"prams" poems
From the House Of Ali -Najaf to the House Of Hussain-Kerbala,
Swarms of people walk 80kilometres for threes days- united,
The largest peaceful gathering in the world with free services,
An experience like no other.
Blessed are those who walk,
More blessed are those who serve.
No discrimination,
Regardless of sect, profession or social status,
Rich or poor,
Young or old,
Men or women,
In wheel chairs, crutches or with Zimmer frames,
Prams or hand carts,
All march with respect and dignity,
With one thought in mind,
To pay allegiance to Hussain,
Who sacrificed his head for humanity.
Every eye is moist,
Every heart torn in grief,
Chanting"Labbaik Ya Hussain."
With an iron will to complete the walk.
A nation, war-torn, wounded,
Embraces the whole world in the name of Hussain,
The longest dining table,
Where every zuwar is honoured and treated like royalty,
To pay in currency, none,
Only love and kindness and an urge to serve the zuwars.
Along the roadside are set up Mowakebs (tents),
That provide every kind of facilities and amenities ,
Food,beverages medicines,toiletries,
Fresh clothes if need be, shower rooms and toilets,
A massage of your feet,
Services to charge or repair your phone's,zimmer frames or prams,
Anything for the zuwars,
All in the name of the Ahle bayt,
Mohamed,Ali,Fatema,Hassan and Hussain.
What Hussain and his followers were denied is served with outstretched arms,
The aftermath of Kerbala was more tragic and callous,
The tears of Binte Zainab that retold the tragedy again and again,
Has born fruits,
The zuwars multiply in numbers
every year,
The rewards greater.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
It's London, all the time,
when at night I close my eyes,
it's when and where I get to roam and dwell,
in the city I know inside-out so well,
where all the narrow streets and cobbled stones,
teacups, pint glasses, and fresh scones,
lend themselves into the misty English air,
of London's ancient, yet so modern flair,
of Piccadilly, and Hyde Park Corner's box,
riding Black Cabs, or a big Red Double-Bus,
evening gas-lamp walks with ol' Saucy Jack,
fish and chips and shandys for a perfect snack;
then the changing of The Guard at Buckingham,
where native Cockney's and young mums with prams,
gather for a view of Lizzy's Royal Family Show;
but, my, how rich the April sun sets and does glow,
over the rolling raging river Thames of yore,
where ancient Roman armies marched to shore,
proclaimed: LONDINIUM! -the regal rest,
of civilised peoples and the Royal Crests,
where lives and deaths would go and come,
yet The City despite all odds has lost and won,
in the hearts, souls and minds of all who take,
great London as their true hearth and home to stake,
and arise and fall the poet's versing nights and days,
whilst Big Ben chimes his toll in the foggy haze;
and alas, London from my slumber dissipates,
to that of which I yearn and love, asleep or wake,
knowing where my home of soul-keep lies divine:
in London, my dear London; it's London, all the time.
______
London:
http://beautyineverything.com/3366195864
Oct 27, 2010
Oct 27, 2010 at 7:31 PM UTC
And he saw it now and then
the lamp lit row of houses that
stretched beyond the eye
houses where men who dug black
slept and drank when they could
ageless cobbles pried on
men who fought in the street
over want, women and work
while little men sons played
foolish games of childhood
daughter women with prams
mothered their plastic dolls
and the wives gossiped about
young Sally who had a belly
by John Stout the butcher boy
the reverend Ellis knew
all the stories and chapters
of life in this coal dust street
he birthed them baptised them
married and buried them
and the street was quiet
no vehement voices tonight
as the deed of death
slipped over the cobbles
and gripped a sleeping soul.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
Crescendo the silent beat of hearts in chests
at all things nigh and beauty,
or lovers' eyes locked in stargaze wrest,
on cue as sunrise scarlet symphony.
Fortissimo in birdsong chirp and banter
while car horns blare with careless fervour ;
on pavements listless feet in patter
as suits and ties commute in canter.
At noon the music peaks, forzando.
Soccer mums braced in cafe convo
of lunchtime gossip in staccato
while babes in prams asleep in piano.
On cue at sundown scarlet symphony
the baton slows in rallentando.
