try so hard to recall,
So please forgive my memory,
It's not how it used to be,
But I'm still that same old person,
Who loves you for eternity,
I still have all the memories,
Packed tight inside my case,
Sometimes I just can't find them,
But you can find them on my face,
My wrinkles tell my story,
My eyes hold all my dreams,
My old and frail body now,
Is not all it was it seems,
But I'm here, I'm still here,
Just look at me, with my case,
You will see my life and memories,
In layer's etched on my face,
My suitcase is packed,
Memories within,
Won't fit any more,
As it's full to the brim.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 4:41 AM UTC
Love is love,
it’s not that complicated,
Love does not care what color or *** you or your love is,
because Love is all inclusive it doesn’t discriminate,
Love is colorblind,
Love Sees No Color Love wears Cross Colours jumpers,
Love is abundant, just ask Russell Simmons or Gloria Carter,
or her baby Jay Z or anyone else who is an authentic Lover,
Love is unconditional & it’s available to everyone,
regardless of class social status religion region or color,
it’s okay to feel good, smile you deserve it,
dedicate yourself to love, believe me it’s worth it,
you get what you give so give 100%,
remember to forget & forgive them, even if they’re not perfect,
because no person walking this earth’s surface is,
but you can still find yourself a good girlfriend or boyfriend,
as long as you’re willing to work with them,
& you two can still be your own version of Bonnie & Clyde,
can still be in love & serve them with services,
there’s wisdom in these verses here,
modern day scriptures for gangstas & hipsters,
they don’t call him LaLux or J-Hova for nothing,
no fronting true strength requires no crutches or addictions,
just enough Dedication as Lil Wayne to get to 10,000 hours,
as laid out well by Macklemore or Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers,
a Master of Self a ******* from Hell,
***** as hell but he cleans up well
I own all my Master,
you should probably own yours as well,
well,
the floods are coming, there’s some prophecy for you,
either ride the Tidal wave or get washed straight away,
washing the straight leg green jeans clean so there’s no proof,
only proof is us see our success & ourselves are Self Evident,
only witness God won’t testify against our business interest,
the evidence is obvious see we are all sovereign entities,
you are your own country so you are your own president,
a one person army a one person president,
who roams the whole globe everywhere’s their residence,
channelling these visions into verses of the present tense,
told you before I’m not a business man I’m a business, man...
Smile is continued in THHT3...
∆ LaLux ∆
an excerpt from poem #24 of
THHT3: The Hollywood Hills Trilogy 3
available on Amazon here:
www.amazon.com/dp/1950780023
If you've read this far I'd like to show my appreciation by buying you a copy of THHT3 from Amazon myself, seriously, for free. Just send me a Message here or on IG @aaronlaux
Sep 23, 2019
Sep 23, 2019 at 9:14 PM UTC
Attention Wal-Mart Shoppers..
You know them
You've seen them
I hope you aren't one of them...
I don't drink
Not anymore
For my entertainment
I go to the store
I go out after dinner
That's when the show will start
I go and watch the people
Who shop at Wal-Mart
Cowboy boots, a tutu, and yoga pants with ***
with a muscle shirt and top hat
worn by a man named REX
a pair of pants just hanging
a pair of crocs and leather vest
with "she loves me for my money"
emblazoned on the chest
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
In their finest shopping clothes
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
At Wal-Mart, so it goes
I don't go clubbing
There's no fun in that
Late night trips to Wal-Mart
That, is where it's at
A woman dressed in plastic
a man all painted blue
and how many people have you seen
that look like escapees from the zoo
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
In their finest shopping clothes
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
At Wal-Mart, so it goes
Underpants, and stockings
garters and blue jeans
size 50 denim jumpers
Stretched like skinny jeans
Men wearing high heels
Women wearing...well
Use your imaginations
From a distance you can't tell
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
In their finest shopping clothes
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
At Wal-Mart, so it goes
Body parts free to see
******* and legs and butts
And people with their little dogs
The ugly, squeaky mutts
We know them
and we watch them
Take their photos
Yes....we do.
dress right when you go shopping
Or we may take one of you!!!
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 5:43 PM UTC
His mother bought the wool in skeins
with four children to clothe
knitting was so much less expensive
than buying woolens in the store
and who counted the hours spent
with the needles click clacking
plain and pearl in fancy patterns.
Every few months he would stand there
in front of his mother, hands outstretched
shoulder width apart
spindly arms and legs
holding the loop of wool
seemingly endless as he, in rhythm
with his mother, unwound the wool
onto the ball growing bigger
each length left his outstretched fingers
swaying in sync with the reeling in
at the finish, when he could go off and play
read a book, follow his early adolescent urges
running and jumping
he would imagine the ***** of wool
one for an arm, the sweater, a gift for Christmas
another for the old man’s winter woolie
his ganzy as he called it
keeping his rotund figure warm
despite the bracing wind
reaching into the bones
pulling out the last remnants of summer warmth
The son is older now
and all those jumpers are gone
cast into the past, a memory
sitting and standing
in rhythm together
creation and warmth
love and the click clack of needles.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
Sometimes winter is warm,
Jumpers and coats bundle.
The whitewashed cottages,
Smoke in a blanket of sleet,
You could say most anytime,
Island weather is ghastly fine,
Windy rain comes and goes,
Summer can be awfully cold.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 2:45 AM UTC