"mullets" poems
Pilsner cap switch blade
tie dye and piccolo
greasers and freaks
with platform feet
muscling in
on the bow legged hoofer
tapping
Bursey Hill Tram
Diamond tuft console
mullets n' ****
angels and saints
(unrestrained)
appropriately trimmed
as 3 mile wreaks havoc
on the nickers and
fighters of penn
Bangers and home boys
hookahs and sheiks
hostile geeks
breaking knuckles and jaws
on the caners and skinners
who are locked
and grinding the root
Desert boot foothills
boardwalk jeans
rainbows and sea fairs
and psychedelic dreams
(the platinum queens
jamming it hard
on the jade room floor)
8 tracks
and fender packs
the hottest summer days
psychedelic haze
center hall, graffiti scrawl
(sinister yet refined!)
covering the subtle
yet striking third ****
Brunswick cues
and red man chew
350 blocks
(on a solid Chevy - stock)
monkeys and beatles
and laugh in scenes
pastel dreams
from the long and coveted
velvet scroll
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 12:39 AM UTC
im with *****
Making millys
acting silly
im playing... our pockets empty and we smoking bleezy
selling acid
minds are gold never plastic
yeah we trappin never nappin
summer 13 ******* thats old news, no clue
nbs and fitted i dont need to boost
plain white t's, no j crew
this me, i never knew, killer kush, ***** im never blue
checkin ******* out, i always disaprove
ridin ***** with our one seaters
pop a heater if ****** being nosy call em peter
5'6 ***** eater wearing beaters never beat her but i beat it, so much head i need a breather
****** is talking puppets watching budget always cautious ***** ****** and they mullets looking stupid
floosy girls loose since theyre dad left theyre missing screws
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 1:47 AM UTC
Wilson Tuckey, I love you man
the way you look over your glasses
as you kick those journos’ arses
I love your hairy nostrils and your square double chin
but most of all I love the way you know everythin’
not a skerrick of doubt, any subject, any time
you can hold forth. you’re ready to chime
Wilson Tuckey, I love you man
you don’t need no research. no need to hold back
here is your wisdom, you’re on the attack
here is the gospel according to Tuckey
you front them with macho, you front them so plucky
you tell them the answers straight from the heart
they look like stunned mullets as you take them apart
Wilson Tuckey, I love you man
you run rings round those greenies, those tree hugging ****
with their talk about warming, their climate change glum
I trust you Wilson, you know better than them
you can leave them all gobstruck with a home spun gem
Wilson Tuckey, I love you man
you can spot a terrorist at a hundred paces
the ones with the beards and the slightly dark faces
we don’t want them here taking our jobs and houses
with their Qurans and burqas and baggy white trousers
Wilson Tuckey, I love you man
you show us what it means to be Australian
some call you redneck, some say you’re not cool
but you are our bedrock, you are no fool
you are the brown substance of this wide, sunburnt land
and that’s why, Wilson Tuckey, I really, really, really love you man.
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 5:11 AM UTC
(tales of my mamasita)
after breakfast
father would tend his tuba
father and mother
would then forage the farm for
cassava, sweet potatoes, green bananas
tarot roots and fruits
sometimes harvesting enough
for two days
while mother prepared lunch
father would fish for viand with
his fishing net
going to the far side
of our part of the island
or staying not far from the house
sometimes big brother and little brother
would go with him
to carry large baskets for catch
father was an artist with
his fishing net
circular and hand knotted
lead pieces sewn to the rim
his fishing net
was carried folded over his shoulder
the tip held in front of him
the heavy weighted part hanging behind
eyes shaded with hands
he searched for schools near the shore
in the clear turquoise
putting it down on powdery dry sand
his fishing net
was supported on his forearm
grabbing another part with his free hand
he would turn and fling
his fishing net
over the blueness
seemingly effortlessly
arms stretched skyward
his fishing net
would expand in mid-air
arcing like a geodesic dome
hovering like a frisbee
floating down to the water
in slow motion
finally sinking into sea
father would wade waist deep
stir the fish with his hand
then haul
his fishing net
full of mullets and other small fish
we would feast for lunch and dinner
with a plentiful catch both
father and mother
would scale and clean
sun dried, smoked or salted
preserved for tomorrows
everything was cleaned up
and put away after lunch
siesta time
afterwards, mother would
do her pottery
fix the tree bark for father’s tuba
or repair
his fishing net
using a tatting device
father and mother
always kept themselves busy
never whiling away the time
till dark
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
Pistols
I own seven hundred diff’rent types of lovely handguns
And twenty seven thousand more bullets
I like hunting deer, I like hunting unicorns
I like shooting guys with bad mullets
This pistol is loaded
Its under my pillow
And ill blow you to bits
If you sneak in my window.
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 12:23 PM UTC
In lingerie up on stage
It was a different age
Sultry sighs and bad mullets
It was all rock and roll
A teenage cherry bomb
A girl gone wild
Free to run away
Along a yellow brick path
I see it in the stars
Both cosmic and mortal
I feel it in the air
The world is about the shake
And I'm going to be the earthquake
Vintage as an advantage
Retro and grunge,
Shabby chic,
Whatever you call it
Like an angel, Judgement,
Calls the dead
It will be a resurrection
Singing and crooning,
Triumphant trumpets
So grab your guitars
And some mates
It's time to start a band
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 5:23 AM UTC
Waking up when others, brothers and sisters,
finish the day, they go to bar, then the bus
mingle in the crowded fuss or get in their cars,
to go home slowly if it is far.
Alarm goes off, the
house to yourself,
sit in your ****** watching the news,
what you missed while you slept,
eat and dress, not in that order, as you
update your status, make your bed and the
bumpy mattress, pack your late night meal
ready, set as you go to your job on the border.
The patient drive, and you are not in that rush.
The hours nobody wants resemble people,
that nobody want to get near,
move through dark of shadowed hopes,
motives are suspect, call them creeple,
yes,
both the hours that move so slow,
and the bodies that hide, but can't diguise their intent.
You dictate the night, look left and right,
as people in a slowing stream return home,
their treasures packed away, receipts in hand,
passport ready for your command, to hand
it over.
There are those that "went for the drive, or to get a tank of gas"
Every one that passes though your gate,
despite the hour being late, smiles broadly,
as if to say,
nothing here to declare
go about your shift, oddly, questions
you do and ask these, late nighters to drive in
open the trunk, show you the receipts and
if they are in luck, they told the truth,
but
when they got to pay, they got to stay,
unhappiness empties their wallet,
then those three guys with mullets,
dare you to show them your gun; their laughter is like rusted metal lids, turning on a glass jar,
you being Canadian, don't have a gun.
You can still wish.
The night ends uneventful, your eyes
see the sun and know your day is done,
you will be home maybe to bed,
maybe stay awake, a chance you'll
given, you have four days off.
Night shift will ruin you later in life,
when those in the home will be able to
rest, you will be awake, no matter
what meds they make you take from the platter.
When the dark shadows close in, you have a job to do,
but where?, while
you won't
remember how or who.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 9:28 PM UTC
Wrong and Right, Bad and Good, Pain and Pleasure, Here and There, Where? Are you Here or There?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qXczj1fjixE
I'm Wrong, But You Ain't Right Lyrics
Kid Rock
[Verse 1]
Breaking the silence is the hardest thing in life
Knowing that you're wrong, feeling like you can't go on
I've been a victim so many times
But I'm man enough to know when I'm wrong
With the fresh cut mullets, back row in sight
Pass the packed bullet, I'm gonna rock all night
Uptight right wingers, tryin' to say I'm what
But I'm a flight bound singer not giving a ****
Hard luck of the devil with the grace of God
On a level of Oz, and it makes you nod
With the body of a sinner, mind of a saint
I'm everything you love, everything you hate
Hit a lot of curves, hard roads and hills
Got nerves of steel, and watched time stand still
It took too long, but I stood my height
You can say I'm wrong, but you ain't right
[Chorus]
You aren't right, you, you, you ain't right
You aren't right, right
You aren't, you aren't, you aren't, right
You aren't, you aren't, you aren't, right
You aren't, you aren't, you aren't, right
[Verse 2]
You can save the environment with all your wit
But can you save your children from a world of ********
You look at me with a loss for love
But if you took me out would your kid still do drugs
You want to point your finger in the unclear
You want to point your finger in the unclear
You want to point your finger in the unclear
You ought to point your finger in the mirror
You want to trip, quit, because I'm a keep ripping
You can ***** but the strippers going to keep stripping
I'm singing songs in the key of life
And you can say I'm wrong but you aren't right
[Chorus]
You aren't right, you, you, you aren't right
You aren't right
We just came to get on down and rock
Rock on
Cowboy baby, cowboy baby
[Chorus][x2]
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
A stag’s head erased per fess
Proper and Gules attired
Or differenced with a crescent
Ermine on a fess Sable
three mullets
Or Dexter
a stag regardant
Sable attired and hoofed
Or charged on the body
with an eagle
displayed
of the last gorged
with a collar of SS
and portcullises Gold
sinister a bay horse
bridled saddled and supporting a staff
Proper headed
Or with a banner
Vert fringed and charged with the letters
Y. L. D.
Gold meaning
York light-dragoons
Oct 30, 2020
Oct 30, 2020 at 11:59 AM UTC
Its all gone wrong
major tom
Boomers singing
never gonna give you up
Baby
Just another day tucked in bed
Paradise can wait
Mummas teaching a course in free thinking
she won't be in till after ten
Pappas off perming mullets
all weekend
he's a successful business man
Questionable fashion and a lack of common sense
Less said about this decade the better
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 4:20 PM UTC
Plenty of big hair, aqua net
bad mullets, studded belts, patches on back
Denim leather tough necks, guys in spandex
plenty of ***** and a roach or two
stuffed in places that’s just for you, dude
another cheesy friday night 80’s hair metal zoo
Apr 25, 2019
Apr 25, 2019 at 12:05 AM UTC