"pokin" poems
It's a beautiful day,birds singing as I'm walking Mill Lane,
listening to a few Me Fein Refrains,
I'm whistling,feeling pretty fine and dandy,
with my eyes red rovering all the eye candy,
when I hear it,brakes shriekin'-women Shriekin',
a mans voice-Hoarse, "Jaysus Someone do somethin",
I spin on me heel,eyes centred as ****
wishing this was all a dream-A runaway Truck,
tires peelin' brakes smokin' rubber burnin',
A runaway load,it's not gonna make the turn and it's
**THEN that I feel true terror in me soul,
I see a little boy playin' at the edge of the road** ,
he's a sturdy little lad,stick in hand,
pokin' at the grasses growin' up from the path,
and he's right in the Path of the Truck from hell,
Theres no decision,I'm runnin' like a bat outta hell,
and it's then that I get a feeling it's a Lucid dream,
languidity covers me,no more screams,
theres a Figure in my way that's wasn't there the last breath,
then I'm literally starin' in the face of Death...
and I FEEL his thoughts as he turns blank Orbits,
on me and his words are like this "One Obit,
uary in my Ferry is my Task today,
do you really want to be the one who gets in MY WAY?(way way way),
and he can HEAR my thoughts,just as I heard his,
"get out the fuckin' way you long streak of ****
"you said one has to go,well that's fine with me!",
"I've got coins in my pocket if you need your fee!"
and with a glint in his eye and a plangent refrain,
he touches me centre forehead and declaims "NO PAIN"
Then things speed up and I'm off fists pumpin',
feet slappin' on the pavement head down, heart jumpin,
I'm not the Flash,but I can move it when I need to Run,
and the long drawn screech is a Hell of a starters Gun,
I'm across the road like a bolt from the blue,
grab the little Man and throw him,then BANG there I flew,
its all earth,sky,earth,then a terrible jolt,
but no pain as was promised as I come to a halt,
then his Mother is there(he's on her hip) and she's holding my(only)hand,
tellin' me theres ambulances and I'm gonna be grand,
but theres a Grand Piano layin' on my Chest,
and no pain,but to be honest here-I'm not at my best,
and just as I start to think of family and friends,
before Distress can manifest too much in my mind,
a tall RATHER BONY figure stretches out his hand,
and intones into me bones,"OFF TO THE NEXT LAND(land,land,land)"
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 9:01 AM UTC
Started with a bowl of blue dreams.
holdin down the smoke with oak heart ***
feelin like a beach ***
drunk kickin the sand between my toes.
how many joints ive smoked no one knows.
but im ****** up on this shore
feelin more silly in the dome then pauly shore.
watching the green burn
as the bacardi runs.
good life on my beach.
my swisher is peach
my **** is rich.
my buzz got me feelin like the ****
**** poetic structure.
im pokin holes in my brain like acupuncture
not quite thrown
my writing is done.
goodnight in gone
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
My mama’s shoes,
Fit my feet too snug, now,
For me to look cute, still, slippin’ them on.
I’ve no need of her lipstick, nor her raspberry rouge,
To make my face look, more, like hers does.
I’m a big, daddy’s girl, who has known the world,
But, not quite enough to really fit in.
--
I still heart,
Sunshine and rosies,
And, playin’ with mah toesies -
Eatin’ froot loops and pokin’ at roly poly’s,
Makin’ colourful cupcakes, covered in sweet gummies,
To eat inside forts filled with last winter’s lights,
Too,
Eatin’ Caramel Delights, sneakily,
Stolen, in spite - of the weight,
I was fightin’ so easily.
--
Perhaps,
When the adults are all done - playin’ house, for fun,
I’ll bring my cookies from the fort, to the table.
We’ll have coffee and speak of the stats,
For the week and laugh about,
Hart's becoming unstable.
And, I shall wear loafers,
That pinch at my,
Toesies that fidget,
Crazily,
Beneath my seat.
Jul 23, 2011
Jul 23, 2011 at 4:46 PM UTC
Boy is my *** fat
ten pancakes for breakfast, washed down with malted shake
by the end of first class, I was searching for some cake
wasn't paying attention, tripped over old black cat
had a hard time getting up, cause my *** is so fat
kids are staring at me, Walking through the halls
rumbeling thunder, stuff falling off the walls
a large dose of poundage, with my backwards baseball hat
trying to look so cool, but boy is my *** fat
saw Sally Sumter, on my way to advanced math 2
said I had an algorithm, I'd like to run by you
wanted to stick around a while, you know like maybe chat,
she said I really like you, but boy is your *** fat
tried to skip gym class, said I had no ****
did not know the numbers, to my combination lock
coach said that's no reason, I ain't buying that
one thing i will say though, boy is your *** fat
its the story of my life, all people pokin fun
ask me how much I weigh, do you way a ton
want to tell them **** off, but they'd throw me on the mat
not very agile, cause my *** is so **** fat
Gomer Lepoet
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 1:28 PM UTC
:/
Some people
just gotta live.
That means twistin blunts
and shoutin till your red.
Some people
just gotta survive.
That means pokin their head out
on occasion
and showin how green they can be.
Some people have simple ambitions
like one a day vitamins, and blue Berrys.
Some people just live.
And some people hate those people
for doing what they are afraid to do.
;)
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 3:59 PM UTC
The underbelly of our collective psyche,
has been cut open from the gut and gun pokin’,
now the sadness runs rampant,
in the flooded streets of these American dreams,
see in this scene things aren’t always what they seem,
especially when viewed on a screen that’s green,
she says her father doesn’t bother to call her,
says he lives in Vegas where he lost his job,
just another unemployed American off the assembly line,
now he takes care of his mom who’s lost her mind,
gone senile from years of denial that her son is an alcoholic *********
meanwhile resistance is still futile,
and this son of this mom is the father of the girl I’m with now,
as we lay in bed talking about trivial things instead,
of what really matters which is what we’re doing with this life,
just passing time until we’re all dead I guess,
feeling like an abstract painting of American Commentary,
a dissenting dissertation of this perverse dystopia,
don’t mention most things that are worth mentioning,
which is part of the problem that keeps repeating in amounts that’re copious,
and I’d continue with these verses and get more in depth,
but I’m being rude to the nervous girl in my bed,
so I better get off this laptop and back to that jackpot,
or rather Jill *** whatever that means I’d rather be misunderstood instead,
and that’s why I don’t mind if they don’t understand what I said,
or rather don’t understand the words that I wrote when they’re read,
because,
the underbelly of our collective psyche,
has been cut open from the gut pokin’,
now the sadness runs rampant,
in the flooded streets of this American dream,
see in this scene things aren’t always what they seem,
especially when viewed on a screen that’s green…
∆ LaLux ∆
Free link for new book: www.scribd.com/document/367036005/The-Sydney-Sessions-12-Steps
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 7:36 PM UTC
With apologies to Edgar Allen Poe.
Once, upon a weekend morning, while I slumbered, loudly snoring
After many a workday of quaint and forgotten chores
While I nodded, well past napping, suddenly there came a scratching,
As if the paint was gently stripping, ripping from the bedroom door.
“He’ll stop,” I muttered, “scratching at my chamber door.”
“He’s only bored, and nothing more”
Deep into my blanket hiding, there I lay in fear abiding,
Doubting, hoping I could sleep as I had ever slept before;
But the silence then was broken, and the door way, old and oaken,
Swung open as the clever kitty, made the lock a simple chore
And then my dreams were gone as are the winds of yester-yore
I knew I should have fixed that door.
Open then he pushed the doorway, then, with padded foot and whisker,
In he stepped, the ebon creature who I bought that cat food for
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, like he who owns the household, perched above my pillowed snores —
Perched upon the feathered pillow which my sleeping bonnet bore —
Perched, and silently implored.
Then, methought, the cat grew braver, thinking of his breakfast’s savor
Poking at my sleeping visage, poking more, and more and more.
"Wretch," I cried, "the devil’s sent thee — a witch cat sent to leave me
No respite and no Nepenthe, but only the memory of the sleep I had before!
Let me quaff this kind Nepenthe and rejoin my final snore!"
Purred the black cat, "Nevermore."
“Be that word our sign of parting, cat or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting —
As I threw him into the darkness of the Night's Plutonian shore.
“Leave my slumber unbroken! Come you not with purr and pokin’
Take thy paw out of my nostril, and take thy **** right out the door!
Leave no black fur as a token, you eat at nine, and not before!”
Cried the black cat, "I like before."
But that **** cat, never quitting, still is sitting, still is splitting
The recently repaired latex on my bedroom door;
And his eyes have all the burning of a feline that is yearning,
For the cat dish full of kibbles, sitting, sitting on the kitchen floor;
As my soul rose from the blankets, with a howling, futile roar:
Sleeping in on weekends — nevermore!
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
The manly cowboy put back his hat,
closed the door,
and so manly,
walked away.
Down the path he trod,
avoiding all the rolling rod.
Upon he came
to three little young lasses,
crouching over
looking silently intent,
little sticks in their hands.
There lay a little
grey mole*
dead to the world.
Stiff as tree
eyes no longer to see.
“Good day ladies”
said he,
the manly cowboy,
tipping his hat
so very gentlemanly.
“what’s that i see you a pokin’?”
‘Only a dead mouse.”
said the three.
“Why don’t you move
the little guy,
over a little there,
over a little that way.
"slowly with your sticks.
gentle as tongs.
"cover him sweetly
with a blanket
of wild flowers.
"and leave him
lying there so lovingly."
i give you this advice
be nice to the mice,
instead of poking death
death in the head
so innocently
but
so disrespectfully.”
Then tipping his hat,
he was gone.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
Now really peep the game though
Gotta change my scenario
Sit back and charge a cigarillo
Stop ******* with them kilos
Hopped from a Benzo to low low
Glasshouse with the pokin' 84s
Foes is hoppin' guns is poppin'
Body droppin'
Once I let off aint non stoppin'
Claimin' I'm insanity in these streets
Wish I never met pistol pete
Cuz of life he greets
In the presence of where
Darkness meets
And enemies love to compete
But everyday is a battle
Stuck In a. Give with 24 **** hours to live
Yeah
So beautiful life used to be
Well hell naw lets turned
Back to slavery
Where all of my peeps used to see
Bright and sunnt
Locked in whips and chains
For the entertainment industry
Now that I gotten a little wiser
My mind explodes like a geyser
On the earth in the wind
Blowin fire hot as a dryer
To my flows I kick ya desire
Many rhymes come in a style
Been a wild since I was a child
Played foul never did I smile
I'm givin sonic booms like guile
Been while
Since I step on the scene
Mean as Joe Greene
Aimmin' macks at soft peens
Being a hero ain't what it really means.and it seems
No matter how hard I fight live
I only got 24 mo' to give 24 hours to live
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 5:58 AM UTC
Hey, Ma
Remember when ya forgot my birthday?
Well, how could ya?
They were zappin' ya brain like a moth to a flame,
riddin' ya of the worms that crawled there.
Well,
it was my birthday, and ya didn't quite know it.
Ya didn't even quite know your own age.
"You turning how old?"
It was funny cuz ya knew it just a week before, and the chances were slim that ya would forget at all.
Oh! And hey, Ma? Remember when ya forgot the entire English language for a night?
Well, how could ya?
Ya went into your chambers and screamed the lord's name
or at least I think ya did.
Ya wreathed in pain and cursed the devil out of ya, clenching The Holy word.
Ya remembered Spanish, Ma. Ya hollered what coulda been my name, or maybe the word for ***** There's no tellin'!
Ya always said the word for Dog was "Perro," but I think ya might have called Ol' Miss Daisey a ***** as well. The similarity in the two words is amazin'!
Well, anyway, Ma, ya were hootin' out about somethin', probably how the Devil and all of mankind had hurt ya, and Jolly Todd was the only one who could fix ya.
He hushed ya like a baby, like he were the Holy Father himself.
Ya sloped into sleep and didn't speak again.
I love ya, Ma, and I'm glad ya don't remember those times,
the ones where they were pokin' into ya like a sewer rat for science.
Maybe this year the Prince of Darkness will loosen the reigns,
release the bugs from ya head,
and maybe ya can remember the cake this time 'round!
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 1:02 AM UTC
Demon's on the loose
( We call Him by your name )
••
Oh ~ ~ ~
Oh
Oh! ~ ~ ~
--
What we gonna do ?
Gotta do it fast
It's already too late
•
Here we stand
••
On the loose
---
---
Truth within the mind
Love within the heart
THE DEVIL INCARNATE
••
( are ya just gonna sit there
With yer childhood memories
Pokin yerselves with hate
And rusted razor blades
Thinking yer Jesus Christ ? )
••
OH OH NO!
••
Demon 's on the prowl
In your soul and on your street
You and the beggar boy
You and the police man
••
Death and rebirth
The Demon's got it all
The only thing ya got to know
Is that life and death's the same
That life and death's the same
•
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC