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"junkies" poems
The only proper way to be a conversationalist is to convince yourself that you’re boring. If you can strip back the hard shell of the ego, and look down on yourself from the eyes of an apathetic God, you will likely (and hopefully) see just how boring you really are. It isn’t a sin to be boring, in fact there are many advantages to honest self-depreciation. The main advantage, is the way you approach a conversation. “Interesting” people find it difficult to silence the affected score-keeper that dominates their internal dialogue and ruins any chance of an honest and engaged conversation. It is the voice that reminds you to show interest with your body language, and keep a dumb happy gaze laser pointed into their eyes. This dialogue is obsessed with authenticity and genuine conversation, and therefore a natural sociopath. Luckily, you are the stunning definition of boredom, an extracted dictionary cut-out of un-interesting, and nobody could possibly give a rats-ass what you have to think—least of all the Voice that controls the inner-dialogue. That Voice has packed it up to find a more interesting vessel…maybe the person standing across from you in conversation. 
 Because you are so boring, and they are the Oxford personification of intellect and fascination, you should pay careful attention to what they say—no time to worry about how they’re perceiving your reaction to whatever it is they’re saying. You are too busy to notice what sort of body language you may or may not be using to validate their half of the conversation. Instead, your time is spent carefully hanging on their every word, digesting it and projecting the whole bit into a colourful scene in your imagination. Instead, you’re too lost in the excitement of their infinitely more interesting life and impossible wealth of knowledge offered to you with each word that they speak. Instead, you are actually listening to the words that come out of their mouth and not the ones that speak to you from the inside of your own mind. This is what it means to be in conversation. This was the point of our social nature. And in a world of needy social-media junkies grabbing at the cuffs of potential ‘followers’ and ‘likes’ and trendy passer-by’s, the last thing anyone needs is the high-pitched whine of another “interesting” millennial. Lucky for you, you boring sack of yawning sloths, that you aren’t interesting too.
0
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 6:13 PM UTC
The Optimists Guide to Conversationalism:
The only proper way to be a conversationalist is to convince yourself that you’re boring. If you can strip back the hard shell of the ego, and look down on yourself from the eyes of an apathetic God, you will likely (and hopefully) see just how boring you really are. It isn’t a sin to be boring, in fact there are many advantages to honest self-depreciation. The main advantage, is the way you approach a conversation. “Interesting” people find it difficult to silence the affected score-keeper that dominates their internal dialogue and ruins any chance of an honest and engaged conversation. It is the voice that reminds you to show interest with your body language, and keep a dumb happy gaze laser pointed into their eyes. This dialogue is obsessed with authenticity and genuine conversation, and therefore a natural sociopath. Luckily, you are the stunning definition of boredom, an extracted dictionary cut-out of un-interesting, and nobody could possibly give a rats-ass what you have to think—least of all the Voice that controls the inner-dialogue. That Voice has packed it up to find a more interesting vessel…maybe the person standing across from you in conversation. 
 Because you are so boring, and they are the Oxford personification of intellect and fascination, you should pay careful attention to what they say—no time to worry about how they’re perceiving your reaction to whatever it is they’re saying. You are too busy to notice what sort of body language you may or may not be using to validate their half of the conversation. Instead, your time is spent carefully hanging on their every word, digesting it and projecting the whole bit into a colourful scene in your imagination. Instead, you’re too lost in the excitement of their infinitely more interesting life and impossible wealth of knowledge offered to you with each word that they speak. Instead, you are actually listening to the words that come out of their mouth and not the ones that speak to you from the inside of your own mind. This is what it means to be in conversation. This was the point of our social nature. And in a world of needy social-media junkies grabbing at the cuffs of potential ‘followers’ and ‘likes’ and trendy passer-by’s, the last thing anyone needs is the high-pitched whine of another “interesting” millennial. Lucky for you, you boring sack of yawning sloths, that you aren’t interesting too.
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6
I come from New Orleans where the swingers hook up with the singers, and the boxes have a person inside who speak to you through a thick horizontal slot in the door. You come from Minnesota where the most aggressive sentence is “Hi, how are you” and you’ve attended church every Sunday of your life, even though you don’t really believe in god. We came to the West to skate with the surfer junkies. But then the harbors got bombed and we moved out East to see the hipsters and the artists beggin on the streets. We went to the South with the racists and bigots were dying for a good show. We moved up North to escape from the 70s, and with the 80s on the rise we figured we’d best stay away. The 70s were rockin’ with **** and LSD in parks and concerts, and on benches on the streets. The smoke in the air was everywhere, from the slums in Wisconsin to the cities of Dallas. Even the poor were lost in the haze. When the 80s arrived with Rock ‘n’ Roll and techno beats from windowsills upstairs. The music was groovin’ and the ladies were fine. We saw billboards of our names in neon orange lights. The *** was replaced by coke, and the LSD with ****** singing and swinging with delight in our eyes. When the AIDS broke out we were sick in our beds listening to Pink Floyd and Elton John, and still we were singing. The 70s got us high while the 80s made us die We lived through wars in Vietnam, and Korea; we fought back the communists with red ink on our hands. We broke down the door into China and got them to arrive in the present and join the world. Although their chairman sits on a chair of lies he leads them with an angry fist in the air pumping “three cheers for Mao”. “Three cheers for Mao”. When the Soviets launched themselves to the moon we responded with our money and flashed our shiny new machinery in their faces. We marked our territory and claimed triumphantly that “We’re the best”. And we launched our war nukes and pinned them into intimidation. Then the Cubans sought revenge for the death of the Pigs on their Bay. With rifles in hand we stormed the beach and unearthed Castro and his regime. With our beds soaked in blood, and our dreams covered with fog, hand in hand we lay. We recalled the dances in the backs of old Cafes where the passwords were as simple as three quick knocks and two slow ones. We remembered the guns that pierced the heavenly chorus for the negros in the south. And we thought about the music of the 70s and the death in the 80s and I thought about you for a minute more.