Call to slumber twilight melody-
the daily music diminuendo.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 7:33 AM UTC
Blueberry lip balm
And strawberry gum
The chorus of a love song
These are a few
Of my favourite things
Smiling out loud
And the hum of quiet
Watering plants
And waving hello
Chunky monkey
Ben and Jerry's ice cream
Walking in the rain
Tetris and snake is the game
Writing on fogged up windows
I like anything that glows
Daddies pushing prams
And old couples holding hands
Rolling down hills
Christmas lights
Shining so bright
Lighting up the night
Blowing out candles
And making wishes
Smiley faces
In all of my texts
Cloud watching
Puddle splashing
Jumping down steps
Swinging at the park
Counting stars after dark
Mindless doodles
Ballerina twirls
Fast cars
And shooting stars
Family get togethers
And child curiosity
Day dreaming
Butterflies
And rainbow colours
These are a few of my favourite things
What are yours?
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC
Sunday - the weekend's tombstone,
burying the worst of last week.
The silent ringing of church bells,
best suit coffined in my wardrobe.
I see proud parents pushing prams,
grandads toddling after toddlers,
but no young couples promenade,
as we did when teenagers.
Some sought their compensation
in sensational Sunday press.
It's surely generational.
We were schooled for Sunday rest.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 6:17 AM UTC
Lunchtime stroll = ugly couples, prams pushed by youth, smell of corn on the cob,eyebrow maintenance, baklava.
Dull train update: man who looks squeezed at both ends, like an accordion, with glasses, a lucozade bottle half empty, lady appears perplexed by a crossword clue (but it may be sudoku).
Clouds outside seem to cover the black to white spectrum.
Dull train update: a sign, a lyric repeating itself 'an even cash flow: this cannot be underrated', the cranking of metal the smell of meat.
50/50 weather.
Left foot, loose lace
and canned laughter follows him everywhere but he feels nothing, inside he is empty, save from a series of ropes and pulleys that control his movements.
The parents are being pushed in the swings by their offspring, grown men in nappies crushed up in bulging prams. Cats eating dogs. Humans ******** on pigeons. It's all a bit weird today.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 3:27 AM UTC
follow the yellow brick road...
The terrible freedom unleashed by typewriters.
Condition of complexity judged without criteria.
Radical provocations. Urinals and prams. Contingent.
Anarchist aesthetic. Not truth nor beauty but freedom.
Materiality of language. Multi-hued wheel barrows.
A cuttlefish. A crate. A cassowary. A cigarette. A ******
Paratactic order. Particular phrasing. Pulsing pastiche.
An infinite conversation without resolution
as with the stupid friend who won’t shut up. Ever.
A transcendent dialectic based solely on proximity.
Ineluctable modality of the near. Only that. Buck it.
An unquiet ghost endlessly self-questioning. No answers.
Moaning in the meaning. A simple stuttering. Sibilant.
Turbulent and unpredictable as waddling wolverines.
Words that only mean whatever is seen. Juxtaposition.
Dissolving into desired dissonance. The magic chord.
Absolute verity in the experience of the fraudulent
for the same reason as the ubiquity of toothpaste.
The poem as its own universe, complete and whole,
fodder for the mind, not balm for the soul.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
You hide your hair in the
space above your tucked-away thoughts;
waterfall wor
d
s
that
run
into
strea
m
s
of consciousness
out of red dam lips
and through airy pipes
to my manhole ears,
stepped on and discarded by feet and prams
for century's years.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 8:13 AM UTC
I can't recall being born,
The cuddled snug of being warm
Beneath a roof so weathered
On a seasoned flax-mill farm.
I've an inkling of being two,
In a scene played out by me and you;
On a mattress, in the sun -
A new-born cried, and died too soon.
Then memory's blur cleared by three,
We sailed away on the Irish Sea
On a listing boat, across the Blue,
The last link to the last banshee.
By four we'd long since slammed the door,
And I knew cowboys and Celtic lore -
A new-born cried, she died too soon,
The eye peeped through the Judas door.
By five so many had left the home;
By eight a.m. we were left alone
Pushing prams, swings and forward,
No T.V., radio or telephone.
At last, by six, I clearned the webs,
A whole new world lay dead ahead -
A new-born cried, he died too soon;
By seven I'd internalized
The dreaded finality
Borne by the dead.
.
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 10:40 AM UTC
I am a holder of dolls,
said Monica,
I keep them in my arms
in light and dark,
I sleep with one
in my bed at night,
her fuzzy hair
tickles my face,
my dreams are of
my mother's cries,
her anguish over
the men who come.
I am the bearer
of her smacks,
her voice vibrates
in my ears,
her hand marks
colour my skin.
My window looks out
on fish shop below,
the baker's shop
on the left,
on narrow
Meadow Row,
the bomb sites
on either side.
My mother's men
come and go,
they make her
laugh or cry,
they sleep beside her
in her double bed,
I hear their voices
in the dark,
the sounds of giggles
or weeping,
the slapping of hands
on flesh,
the darkness brings me
bogeymen and shadows.
One of the men,
crept to my bed,
removed my doll,
touched my leg,
lifted my nightdress,
our little secret
he whispered to me,
the darkness swallowed him
up, the dirtiness left
in his wake.
I am the sleeper
of light sleep,
I listen for the sound
of creeping feet,
for the door **** to move ,
for the door to open,
for the hands to touch,
for the secrets kept.
From my window I see
the children at play
on the grass below,
with toy guns,
bows and arrows,
dolls and prams,
they look for me
to join in,
to enter their games,
the boys seek me
as their cowgirl moll,
they ride their invisible
horses across the plains,
shooting out
their cowboy dreams.
I watch the sky darken,
the moon a silver coin,
the clouds
puffs of smoke,
my mother
calls me to meals,
the table and chairs,
old and stained,
her man friend
drinks and smokes,
makes silly remarks,
***** jokes,
me he pinches
(under the table)
or secretly pokes.
I am the holder of dolls,
they are my true companions,
they never complain,
they share my dreams,
they share my pains.
From my window
I see Benedict play,
he alone knows
of my plight,
he my knight
in cowboy shirt
and jeans,
my teller of tales,
my listener of woes,
he buys me
sweets or chips
after our games,
walks me home
with his 6 shooter gun
resting in the holster
by the side of his leg,
his cowboy hat
slanted to one side.
He keeps my secrets,
holds my hand
over busy roads,
eyes the men
my mother brings home,
guns them down
in our shared dreams.
I kiss his cheek
as a kind of thanks,
he blows me a kiss
from his open palm
as he rides
the bomb site plains,
he knows my fears
of the men
and my mother's smacks
and the pains,
he stares at my mother
with his hazel eyes,
his steady stare,
he alone likes me,
he alone is there.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 7:37 AM UTC
I am a sitter at windows, said Lucia;
I am a thinker of sad thoughts, a gazer
at stars and moon and the bright hot
afternoon sun. My thoughts taunt me
like bullying children, they repeat
words and images and strings of verbal
abuse like repetitive ***** I sit at
the window with folded arms, my ***
numb on the window ledge, my eyes
peering through the netted curtains,
taking in the sights, the people, the cats
and dogs, the cars and buses, the odd
cyclists, the women pushing prams,
children crying at the side. I see and
know my childhood ghosts, the locked
doors, the no supper nights, the starving
rumblings of an empty stomach, words
bellowed through the doors by angry
parents. I am one who stares from windows,
one who snoops through netted curtains,
taking in the sights, hearing imperfectly
the outer sounds, the stolen kisses and hugs
from teenage loves, the backyards fondles,
*** on the cheap, lives, loves, kisses and
holds. I see new moons, quarter moons,
half moons and full moons and the lunatic
surge pulls me in and pushes me out, my
moods change like the waves of the sea,
the deeps drowning me in depression,
the black dog’s bark, thoughts of death
in a bath, slit wrists, over doses, hanging
behind a bathroom door like mother had,
eyes popping, tongue protruding. I think
of past loves, dream of what might have
been, the boys who came and went, the
ones who stayed and spoiled, the girls who
stayed the night for sensual *** or schoolgirl
kisses, of visits to an asylum before mother’s
demise, the locked doors, the cruel cries and
lunatic laughter, the odd looking staff, the eyes,
the tongues, the finger gestures from closing
doors. I see the work of the gods in my daily
stares, the passing people on their way to death
or work or love or indecent *** with another’s
love, or a child innocent as a flower’s bud
plucked and pulled and brain washed by an
adult hand and tongue. I am one who sees
what’s come to an end and what’s sadly begun.
May 6, 2012
May 6, 2012 at 2:29 AM UTC
There's a certain kind of magic-
in the surging of the streets,
pounding tired feet,
children squealing,
prams wheeling,
a tide unquelled by grey sky
a sparkle in the dull hope of a scratchcard owners eye
this is the city exhaling fumes
and inhaling dreams
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
Crouching beggar upturned cup
Singing children hunger sup
Mongrel bounds on a short chain
We are all caught in the rain
Policeman standing proud
Busking waifs are singing loud
******* lies where it was lain
We are all caught in the rain
Pigeons bobbing strut right by
Seagulls scream with glinting eye
Old man mutters 'not insane'
We are all caught in the rain
Babies hold up their palms
Mothers push them in their prams
Babies google their necks crane
We are all caught in the rain.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 3:45 PM UTC
Auntie and I
went to her friend
Milly's place
(a flat on the other side
of the parade ground)
she knocked at the door
and we waited
after a little while
the door opened
and Auntie's friend's
daughter Elsie stood there
staring at us
is your mum at home?
Auntie said
Elsie glowered at me
with her small eyes
I'll ask her
the girl said
and went back
into the flat
there was a murmuring
of voices from inside
then Milly appeared
o sorry about that
I was in the loo
Milly said
come on in
so we went in
the flat smelt
of past dinners
and hanging washing
we followed her
into the sitting room
and she said to sit down
so we did
Elsie her 5 year old daughter
stood by her doll's pram
staring at us
want some tea
and a bit of cake?
Milly said
that'd be nice
Auntie said
what about you Benny ?
Milly said
can I have a glass
of water please?
she nodded
and went off
into the kitchen
and Auntie said
you go play with Elsie
let me and Milly
have a chat
I looked at Elsie
who was pushing
the doll's pram
around the room
looking at me darkly
ok
I said
Milly brought me
a glass of water
and a piece of fruit cake
and I said thank you
and then she brought a tray
with cups and pieces of cake
and sat with Auntie
and began to talk
go play with Elsie
Auntie said
I nodded and went over
to where Elsie
was rocking her doll
against her chest
I've come to play
I said
she looked at me
boys don't play with doll's
she said coldly
let Benny play
her mother said
don't want him
playing with my doll
Elsie said
you'll let him play
or I'll tan your backside
Milly said
Elsie stood looking
at her mother
then at me
you have to be the dad
she said
as if chewing
a piece of tough meat
I nodded and walked
with her to the pram
I didn't want to be the dad
or play with the doll
as I was a 4 year old boy
but it was better
than sitting listening
to Auntie and Milly talk
Elsie moodily pushed
her pram into the passageway
and I followed glumly
we're going shopping
she said
I push the pram
dads don't push prams
so I walked beside her
wisely silent
smelling the carbolic scent
she was wearing
and watching
her moody glare
wishing I was elsewhere
than there.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 3:16 AM UTC
Spice saves you from the cold
Scrambling desperate for heat
Hands out with head back twitching
Begging at my feet
In shop doors on the floor
Never seen a higher street
Zombies with good manners
Trying to catch a nights sleep
Sparking fires in cans inhaling dark
Warming hands by freezing hearts
In sight of prams out in the park
Laying wasted on a landmark
Their minds, bodies and money is all spent
Nasty habits got them here
Nothing for food, nothing for rent
Nights spent on streets in constant fear
Stumbling blind side into me
Old tracksuits combating crisp cold
Not searching for cheap silence or throwaway sympathy
Not trying to fit a societal mould
Like a dear in the headlights they stare
So startled, so close to the ending
A thinking mans ******
I’m the ignorant man stood, pretending
That I can’t see you there
Craving synthetic highs
Because if it’s natural it’s not aloud
Packaged up in labs and factories
Down the supply chain to customers who sleep on cobbled ground
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 9:07 PM UTC
Benny and Helen
got off the bus
at Camberwell Green,
and Benny showed her the shops,
and they looked around;
he at the toy shops
looking at guns and holsters,
and rifles with pictures
of cowboys on the packet,
and she at dolls and prams,
and skipping ropes;
then he showed her
the hospital where he was born
which was a way further along
a long road.
That's where I was born,
he said, showing her the hospital,
pointing it out.
Why were you born there,
and not Guy's hospital?
Helen said.
Because my mum lived
in Dulwich then,
and not the Elephant,
Benny said.
O I see,
said Helen, wide-eyed
through her thick lens spectacles.
I was born in Guy's hospital,
Helen said.
They stood watching for a while,
then they walked back
to the shops again,
and found a cafe,
and went in,
and Benny bought them both
ice creams, and they walked
to Camberwell Park,
and sat on one of the seats,
and ate their ice creams.
I was in another hospital
when I was about 6 weeks old,
Benny said.
Why was that?
Helen said.
I had a twisted gut,
Benny said,
and nearly died.
Helen gazed at him:
her eyes big and shocked.
Did you?
she said.
Yes I was baptised
in the hospital,
and my aunt,
and some medical staff
were my godparents,
Benny said.
Glad you didn't die,
she said.
Me too,
Benny said,
couldn't have bought
these ice creams then,
or be sitting here with you.