0
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 4:29 PM UTC
Untitled
I come from New Orleans where the swingers hook up with the singers, and the boxes have a person inside who speak to you through a thick horizontal slot in the door. You come from Minnesota where the most aggressive sentence is “Hi, how are you” and you’ve attended church every Sunday of your life, even though you don’t really believe in god. We came to the West to skate with the surfer junkies. But then the harbors got bombed and we moved out East to see the hipsters and the artists beggin on the streets. We went to the South with the racists and bigots were dying for a good show. We moved up North to escape from the 70s, and with the 80s on the rise we figured we’d best stay away. The 70s were rockin’ with **** and LSD in parks and concerts, and on benches on the streets. The smoke in the air was everywhere, from the slums in Wisconsin to the cities of Dallas. Even the poor were lost in the haze. When the 80s arrived with Rock ‘n’ Roll and techno beats from windowsills upstairs. The music was groovin’ and the ladies were fine. We saw billboards of our names in neon orange lights. The *** was replaced by coke, and the LSD with ****** singing and swinging with delight in our eyes. When the AIDS broke out we were sick in our beds listening to Pink Floyd and Elton John, and still we were singing. The 70s got us high while the 80s made us die We lived through wars in Vietnam, and Korea; we fought back the communists with red ink on our hands. We broke down the door into China and got them to arrive in the present and join the world. Although their chairman sits on a chair of lies he leads them with an angry fist in the air pumping “three cheers for Mao”. “Three cheers for Mao”. When the Soviets launched themselves to the moon we responded with our money and flashed our shiny new machinery in their faces. We marked our territory and claimed triumphantly that “We’re the best”. And we launched our war nukes and pinned them into intimidation. Then the Cubans sought revenge for the death of the Pigs on their Bay. With rifles in hand we stormed the beach and unearthed Castro and his regime. With our beds soaked in blood, and our dreams covered with fog, hand in hand we lay. We recalled the dances in the backs of old Cafes where the passwords were as simple as three quick knocks and two slow ones. We remembered the guns that pierced the heavenly chorus for the negros in the south. And we thought about the music of the 70s and the death in the 80s and I thought about you for a minute more.
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8
I walk down a broken street in search of my Promised Land, I'm on a mission from God and my God's name is ****** In the distance I can hear the gunfire, I'm in a holy war, my sergeant’s named desire. I walk past other junkies nodding out against a wall, We're fighting the same cause, fighting against withdrawal. I reach my destination, I talk with the man, I hand him twenty dollars, he puts my God in my hand. ****** you must be God for everything I do is for you, I'd crawl ten miles on broken glass for you. I'd sell my soul, my family and friends for you, If you asked me to sell myself, I'd do that too, You can see I'm truly nothing, nothing without you. But if you’re really God, you leave me confused, At times I feel like I've really been used. You leave me shivering when it's not really cold, Unable to walk and I'm not even old. You leave me penniless when I'm not even poor, You leave me feeling beaten, aching and sore. You take away my pride, my looks and my health, Make me lie to my family, my friends and myself. Although for you I have dedicated my life, What have you done for me except stabbed me with a knife? I look in the mirror at my own bloodshot eyes, I stare at a man whose world is all lies. I think about my past and start to realize, You’re not a God at all, but the Devil in disguise.
0
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 3:46 PM UTC
My God, The Devil ******
No one looks at me the way she does Her eyes stares into my soul The glares makes me feel the unknown Forbidden love that feels so real Its like both just know We can be so bad for each other if together Yet we both just strive to bring out the best in the other Sharing the same weaknesses Going through the same difficulties We are our own addiction Motivation to stay clean is the love for each other We are just two **** junkies trying to stay clean Our love for our drug should pull us apart Yet it makes us cling to each other in the hope recovery will last I don't know how sane this is But it works for us currently Everything in this moment is exactly how its suppose to be..
0
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
Two **** Junkies in Recovery
complexity bias how you love to criticize my poems as too long and overly complex poor me, I’m no genius, don’t prosper by exploiting unrecognized simplicities, rather deconstruct the intricate complexities that I flatter myself are the me-sinews Writing is a **** temptation - we focus on the 10% that is complex and ignore the easy 90% perhaps this once I will surrender my bare bones put aside the rich, satisfying of cave diving, urban spelunking word caressing tongue verbiage rich tapestry exploring - give you the plane of plain where nestles my destiny: nesting near motionless where the couch is my kingdom and cold cereal is easily digested and there are no consequences I am a member of a discriminated-against minority we have no charismatic leader, no marchers anywhere, and government programs say hey you’re free white and twenty one plus, get the crap out of our faces,  you useless piece of rhymes with **** and includes dirt, though I shower twice a day to keep myself occupied 25 years old, a high school dropout, of course I’m white, my occupation is playing video games and making sure my supply of opioids is adequate in these great United States where I was born there are fewer jobs than none that my application survives a first glance discardation, and now my disability preempts any demand to pretend there is gainful employment in store in my future this reductio ad absurdum is a technique to expose the fallacy, ah what’s that you say no interest in hanging about, on your way out, of course, of course, we are the wrong flavor of downtrodden my life is simple - simplistic in its a chaotic entropic way, order slowly declines into disorder my rituals are a fight against slip sliding down, falling off the the Herzog continuums and the poems are desperate hand holds to prevent my going, gone under so forgive me if I tax you without possessing not the requisite taxing authority you hone in on the obvious disparities and my contradictions resenting my sending you this bill of extravagant length compose with me and a mean will be located and to sleep I go, perhaps to undress my dreams and explicate the wealthy multiples of complexity in the simplicity of a junkies life
0
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 3:56 PM UTC
complexity bias of a ******