And I wouldn't be here,
because Mum would
never let me come
this far on my own,
and then I wouldn't
have seen it,
or the hospital
where you were born,
Helen said.
They sat in the park
and ate their ice creams,
and then Benny showed her
the cinema he came
to sometimes,
a real fleapit,
he said,
but they show good films.
Can I come with you next time?
she said,
if Mum'll let me.
Sure you can,
Benny said.
She kissed him
on the cheek,
and he hoped that no boys
from school saw the kiss
in case they thought
him a cissy,
but it was a good kiss
he supposed,
as far as he knew.
But what was a 7 year old
boy, having been kissed
by a 7 year old girl, to do?
He pretended it wasn't there,
and pretended not to care.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 2:12 AM UTC
Baby Mamas with their prams
Eating up wonderland
Dropping bits of food everywhere
Under their chairs
Laughing like schoolgirls
Flustered red
Bits of food
For non-believers
And the un-anointed
Are scarce
Clogging toilets with diapers
Dispensing waste
At an alarming rate
How much for a wonderland?
In the sky
Red marker
Rise and rise
White tissue
Go from white to brown
Bits of pea and chicken
Falling down
(all together now)
Bits of pea and chicken
Falling Down
How much for a trip to wonderland
With a cushioned seat
Padded headrest
And comfy feet?
Eat
A wonderland in the sky
The market is on the rise
The ground is black
And the clouds are white
Every minute
Clouds gather spin and rise
The Earth looks small
Falling behind
How much for wonderland
Up in the sky?
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 11:22 PM UTC
Tempest triumph turmoil tomb
Seeketh life or seeketh whom
Ashes, bones lay beneath me
Humble yourself, so you can see
A wide range of locus holograms
Pinched around like metal prams
Escape none to route a way
Knuckles grit, sinking everyday
Dark puffed, stuffed grey matter
Auction solidarity is no better
Speech of silence, clouds of rain
Piercing pledging pleading pain
Thy grace, I praise as heavens open
Not above but a voice has spoken
Walk the steps downs, the voices called
Come to us, you belong to our world
Pushed dragged and pulled a few miles
Clowned faces, greet with smiles
Mummified shrouds hang like dolls
Eyes spring out like the tennis *****
Dredged with stinkful skillful spills
Rainbow colored infinite pills
Wide-eyed blinks match the flurocent
Contour light lights up the magnificent
Bridges burn birthing ashes
Torn ripped ***** worn sashes
Two hands praying, Lord save our nation
Two legs walk, it's another fashion
Rotten forgotten the limpage lives
All hands stuck in the money hives
Online tariff tragic traffic terror
Highlights viral vital error
Known unknown captured in doubts
Strapped bodies spillage by mouths
Shots of needles through my veins
End of life, foregone with pains!
©sim
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 7:54 PM UTC
Still born. The words stick
In the throat. Even if she sees
It someplace in a magazine
Some medical journal it hits home.
Some nights she wonders if the
Imaginary kicking she thinks she
Feels is her phantom babe or
Senses her dugs go hard at the
Mere mention of the word on
The tip of her tongue: still born.
Born still or pushed forth lifeless
But wanted and needed and lost.
What really sticks in her throat
Is seeing babes in passing prams
Or backyards unwanted unneeded
By mothers who **** and shuck
Without concern while she sensing
Her heavy loss and a vacant womb
Can only look on and walk away
Or sit and weep in a darkened room.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
The atheist walks
Past the supermarket
Seeing only shoppers,
Buying their daily bread
Earnt by working nights on security, or
Days serving zombied customers
At drive through takeaways
Getting abused, watching the litter
Pile up from don't give a toss
Attitudes diving immaculate cars,
He sees shattered dreams in the homeless
Begging to survive another day
In pavement poverty,
Preying on good will by sliding doors
In the rain,
Teenagers pushing prams, abandoned
To a cruel world of benefits and scams
Just to make ends meet,
Men wheeling six packs to their hatchbacks
Hoping they have enough *****
To block out another weekend
Of the wife moaning about never going out
And the grass needs cutting,
He smells the pollution of all the cars
Driven a few hundred yards
For a pack of cigarettes
And some dried noodles for the kids for lunch
Just to shut them up,
He sees only individuals
Railing against each other, falling
Over their directionless lives
All wanting to be somewhere, NOW.
He pushes past them all
Never looking up, never acknowledging
A single face, knowing his place
In the crowd.