complexity bias how you love to criticize my poems as too long and overly complex poor me, I’m no genius, don’t prosper by exploiting unrecognized simplicities, rather deconstruct the intricate complexities that I flatter myself are the me-sinews Writing is a **** temptation - we focus on the 10% that is complex and ignore the easy 90% perhaps this once I will surrender my bare bones put aside the rich, satisfying of cave diving, urban spelunking word caressing tongue verbiage rich tapestry exploring - give you the plane of plain where nestles my destiny: nesting near motionless where the couch is my kingdom and cold cereal is easily digested and there are no consequences I am a member of a discriminated-against minority we have no charismatic leader, no marchers anywhere, and government programs say hey you’re free white and twenty one plus, get the crap out of our faces,  you useless piece of rhymes with **** and includes dirt, though I shower twice a day to keep myself occupied 25 years old, a high school dropout, of course I’m white, my occupation is playing video games and making sure my supply of opioids is adequate in these great United States where I was born there are fewer jobs than none that my application survives a first glance discardation, and now my disability preempts any demand to pretend there is gainful employment in store in my future this reductio ad absurdum is a technique to expose the fallacy, ah what’s that you say no interest in hanging about, on your way out, of course, of course, we are the wrong flavor of downtrodden my life is simple - simplistic in its a chaotic entropic way, order slowly declines into disorder my rituals are a fight against slip sliding down, falling off the the Herzog continuums and the poems are desperate hand holds to prevent my going, gone under so forgive me if I tax you without possessing not the requisite taxing authority you hone in on the obvious disparities and my contradictions resenting my sending you this bill of extravagant length compose with me and a mean will be located and to sleep I go, perhaps to undress my dreams and explicate the wealthy multiples of complexity in the simplicity of a junkies life
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41
It started with a pen, and wound up in English. No diction, addiction, or ambition, to get published. “Don’t scream and you’ll look normal.” Screaming “MISOGYNY!” if screaming at all, I’ve seen the great minds of my generation addicted to Adderall.   Some friends who get wasted, and I remain sober. Cheap ‘03 cars, yet, no ones coming over.   Actors without work now, no one with opportunity. Suicidal crazies now, crafted from 80’s and 90’s responsibility, and A is for Adderall.   Sugar coated heroine, designer drugs. Poor blacks, whites, mexicans, and asians swept under the rug.   “The father, the son, the invisible hand.”   Crack in prisons, ***** holy ******* in a BMW, Feminism, becomes communism, becomes atheism becomes you. You so counter-culture, you forgot about us, “She’s not an angel friends, throw her under the bus.”   Politicians in purple now, blessed American royalty. Slaughter the disenfranchised, poor, socialist regime, and A is for Adderall.   Don’t shoot the police, shoot the children instead, or send them to war, but the war had to end. “In god we trust, but in the market we invest.” So occupy Wall Street, and get called a hippie, or occupy college, and become a dead beat?   In high school you’re told, be what you will be. Cancer is still a… “…” …Hereditary disease.   Actors without work still. Politicians lying still. Suicidal crazies. Ecstasy filled crazies. Counter-culture conformist. Culture conformist. Eco-terrorist. Mindless consumer. Junkies, addicts, soldiers, students, leaders, followers, murderers, democrats, conservatives, liberals, republicans, child molesters, sexists, racists.   No more labels.   It was every single individual. Individual failure. One by one, we were all found guilty. You are guilty. I am guilty, and A is for Adderall, and the new marginalized.
0
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
"Adderall [the New Marginalized]."
It started with a pen, and wound up in English. No diction, addiction, or ambition, to get published. “Don’t scream and you’ll look normal.” Screaming “MISOGYNY!” if screaming at all, I’ve seen the great minds of my generation addicted to Adderall.   Some friends who get wasted, and I remain sober. Cheap ‘03 cars, yet, no ones coming over.   Actors without work now, no one with opportunity. Suicidal crazies now, crafted from 80’s and 90’s responsibility, and A is for Adderall.   Sugar coated heroine, designer drugs. Poor blacks, whites, mexicans, and asians swept under the rug.   “The father, the son, the invisible hand.”   Crack in prisons, ***** holy ******* in a BMW, Feminism, becomes communism, becomes atheism becomes you. You so counter-culture, you forgot about us, “She’s not an angel friends, throw her under the bus.”   Politicians in purple now, blessed American royalty. Slaughter the disenfranchised, poor, socialist regime, and A is for Adderall.   Don’t shoot the police, shoot the children instead, or send them to war, but the war had to end. “In god we trust, but in the market we invest.” So occupy Wall Street, and get called a hippie, or occupy college, and become a dead beat?   In high school you’re told, be what you will be. Cancer is still a… “…” …Hereditary disease.   Actors without work still. Politicians lying still. Suicidal crazies. Ecstasy filled crazies. Counter-culture conformist. Culture conformist. Eco-terrorist. Mindless consumer. Junkies, addicts, soldiers, students, leaders, followers, murderers, democrats, conservatives, liberals, republicans, child molesters, sexists, racists.   No more labels.   It was every single individual. Individual failure. One by one, we were all found guilty. You are guilty. I am guilty, and A is for Adderall, and the new marginalized.
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77
Hare Krishna's In their Pickups Depressed Comics Down on their Luck Teenage Girls Screaming Meme's ****** Pinko's* Leftward Leaning Vincent Price Flo and Eddie Rodger Rabbit Priscilla Presley Nuns in Habits Dwarf's in Ponchos Deadbeat Dads Munching Nachos Right-Wing Nut Jobs Trading Slogans A few Hero's Including Hogan Are just a few of the sights you see At the front gates of Graceland Memphis, Tennessee Buddhist Monks With Electric Banjos Holding Signs Up Of Marlon Brando Taxi Cabs Blaring Show Tunes Pregnant Women Down-loading Soon Derby Jockeys Flying Monkeys Kool-Aidholics Skittle Junkies Bozo The Clown Bumper Stickers Psychedelic Crazed Toad Lickers Rhinestone Cowboys In their Skivvies Gothic Girls Heebie Jeebies Are just a few of the sights you see At the front gates of Graceland Memphis, Tennessee Blue Haired Granny's In pink Moo Moos Ballerina's In Tattered Tutus Mathematician's Number Crunchers Even have Some Out to Lunchers Model 50's *Do *** Daddies* One More Round Of Flo and Eddie People Sneaking Across the Border Lonely Fry Cooks Taking Orders A Few Wannabes Not Saying Much Will The Real Elvis Please Stand Up Are just a few of the sights that you see At the front gates of Graceland Memphis, Tennessee Thank you...Thank you very Much Ladies and Gentlemen Elvis...Has Left The Building
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Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
The Front Gates Of Graceland
DUDE WHERE IS MY COUNTRY- Have you ever seen the bumper sticker that reads- “DUDE WHERE IS MY COUNTRY?”- While I have and I am asking you- Dude where is my country? I think it was stolen my corporate monkeys- Making us consumer junkies- Its kind of funny-How corporations with all the money- Make us feel like we are bumming-In search of materialistically something- Its almost numbing how they deep drumming products in our face- Make us feel like we have to buy-Or we will lose the race- It’s a disgrace-Not the American way to make us feel like we smell bad without that Axe Man’s Body spray- Or I wont feel cool unless I’m holding a latte- And my eye glasses read dolce- Slide a credit card man its okay- Dig a deeper hole to your grave- Consumer America I am your slave- Product buying all day- Broke as a joke-my money goes away- My credit cards get their pay- In minimal monthly payments anyway- Its like a rat race-Or a never ending case- You stay in the chase to collect what you make and the credit cards get their cake- Its great- Buy things you don’t need with credit cards you can’t afford- Its all for the money-That’s why commercials go to war- AND I LOVE IT- I mean how can you not-A badass commercial where a dude kills a cop-gets the cold-grabs the chick-and doing it all while wearing Gillet Sport Speed Stick- Its sick that I buy into this shit-A consumer ****** who needs another hit- Its unfortunate- But it’s the way it is- Thank you Hollywood Biz-Thank you Corporate big wigs-and thank you Uncle Sam- Without you I wouldn’t be the product buying-credit card sliding man that I am- And before I go- I ask you again- DUDE WHERE IS MY COUNTRY??? Richard A. Itskovich
0
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 4:47 PM UTC
DUDE WHERE IS MY COUNTRY-
DUDE WHERE IS MY COUNTRY- Have you ever seen the bumper sticker that reads- “DUDE WHERE IS MY COUNTRY?”- While I have and I am asking you- Dude where is my country? I think it was stolen my corporate monkeys- Making us consumer junkies- Its kind of funny-How corporations with all the money- Make us feel like we are bumming-In search of materialistically something- Its almost numbing how they deep drumming products in our face- Make us feel like we have to buy-Or we will lose the race- It’s a disgrace-Not the American way to make us feel like we smell bad without that Axe Man’s Body spray- Or I wont feel cool unless I’m holding a latte- And my eye glasses read dolce- Slide a credit card man its okay- Dig a deeper hole to your grave- Consumer America I am your slave- Product buying all day- Broke as a joke-my money goes away- My credit cards get their pay- In minimal monthly payments anyway- Its like a rat race-Or a never ending case- You stay in the chase to collect what you make and the credit cards get their cake- Its great- Buy things you don’t need with credit cards you can’t afford- Its all for the money-That’s why commercials go to war- AND I LOVE IT- I mean how can you not-A badass commercial where a dude kills a cop-gets the cold-grabs the chick-and doing it all while wearing Gillet Sport Speed Stick- Its sick that I buy into this shit-A consumer ****** who needs another hit- Its unfortunate- But it’s the way it is- Thank you Hollywood Biz-Thank you Corporate big wigs-and thank you Uncle Sam- Without you I wouldn’t be the product buying-credit card sliding man that I am- And before I go- I ask you again- DUDE WHERE IS MY COUNTRY??? Richard A. Itskovich
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37
The sad part is that most of us, writers, are almost ashamed to say it out loud. We do it like a bad habit we can't escape. ****** junkies with the leash around our necks. Treat it like a disfigurement; our malignant entries spread like cancer from under our pathetic, hypocritical hands. We're sad. Depressed. "Heart broken". Angst ridden. Jaded. Coping. Coping. Learning to cope, but often failing. Stepping on each other; a sea of cadavers with no bottom, surface, or center. Full of brilliance/ brighter than the sun. Collectively, we are a diamond made from **** A uselessly expensive commercial good, nonetheless. The next Bukowski will be a child molester, or a sociopathic spree killer. Too bad no one wants to be the great writer of course. What greater shame could there be? What bigger embarrassment could exist? What insult and tragedy is more than being a writer?
0
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC
"Crab-Handed "
I thought Van Gogh had it figured out he fell in love and cut off his ear he died july 29 1890 from a self inflicted gun shot wound He painted He painted the sky He painted men women bedrooms flowers shoes street corners chairs boats and fields I thought Basquiat had it figured out ****** NYC He painted memories in the present August 12 1988 NYC apartment ****** overdose I thought Picasso I thought Warhol I thought Stalin ****** Buddha Had it figured out but sand fills our shoes in dry texan sun and the dog howls howls for its mother howls for its brother howls for its sister I thought the dog had it figured out eating insects smelling my hands eating the ham on the floor I thought Hemingway had it figured out Late at night reading Old Man and The Sea Suicide July 2 1961 12-gauge English shotgun I thought Fitzgerald had it figured out I thought Ginsberg I thought Kerouac did too drinking across the neck and back bone and gutter lips of America and back I thought Bukowski had it figured out the cigarettes the wine the women the type writer the sad nights accompanied by cockroaches and a city that is indigestible I thought Phillip Glass had it figured out Beethoven going Def Mozart lost in his grave writing symphonies for Death and his cruel tripled eyed angels I thought The drunkards were lost The Junkies were ankle-less The Mothers were done for The Fathers had given in The Young True The Elderly gazing  through the bifocals of heaven and hell The Prisoners cemented in Time I thought the Dead were the ones who published our Dreams I thought the painter had it figured out So I painted I thought the pianist had it figured out So I played the Piano and listened to the bilingual codes of the keys I thought the Ballet dancer had it figured out So I watched her I studied the movements and the bruised toes looking for a design of an answer I thought the Poet had it figured out So I wrote a poem and I saw the world.
0
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
Synecdoche
I thought Van Gogh had it figured out he fell in love and cut off his ear he died july 29 1890 from a self inflicted gun shot wound He painted He painted the sky He painted men women bedrooms flowers shoes street corners chairs boats and fields I thought Basquiat had it figured out ****** NYC He painted memories in the present August 12 1988 NYC apartment ****** overdose I thought Picasso I thought Warhol I thought Stalin ****** Buddha Had it figured out but sand fills our shoes in dry texan sun and the dog howls howls for its mother howls for its brother howls for its sister I thought the dog had it figured out eating insects smelling my hands eating the ham on the floor I thought Hemingway had it figured out Late at night reading Old Man and The Sea Suicide July 2 1961 12-gauge English shotgun I thought Fitzgerald had it figured out I thought Ginsberg I thought Kerouac did too drinking across the neck and back bone and gutter lips of America and back I thought Bukowski had it figured out the cigarettes the wine the women the type writer the sad nights accompanied by cockroaches and a city that is indigestible I thought Phillip Glass had it figured out Beethoven going Def Mozart lost in his grave writing symphonies for Death and his cruel tripled eyed angels I thought The drunkards were lost The Junkies were ankle-less The Mothers were done for The Fathers had given in The Young True The Elderly gazing  through the bifocals of heaven and hell The Prisoners cemented in Time I thought the Dead were the ones who published our Dreams I thought the painter had it figured out So I painted I thought the pianist had it figured out So I played the Piano and listened to the bilingual codes of the keys I thought the Ballet dancer had it figured out So I watched her I studied the movements and the bruised toes looking for a design of an answer I thought the Poet had it figured out So I wrote a poem and I saw the world.
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77
Gabby Abrego I'll never let you go go unless we go to Mexico and you be come a hobo! Then I'll go. and fetch the so co. so we can dance to disco eat enchiladas with adobo pick the **** out of our Afros! We'll feel so funky, the people will get spunky when we arrive on donkeys, and ride around their towns! We'll befriend all the junkies and give them howler monkeys, it'll be so funny we'll laugh until you cry! Ohh! Gabby Abrego I'll never let you go go unless I get you prego then I'll run like mad! cuz if we had a baby I'd stop being lazy get as famous as THE LADY support you like Eminem did for his baby. So Never Ever leave me Or I'll succumb to Scientology and go even more crazy my world'd become a mystery. I'd rather be a rhino rather be tricked into a ***** rather be married to Bono in a movie starring J.Lo be forced to live with Yoko Ono have red eyes like an albino than to ever be with out Gabby Abrego!!!
0
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 1:01 AM UTC
A silly poem for my best friend, Gabby.
A Poem in 3 Parts by Sara L Russell, 4/6/15; 00:51am I There is a grey area between this world and the next. People can be foolish; they dabble in ouija, in dowsing, in automatic writing; and - wittingly or unwittingly, they may open a portal to the other side. That is how they enter. Beware of inviting them in. Shadow people are there where needle pierces skin; where the ****** sits, glassy-eyed, on the precipice of oblivion; they lurk in unholy places where godless politicians declare themselves to be speaking for God; they haunt the dreams of drunkards, schizophrenics, junkies and the paranoid. But they are not spun out of dreams, they are real. Shadow people were there when the ancient pharaohs of Egypt were interred, with all their gold; they took them to Hades for also burying their wives and servants, alive. They were there in **** concentration camps, sitting on the left shoulders of those who blindly carried out orders of death and torture. They subsist in underworlds of catacombs, they lurk in the spaces between our conscious and unconscious minds; In blackened mirrors they seek out a vortex, My friends, be the light that keeps out the darkness, Do not seek to question the dear and foregone, No matter how much they are missed; for there are others lurking in the shadows. Be not the portal inviting them in. II Did I see you in Bohemian Grove, smiling at the Cremation of the Care? Were you there, and did you have more than one shadow? Did I see you in that Great Hall with chequered floors, where the Eye of Horus watched over a pyramid of gold? Did you lift a cup of the good red wine, did blood brothers drink each other's health, gazing through a glass darkly? Did we toast the Cremation of the Care, and how many others were there? III Sometimes we visit Hell in our dreams, though we may fervently pray before sleep. There is no shame in sleeping with the light on. Wear a cross, if you think that it will help. Sometimes the citizens of Hell visit us, in that stasis between sleep and wakefulnes; they are only ever seen at the outer periphery of our vision. It's never a good idea to look at them directly. Sometimes they venture a little closer than the rules allow. Sometimes the line between their domain and ours is blurred. Occasionally, the breeze seems to whisper your name - only, it's not the breeze. Be vigilant. Always try to see them first.
0
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC
Shadow People
A Poem in 3 Parts by Sara L Russell, 4/6/15; 00:51am I There is a grey area between this world and the next. People can be foolish; they dabble in ouija, in dowsing, in automatic writing; and - wittingly or unwittingly, they may open a portal to the other side. That is how they enter. Beware of inviting them in. Shadow people are there where needle pierces skin; where the ****** sits, glassy-eyed, on the precipice of oblivion; they lurk in unholy places where godless politicians declare themselves to be speaking for God; they haunt the dreams of drunkards, schizophrenics, junkies and the paranoid. But they are not spun out of dreams, they are real. Shadow people were there when the ancient pharaohs of Egypt were interred, with all their gold; they took them to Hades for also burying their wives and servants, alive. They were there in **** concentration camps, sitting on the left shoulders of those who blindly carried out orders of death and torture. They subsist in underworlds of catacombs, they lurk in the spaces between our conscious and unconscious minds; In blackened mirrors they seek out a vortex, My friends, be the light that keeps out the darkness, Do not seek to question the dear and foregone, No matter how much they are missed; for there are others lurking in the shadows. Be not the portal inviting them in. II Did I see you in Bohemian Grove, smiling at the Cremation of the Care? Were you there, and did you have more than one shadow? Did I see you in that Great Hall with chequered floors, where the Eye of Horus watched over a pyramid of gold? Did you lift a cup of the good red wine, did blood brothers drink each other's health, gazing through a glass darkly? Did we toast the Cremation of the Care, and how many others were there? III Sometimes we visit Hell in our dreams, though we may fervently pray before sleep. There is no shame in sleeping with the light on. Wear a cross, if you think that it will help. Sometimes the citizens of Hell visit us, in that stasis between sleep and wakefulnes; they are only ever seen at the outer periphery of our vision. It's never a good idea to look at them directly. Sometimes they venture a little closer than the rules allow. Sometimes the line between their domain and ours is blurred. Occasionally, the breeze seems to whisper your name - only, it's not the breeze. Be vigilant. Always try to see them first.
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Hollywood is dead and gone It died a lonely death It's just too bad no one was there When it took it's final breath Forget the tales of yesteryear Of junkies and of ****** The Hollywood I speak of Is behind the golden doors Warner Brothers and MGM United Artists and 20th Century Fox Are now owned by conglomertates With more cash than Fort Knox Film is just an extra In a business it once ruled With the advent of computers The industry's re-tooled CGI and Green Screen Let them do more at great cost But, without the use of actors There is something that is lost The tie in with it's history We only see each year When they memorialize those who passed At the Oscars....shedding tears There is now just two places To process film itself When, way back in it's heyday Of these there was a wealth No new ideas forthcoming Movies get rebooted or remade And the startlets in the pictures They're the one's who're getting laid Merchanidising movies That is where the real cash lies If you're not attached to a food chain Your bottom line will die Hollywood died in it's sleep It died with dignity The funeral will be shown though On reality TV It smothered in it's excess A victim of it's greed It gorged on people's wallets Forgetting peoples needs Old Hollywood is magic It lives on in peoples hearts Too bad the studio system Was sold off in such small parts The western died, musicals next Then came the comedy You can't see them in the theatre But they're on your big tv I stand here and salute her She put pictures in our heads But, now thanks to her avarice Old Hollywood is dead...
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May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 6:40 PM UTC
Old Hollywood
Hollywood is dead and gone It died a lonely death It's just too bad no one was there When it took it's final breath Forget the tales of yesteryear Of junkies and of ****** The Hollywood I speak of Is behind the golden doors Warner Brothers and MGM United Artists and 20th Century Fox Are now owned by conglomertates With more cash than Fort Knox Film is just an extra In a business it once ruled With the advent of computers The industry's re-tooled CGI and Green Screen Let them do more at great cost But, without the use of actors There is something that is lost The tie in with it's history We only see each year When they memorialize those who passed At the Oscars....shedding tears There is now just two places To process film itself When, way back in it's heyday Of these there was a wealth No new ideas forthcoming Movies get rebooted or remade And the startlets in the pictures They're the one's who're getting laid Merchanidising movies That is where the real cash lies If you're not attached to a food chain Your bottom line will die Hollywood died in it's sleep It died with dignity The funeral will be shown though On reality TV It smothered in it's excess A victim of it's greed It gorged on people's wallets Forgetting peoples needs Old Hollywood is magic It lives on in peoples hearts Too bad the studio system Was sold off in such small parts The western died, musicals next Then came the comedy You can't see them in the theatre But they're on your big tv I stand here and salute her She put pictures in our heads But, now thanks to her avarice Old Hollywood is dead...
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Dear ****** I ******* hate you I ******* HATE you You ******* rot my loves Inside out Leaving death holes and track marks Killing their teeth to Swiss cheese ******* nodding to sleep in the back seat I ******* hate you You ******* double crossing ***** You make them love and forget Til then don't anymore Cold and shivering  you leave these "outcast junkies quivering  To steal for their next 2 minute fix  You ******* stole my loves from me  Through their noses Inhaling your bitter vinegar  Shooting your warmth I'm so ******* sick of you killing the kids I use to build sandcastles with I ******* cry how you've infected old friends and lovers Dear ******  I ******* hate you.
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Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC
Dear ******
When a poet taketh a pen And writeth a stanza or line; It's as if we're junkies Shooting dope, getting high. ©Brandon nagley ©Lonesome poet's poetry
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Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 8:40 PM UTC
Poetry junkies
Somewhere in your wardrobe, I'd be willing to bet There's a t-shirt probably bearing the silhouette of Che Guevara He was revolutionary, yeah, he wore a cool hat But behind the design I think you might find it's not quite as simple as that Che was a bit of a homophobe, Che was a bit of a homophobe, I think... apparently.. who knows? Che was a bit of a homophobe, Che was a bit of a homophobe This is my song in defence of the fence A little sing along, a anthem to ambivalence The more you know, the harder you will find it To make up your mind, it, doesn't really matter if you find You can't see which grass is greener Chances are it's neither, and either way it's easier To see the difference, when you're sitting on the fence Somewhere in your house, I'd be willing to bet There's a picture of that grinning hippy from Tibet - the Dalai Llama He's a lovely, funny fella, he gives soundbites galore But let's not forget that back in Tibet, those funky monks used to **** the poor, yeah And the Buddhist line about future lives is the perfect way to stop the powerless rising up And he tells the poor they will live again, but he's rich now so it's easy for him to say I'm taking the stand in defense of the fence I got a little band playing anthems to ambivalence We divide the world into terrorists and heroes Into normal folk and weirdos Into good people and pedo's Into things that give you cancer and the things that cure cancer And the things that don't cause cancer, but there's a chance they will cause cancer in the future We divide the world to stop us feeling frightened Into wrong and into right and Into black and into white and Into real men and fairies Into status quo and scary Yeah we want the world binary, binary But it's not that simple. And your dog has a bigger carbon footprint than a four wheel drive Yea your dog has a bigger carbon footprint than a four wheel drive And your dog has a bigger carbon footprint than a four wheel drive And so does your baby, maybe you oughta trade HIM in for a Prius- ROCK! I'm taking the stand in defence of the fence I got a little band playing tributes to ambivalence We divide the world into liberals and gun-freaks Into atheists and fundies Into tee-tot'lers and junkies Into chemical and natural Into fictional and factual Into science and supernatural But it's actually naturally not that white and black You'll be Dividing us into terrorists and heroes Into normal folk and weirdos Into good people and pedos Into things that give you cancer and the things that cure cancer And things that don't cause cancer, but there's a chance they will cause cancer in the future We divide the world to stop us feeling frightened Into wrong and into right and Into black and into white and Into real men and fairies Into parrots and canaries Yeah we want the world binary, binary - 011101! The more you know, the harder you will find it To make up your mind, it doesn't really matter if you find You can't see which grass is greener Chances are it's neither, and either way it's easier To see the difference Cause it's not that simple...
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Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 7:06 PM UTC
The Fence by Tim Minchin
Somewhere in your wardrobe, I'd be willing to bet There's a t-shirt probably bearing the silhouette of Che Guevara He was revolutionary, yeah, he wore a cool hat But behind the design I think you might find it's not quite as simple as that Che was a bit of a homophobe, Che was a bit of a homophobe, I think... apparently.. who knows? Che was a bit of a homophobe, Che was a bit of a homophobe This is my song in defence of the fence A little sing along, a anthem to ambivalence The more you know, the harder you will find it To make up your mind, it, doesn't really matter if you find You can't see which grass is greener Chances are it's neither, and either way it's easier To see the difference, when you're sitting on the fence Somewhere in your house, I'd be willing to bet There's a picture of that grinning hippy from Tibet - the Dalai Llama He's a lovely, funny fella, he gives soundbites galore But let's not forget that back in Tibet, those funky monks used to **** the poor, yeah And the Buddhist line about future lives is the perfect way to stop the powerless rising up And he tells the poor they will live again, but he's rich now so it's easy for him to say I'm taking the stand in defense of the fence I got a little band playing anthems to ambivalence We divide the world into terrorists and heroes Into normal folk and weirdos Into good people and pedo's Into things that give you cancer and the things that cure cancer And the things that don't cause cancer, but there's a chance they will cause cancer in the future We divide the world to stop us feeling frightened Into wrong and into right and Into black and into white and Into real men and fairies Into status quo and scary Yeah we want the world binary, binary But it's not that simple. And your dog has a bigger carbon footprint than a four wheel drive Yea your dog has a bigger carbon footprint than a four wheel drive And your dog has a bigger carbon footprint than a four wheel drive And so does your baby, maybe you oughta trade HIM in for a Prius- ROCK! I'm taking the stand in defence of the fence I got a little band playing tributes to ambivalence We divide the world into liberals and gun-freaks Into atheists and fundies Into tee-tot'lers and junkies Into chemical and natural Into fictional and factual Into science and supernatural But it's actually naturally not that white and black You'll be Dividing us into terrorists and heroes Into normal folk and weirdos Into good people and pedos Into things that give you cancer and the things that cure cancer And things that don't cause cancer, but there's a chance they will cause cancer in the future We divide the world to stop us feeling frightened Into wrong and into right and Into black and into white and Into real men and fairies Into parrots and canaries Yeah we want the world binary, binary - 011101! The more you know, the harder you will find it To make up your mind, it doesn't really matter if you find You can't see which grass is greener Chances are it's neither, and either way it's easier To see the difference Cause it's not that simple...
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Changing faces for nameless places Nameless people struggling for existence in a nameless time Worship the incoherent ramblings Of countless babbling nameless fools Bread and water lead the lambs to slaughter Prejudice injustice demanding obedience Nameless zombies Becoming the robotic puppet Of the puppeteers desires With pre-programmed responses Feelings not your own Desensitized children Of a race of morbid loving junkies We render them fearless, then cry At the mass of chaos they invoke upon us Lost leading the lost Devouring the beauty in their paths The scourge of the free man Who lives under the delusion of his freedom Prisoners all While the power sits upon a high throne laughing Unbelieving how simply they all fell And obediently they continue to provide The avenues of deception for his rich existence © Crystal Erickson   11/24/2007
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Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
Nameless
It's the first day of summer heat. Temperature is one hundred and four. The junkies and drunks hit the street, shufflin' towards death's door. Freon raindrops fall from air conditioners that hang from windows on the third floor. I think "this day couldn't be finer", as I shuffle towards death's door. Bicycle tires roll over broken glass from the shattered window of a store. The prostitutes all congregate beneath the overpass, as they shuffle towards death's door. **** smoke fills the air as I finish off beer number four. A chance to put my mind elsewhere, as I shuffle towards death's door.
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Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
Shufflin' Towards Death's Door
From the slums of mexico city To the avenue of Hollywood, Around the bin of saks fifth avenue. To the know it all's, and all be goods. In the hoods, where ghetto girls are sweet Some are called hood bunnies Junkies are the daily keeps. I sleep sweet now I got out of Mexico city's way of life. The ghetto one The slum one The hood one Not saks fifth avenue. The hood, Gangster avenue.
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Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
Gangster avenue
There was quite a crowd gathered when I reached my apartment building that morning. Lots of cops and Emergency Medical personnel gathered everyone was just standing around. I asked Wild Bill what happened? Not sure, think it came out apartment five. What? A blood-curdling scream, and long wailing, unnatural sounds. Right then I knew it was bad. The apartment was occupied by cutthroat junkies and their infant daughter. Tony “The Hulk” came out first, bloodied, bleary eyed, staring at the ground Rosalie “The Muse” came next, screaming hysterically in Spanglish... muttering broken Catholic novenas last soaked in solemn silence, Inca “The Baby”, covered in a sheet, silent, never to speak again, forgotten.
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Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 6:38 AM UTC
The Little One
THE BOXING DAY SALES WHAT CAN I SAY ABOUT THE BOXING DAY SALES WELL, THE MALL IS OFTEN A PLACE FOR PEOPLE TO DO THEIR STUFF, BUT BOXING DAY EVERYONE IS PUSHING OVER EACH OTHER THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH GOING TO THE MALL ON BOXING DAY BUT BE PREPARED, IT’S LIKE ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE YA SEE, PEOPLE BUY THINFS THEY NEVER USE AND THE MOTHERS BUY KIDS LUNCH, NEVER GETS EATEN KIDS RUNNING AROUND, SAYING YEAH WE AIN’T AT SCHOOL LET’S CELEBRATE LET’S CELEBRATE YOU SEE BOXING DAY IS THE FRANTIC DAY IF YOU LIKE THE REGULAR DAYS AT THE MALL NEVER GO ON BOXING DAY CAUSE, THEY CALL IT BOXING DAY CAUSE PEOPLE AT THE MALL BOX YOU OUT OF THE WAY TO EXCHANGE THE TACKY COAT YOUR MOTHER BOUGHT YOU TO A STYLISH RED LEATHER COAT, LOOKS BETTER AND COSTS THE FUCKEN EARTH YA SEE IN MELBOURNE, THE BOXING DAY TEST, WITH AUSTRALIA AGAINST THE REST AND THEN IN SYDNEY, IS THE SYDNEY - HOBART YACHT RACE, AND THAT IS RAD AND OFTEN PEOPLE ARE CAMPED OUTSIDE SHOPPING CENTRES TO GET FIRST GRASP AT THE BOXING DAY SALES WITH ME, I SHOP FOR THE MOMENT, SOM I DON’T GET DISSAPOINTED I DON’T NEED TO FALL ASLEEP OUTSIDE WESTFIELD BELCONNEN MALL I AM USING PANADOL CAUSE ATHENA’S METHANE IS POUNDING BUT THAT IS PREVIOUS LIFE TRAUMA, YA SEE THE PARACETAMOL IS REALLY GETTING IN AND I CAN FEEL, WITH THE COCA COLA, AND REGULAR BRUSHING THERE WILL BE ON INFECTION IN MY MOUTH, I DON’T WANT THAT I PUT MY VIDEOS ON SOCIAL MEDIA TO ATTRACT A COOLER KIND OF PERSON YA SEE, I DON’T NEED THE FIRST THINGS IN THE BOXING DAY SALES I GET WHAT I WANT OUT OF LIFE, I REMEMBER A SONG THE FESTIVAL OF SYDNEY IS OUR DAY, SYDNEY SYDNEY SYDNEY OI OI OI I HAVE MY HOME NOW, SO I DON’T NEED TO HANG AT THE MALL AS MUCH BUT CURRENTLY I AM DOING A TAPESTRY ON PATRICK DUNBARS LITTLE LEAGUE BASEBALL I FEEL COOL, I FEEL ON TOP OF THE WORLD, LOOKING, OVER CREATION, LOOKING THE ONLY SOLUTION I CAN FIND, AND AS I SANG FINE, PETER BUCHANAN A MATE IN WOODBERRY IN THE 1970S, DID A REALLY COOL FINNNEEE WITH A DEEPER VOICE, HE WAS COOOL MAN I FAKED HIM TO PROVE A POINT TO THE YOUNG DUDES SAYING JUST BECAUSE THE OTHER YOUNG DUDES UNDERSTOOD DAD’S WAY DOESN’T MEAN I DID, HE LOOKED LIKE A REAL PAIN IN THE *** TAKING MY COOL KID AWAY, BUT MUSTN’T DWELL, WE MUST HAVE FUN I AM OFF TO THE CAVALRY MATCH TOMORROW, TO SEE THE FIRST BUT I AM LEAVING AFTER THE FIRST MATCH, NO BUSES IN THE NIGHT AND THE BOXING DAY SALES BRINGS OUT THE RIFF RAFF THE ROUGHER TYPES AND THE CHEAP SUPERMARKET PUDDING JUNKIES LIKE ME WHO NEED TO GO TO THE MALL TO LEAVE THE HOUSE BUT BOXING DAY SALES ARE FUN, IF YOU AIN’T IN THE INITIAL LINE THAT CAN BE FRANTIC
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Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC
the boxing day sales can be frantic
THE BOXING DAY SALES WHAT CAN I SAY ABOUT THE BOXING DAY SALES WELL, THE MALL IS OFTEN A PLACE FOR PEOPLE TO DO THEIR STUFF, BUT BOXING DAY EVERYONE IS PUSHING OVER EACH OTHER THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH GOING TO THE MALL ON BOXING DAY BUT BE PREPARED, IT’S LIKE ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE YA SEE, PEOPLE BUY THINFS THEY NEVER USE AND THE MOTHERS BUY KIDS LUNCH, NEVER GETS EATEN KIDS RUNNING AROUND, SAYING YEAH WE AIN’T AT SCHOOL LET’S CELEBRATE LET’S CELEBRATE YOU SEE BOXING DAY IS THE FRANTIC DAY IF YOU LIKE THE REGULAR DAYS AT THE MALL NEVER GO ON BOXING DAY CAUSE, THEY CALL IT BOXING DAY CAUSE PEOPLE AT THE MALL BOX YOU OUT OF THE WAY TO EXCHANGE THE TACKY COAT YOUR MOTHER BOUGHT YOU TO A STYLISH RED LEATHER COAT, LOOKS BETTER AND COSTS THE FUCKEN EARTH YA SEE IN MELBOURNE, THE BOXING DAY TEST, WITH AUSTRALIA AGAINST THE REST AND THEN IN SYDNEY, IS THE SYDNEY - HOBART YACHT RACE, AND THAT IS RAD AND OFTEN PEOPLE ARE CAMPED OUTSIDE SHOPPING CENTRES TO GET FIRST GRASP AT THE BOXING DAY SALES WITH ME, I SHOP FOR THE MOMENT, SOM I DON’T GET DISSAPOINTED I DON’T NEED TO FALL ASLEEP OUTSIDE WESTFIELD BELCONNEN MALL I AM USING PANADOL CAUSE ATHENA’S METHANE IS POUNDING BUT THAT IS PREVIOUS LIFE TRAUMA, YA SEE THE PARACETAMOL IS REALLY GETTING IN AND I CAN FEEL, WITH THE COCA COLA, AND REGULAR BRUSHING THERE WILL BE ON INFECTION IN MY MOUTH, I DON’T WANT THAT I PUT MY VIDEOS ON SOCIAL MEDIA TO ATTRACT A COOLER KIND OF PERSON YA SEE, I DON’T NEED THE FIRST THINGS IN THE BOXING DAY SALES I GET WHAT I WANT OUT OF LIFE, I REMEMBER A SONG THE FESTIVAL OF SYDNEY IS OUR DAY, SYDNEY SYDNEY SYDNEY OI OI OI I HAVE MY HOME NOW, SO I DON’T NEED TO HANG AT THE MALL AS MUCH BUT CURRENTLY I AM DOING A TAPESTRY ON PATRICK DUNBARS LITTLE LEAGUE BASEBALL I FEEL COOL, I FEEL ON TOP OF THE WORLD, LOOKING, OVER CREATION, LOOKING THE ONLY SOLUTION I CAN FIND, AND AS I SANG FINE, PETER BUCHANAN A MATE IN WOODBERRY IN THE 1970S, DID A REALLY COOL FINNNEEE WITH A DEEPER VOICE, HE WAS COOOL MAN I FAKED HIM TO PROVE A POINT TO THE YOUNG DUDES SAYING JUST BECAUSE THE OTHER YOUNG DUDES UNDERSTOOD DAD’S WAY DOESN’T MEAN I DID, HE LOOKED LIKE A REAL PAIN IN THE *** TAKING MY COOL KID AWAY, BUT MUSTN’T DWELL, WE MUST HAVE FUN I AM OFF TO THE CAVALRY MATCH TOMORROW, TO SEE THE FIRST BUT I AM LEAVING AFTER THE FIRST MATCH, NO BUSES IN THE NIGHT AND THE BOXING DAY SALES BRINGS OUT THE RIFF RAFF THE ROUGHER TYPES AND THE CHEAP SUPERMARKET PUDDING JUNKIES LIKE ME WHO NEED TO GO TO THE MALL TO LEAVE THE HOUSE BUT BOXING DAY SALES ARE FUN, IF YOU AIN’T IN THE INITIAL LINE THAT CAN BE FRANTIC
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Mary, plain name.  Mary, mother of God Mary, Queen of the Strip Mall Mary, daughter of a King and a ***** Divinity in her blood, conqueror of lands, Monarch of her body, kingdom of junkies. Nails inlaid with pearls, mink lashes and onyx eyes Indigo polyester wraps her 36, 30, 41, saltwater taffy legs, **** and *** Mary wasn’t a tall boy, Mary is a funnel cloud queen Obsidian brazilian in velcro, soda can curls. Mary has no titles, Mary is a ******* Mary is an exile. Queen of cream stucco and neon and parking lots. Mary has disciples, all named Judas. She has Roy Cohn, the judge’s son, and Louis XIV on their knees in prayer. She has **** Cheney, Little Richard, and Freud their knees in the bathroom behind the Tesco. Mary doesn’t confess, doesn’t beg, doesn’t buy. Mary the conqueror, Alexander reincarnate, she survives. Body bathed in ultraviolet, cocoa butter, vaseline, and newport menthols. Mary talks to God in the mirrors at the salvation army. Mary is scared of dying, she knows she is no ones martyr. Mary never kneels, left the Bible in the motel nightstand. A graceful end, a unceremonious departure. Trade rose petals for needles and styrofoam slurpee cups. Mary’s mistresses, lovers, and wives, gave her a few lead rounds, Left her in the strip mall mausoleum. Mary, queen of the carnal, saint of suburban perversions. Mary never asked God for forgiveness or a fix.
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Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 3:47 PM UTC
Mary, Queen of the Strip Mall