But I see the woman who stops
In her nurses uniform
Tired from another 12 hour shift
Smiling at the beggar she drops him her change,
Takes her shopping to the car
Looking forward to a family meal together,
Waits for someone to pull out of their parking space
As she leaves for a humble home
Built on love,
I still see a light in the darkness.
Jun 20, 2019
Jun 20, 2019 at 4:13 PM UTC
In the forest late one summer day,
between the trees and prams,
a sweet girl whistled a small tune
that made the rabbits dance.
They danced and hopped and frinked about
and it was all quite nice
until the Wankerschmacken came
and brought a plague of Braifs.
The Braifs, they danced and frinked as well
and grew and grew in size
until they grew to twelve feet tall
much to the girl’s surprise.
The Wankerschmacken watched with glee,
with joyous hate and hunger,
the rabbits, the girl, they were confused
as they stared down the Schmacken’s flanger.
The flanger was his mouth, of course,
filled with teeth like daggers,
and the beast lunged after the poor girl
who through the forest yaggered.
She yaggered and ran and over a root
she suddenly fell and cried;
The Wankerschmacken took his chance
and this is how she died:
The monster opened its flanger large,
its throat was charcoal black;
A blue tongue stretched and grabbed the girl
and hurled her into its depths.
She fell for an eternity,
she seemed to fall for years;
And in its stomach she cried and cried
and drowned in her own tears.
A century has come and gone
since this cold-blooded ****
but if you put your ear to the woods
you can hear the Schmacken still.
It snores and roars deep in its sleep;
Can you smell its rotten breath?
but once you do it is too late –
You will die a vicious death.
Feb 12, 2020
Feb 12, 2020 at 11:14 AM UTC
I always said she had too much coffee and cake ,
her portly shape was due to too much wine ,
and now all she craved was a good time.
I always said the cigars she smoked were like
Tomb stones ,
to blind to notice,
to addicted to care .
I always said ,
I always said .
And her heart only beat to climb the stairs ,
and the chocolate and chips helped her through the day .
Rainbows and demons ,
Chains and weeds ,
and the wind and rain ,
and the rain and the wind found us on our knees .
Spoh koyn nee noh Cheh dorogoy , ( good night my dear ) for
I shall navigate my love under a starry host on my ship of jesters and
Fools .
You’re cigars and cake are the rainbows and demons ,
and chains and weeds to our love ,
For you’re laughter for our foolish freedom came not from God above .
Must I then take the ash and crumbs and the yellow **** you retch ,
and hope what’s left does not choke you .
We shall marry in our Geogian satire of smokin mirrors , gin and Russian roulette ,
I will play the doctor ,
You the patient.
Our babies will smoke cigars from their Georgian prams ,
Wine ,cigars , chocolates and cake I shall spoon feed you ,
.....until you’re dead .
For you’re chains and weeds have killed you ,
and death has taken you away .
And here at our table I shall sit alone ,
thinking of you .
With wine a cigar ,
Chocolate cake and a cigar I shall toast you ,
until this day ,
draw a curtain ,turn off the lights .
Sweet dreams my malen kaya kroshka
( my little crumb )
sweet dreams .
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC
Yeah I got my paperwork
I rolled it into this doobie
It’s a-nother day
We, free to play
No need for escaping
in the escalade
we rolling fat
and roll them fat
splattering mad haters faces
wit a baseball bat
top cat
in a top hat
you know I dont play that
dog, best you aint no rat
but those fools running they mouth
all across the ***** south
makin me wanna ralph
or maybe you prefer *****
homeboy I’m on it
like an inbound comet
wanna make a mom bet?
I figure yours would take all 8
**** gape
then yell ****
take her on a date
leave her in my wake
still rollin on
smoking bongs
dabbin grams
pushing prams
yeah I’m a daddy but my kids all grown
leave em alone
give yo mom a bone –
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
The whole world revolves around
Me.
But not in a good way, but in the way that
The planets all revolve around the sun yet
Never truly reach it; Forever avoiding this
Boiling disaster.
It's the way
Parents push their prams
The long way just to get around me and
It's the way
Giants shoot their dagger stares,
Scrutinizing every little inch of you
Up to your very core.
It's the way
You realise
Your loved ones are just like planets:
They're constantly drawing
Nearer
And
Nearer
Even though you try with
All your might to
Push
Them
Away
But you know
And you know
And you know,
They're just circling towards their
Impending Doom, that
One day all the planets would
Collide
The planet would draw
Nearer and nearer,
Until one day,
You would
Get a
***Mega Super
Huge Nova***
And
It would be
All your fault.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC