"primetime" poems
Got that green reverberatin'.
When to stop?
She comptinplatin' cause the train done left the station.
It's a indecation her imagination on incline.
It's the primetime in mankind she on a zipline.
The picture done popped out the frame.
She on a train called insane, that cant be tamed.
But she is still on her game.
She fly high with them aviators.
Cruising space with Darth Vader.
That green **** she saver
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 2:36 PM UTC
Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
Thugs with Pens
Hell-bent; not on cultism
Just airing the other sentiments
That don’t make it to primetime
Thugs with pens
Not poking out eyes
Just venting spleen
Sick of the lies
Thugs with pens
Deserve to be heard
They don’t poison your brain
With stacks of *****
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Can change your mind
In ******* time
Thugs with pens
Can make a dent
They don’t need to insert
Un-readable, un-interesting
Covert small print....
Thugs with pens
Don’t need no script writers
Or advisors nor signatories
Witnesses, nor dodgy men
With gold plated fountain pen nibs
To make amends
Or throw in no hidden clauses
That secretly **** your life blood
Thugs with pens
Don’t aim to pierce your skin
But make their mark
Deeper within
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Completely uncensored
champions of free speech
The establishment want suppressed,
silenced, deleted; terminated.
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans don’t
Schedule meetings
To fix the minutes
And schedule another meeting
And keep ‘minutes’
As square angled
And unproductive
As formal conversation
Thugs with pens
Aim venomous ink
At headless politicians
That squawks like chickens
Bending over
For the *************
Bank-beefing corporations,
Controlling the masses
With ***** little catchphrases
And mounds of munitions
And illegally enforced restrictions
On your movement and free expression
Honest men
Have nothing to fear
From Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
These “thugs” seek asylum
From countries
Where the law’s
Not bought and bent
Thugs with pens & aerosol cans
Are made to wear monikers and masks
Thugs with pens
Don’t turn on its own
Neighbours and citizens
To perpetuate myths:
A ****** ************* lie…
A thing that never happened!
(That’s for all of you dumb wits
out there
Who believe most of the ****
That’s drip fed
Your sensation addicted minds
Most of the time,)
Time you started reading between the lines
In fact get a pen
Or an aerosol can
Write your own lines
Start broadcasting
Reclaim your space
Before you’re completely neoned
Into the shade
And corralled under the spell
Of a TV screen
Or an anger raising headline
That conducts the flow
Of the status quo
Load up your magazines
With ball point pens
And sharp edged writing nibs,
Strap on a belt of aerosol cans
Reclaim your right to free expression
In public spaces
Join the rag-tag army
Of intuitive
Self-knowing men
The End: is well begun,
George Orwell
Should never have written
That blueprint,
‘1984’
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
the disease of despair
gambling
suicide
hate
sadism
symptoms, not causes
of the brown blood
drained from swines'
pockets
gather up your coat
and your hat
for the primetime
event
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC
Dear Mr. President
This is a letter from me to you. There are many who are displeased with you....but I'm actually quite proud of you.
You helped the automotive industry get back on track......even though you had the naysayers upon your back.
I feel many people put too much of the blame on you.....especially when there are other's involved. You can't achieve success alone....you need a team. Just like Dr.King.... I know you also have a dream.
I recall your visit to my state and eventually my city. You blessed my neighborhood with your presence. I saw people of different ethnicities standing as one. Everyone was smiling even the sun.
You bellowed words of inspiration into the mike. My family was gathered on the sidewalk and for once everything seemed to be alright.
I like how you are just a regular guy and love to play ball. I admire the fact that you get to play with the superstars who will eventually enter the Hall of Fame.
Your name has been etched in history .....I'm honored because I never thought I would see this in my lifetime. An African American giving The State of the Union Address in primetime and granting interviews on Nightline.
I love the example of marriage and fatherhood that is on display. It is often stated that "we" don't commit and are dead beat dads.....from what I've witnessed you aren't doing bad. Thank you for the positive image you have provided me.....it's a form of motivation for me.
I saw a picture where you had your feet on the desk and you were on the phone....but I knew that you were a hard worker from the hole in the bottom of your shoe. You were about the people and walked where we lived..... not in Hollywood or Rodeo Drive with your finger in the air doing your redition of ' Staying Alive."
Mr. President...the thing that really gets me upset....is the blatant form of disrespect. They continue to call you by your last name....You earned the title of President yet they deliberately leave it out. I often hear Mr. Obama or Barack.....how is this cool when you are obviously on the clock.
They showed respect to President Clinton and George Bush.....both of them even though he tried to steal a whole state....but no one will discuss that issue.....I guess I'm a few years too late.
You are highly educated and intelligent more than the media would like to say. I'll make sure to add you to my list of leaders when I pray.
Thank you President Obama for the example you have been. I believe that you deserve the opportunity to do it again.
Sincerely.......a struggling poet.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 1:09 PM UTC
i have always found myself
in the middle
actually born
in the middle of the day,
month,
year,
decade
(6.12.94)
very well-versed in
what it's like to be
simultaneously rich
and incredibly poor
living in other states
sleeping on the floor
sure
i walk a generational fine line
this gemini primetime,
of insoluble crises
the holy oil floats to the top
we learn
that feigned warmth cannot dissolve
the calcified ego of a leader or their god
you proclaim the name of jesus
but still cry out for someone to lead us
from gray
gay
awareness
today
it's taken time and distance for this to be easy to say.
this is for the ones
who have always found
themselves in the middle,
america, honey, will you meet us there?
Dec 14, 2017
Dec 14, 2017 at 3:41 PM UTC
We wring our veins
write to the stars
fight under the moon
words of passion tune
We write about love
when it seduced
then it wrestled
words of tension swim
Our words of time
moments gone and farmed
sorrows that overload
happiness that swoon
Prime time in the lonely time
when contentment permits
when heaven is locked
and when hell is unlatched
Prime time my bold friends
keep the pen readily primed
undoubtedly trust the script
It will lead to ultimate freedom
A dedication to all the poets here at HP
We write these words on and on, we capture moments, swim the
oceans, object in the courts, run free in the forests. We are not hexed
just keep writing for one time the primetime will be ours
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 3:56 AM UTC
you knew
what you were
doing
with all that
slinking around
in
lingerie and
leather
it didn’t matter
to you
that I was
only
ten
you kissed
my childlike eyes
with an
open mouth
until I adjusted
to the
light in the
cave
of your
tongue and
teeth and
lips
you hot, ****
handgun
in high-heels
you were
dancing
on a primetime
table
hammer-cocked
back
turned sideways
for show
commercial
breaks were
the 75 cent
bathroom
vending-machine
condoms
that couldn’t
stop
anything
are you as
proud of
my glorious
fist-fights
as you are of
how
good you
look
with the right
lighting?
my gaze is
handcuffed
to the bedpost
of death
and light-
hearted
****** mysteries
because it’s
just
make
believe
so what, if
it is pretty
violent
after all?
it is
pretty
it is
violent
sure, I’ll
grow
out of it
or get
over it
if I don’t
grow
into it
or get
under it
like I got
under your
sheets
“all the better
to snipe you
with, my dear”
and
I haven’t felt
any of it
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
Sitting on the bus
my Israeli Paul Revere seminary nightmare steps on
armed in pantyhose, eyes stretched
wide by a thick black headband
Dense Brooklyn accent, perfect Hebrew.
Laughing on the phone, she
tells the details of the most recent terrorist attack,
a family of five murdered in their home,
a baby stabbed in its cradle
She said she’s just come from the memorial in Jerusalem,
where hundreds of Israelis stood in the streets sobbing and
screaming for vengeance
A sea of black hats, writhing and angry
She said they showed everyone
pictures of the bodies,
so they would know the horror of what happened
And as she sat there smiling, broadcasting the news like
a recount of a primetime television episode,
I sat
on the verge of tears
and watched the rest of the bus sit stony-faced,
distracted and desensitized.
We drive through
a market place.
An
old woman gets on clutching
a challah swaddled in plastic, sleeping salty.
(The bus is full off babies,
but none of them are crying.)
Meanwhile, in Gaza
the murders had another crowd
of people filling the streets,
dancing.
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 6:57 AM UTC
Old beaten path, bent backward on its axis acting like a scientific textbook projection map.
Becoming something impossible to traverse even for expert woodsmen or a genius of a certain variety that is imbued with Zoom Zoom PED's, just enough red wine, or some self appointed enlightenment that "never failed me before"
Ignoring all traces of anxiety, disregarding inhibition, conquering every whim and mental roadblock desperately vying for success and representation as SOMEone instead of everyone else who writes in blue ink and drinks their coffee black and hides in plain sight and doesnt care what other people think and watches primetime reality television programs and believes in Jesus Christ and chews with their mouths closed and keeps their finges clean.
The Path
remains forever unbeaten
how far we get along it is our legacy that no one ever gave a **** about until we wrote about it.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 1:52 AM UTC
you kissed
my childlike eyes
until I adjusted
to the
light in the
cave
of your mouth
you hot, ****
handgun
in high-heels
you’re
dancing
on a primetime
table
hammer-cocked
back
turned sideways
for show
commercial
breaks are
the 75 cent
bathroom
vending-machine
condoms
that couldn’t
stop
anything
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
Looking down into the valley from the mountain high
I can finally breathe again
I smell the fresh air and it smells like springtime again
I no longer fear for my soul,
No longer feeling the chill of imminent danger again
As I stand there looking at the forest below
I see the life I left behind me
I see the trees, the vines that tried to bind me
I see the leaves of the forest which hid me from the son, tried to blind me
I stand proud on top my mountain
I think about the snakes, the wolves that hissed and howled, told me that I'd never leave
That tried to take my joy every time I started to believe
The trees spoke, they said,
run run as fast you can, can you get out alive
will you fall or will you stand.
I burst through the last trees and I started to climb
No end in sight but to get away from my past it was time
The climb was nothing short of sublime
But anytime you begin to climb, physically and mentally prepare for it's wartime
All your old demons will call you, like your primetime on a hotline
See your past will not make it easy for you to be free....
But I get to the top, and what do I see,
all my old demons at the bottom, looking up at me
I turn around to embrace my new destiny amazed by what I saw
A whole new forest....waiting for me.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 8:40 PM UTC
bees. and bees. and bees. bees bees bees. flee from bees. forced inside.
army of bees, trying to conquer my sandwich.
beautiful weather, but a storm is on its way. desperate housewives sky.
i miss primetime television. looking forward to fall. to routine (tv routine, at least).
missing school. missing learning.
need a job. NEED. A. JOB.
grow up.
grow.
Feb 4, 2010
Feb 4, 2010 at 11:29 AM UTC
If you like
some day will be so drastically different from today
that you will never know how insignificant current worries are
or how silly actions were
life can be
how you like it:
queen of primetime
soccer mom
beach ***
anything.
I think I'd like to be a traveller.
I want to see the places I've only heard of
to ensure that they do exist
but I'd want to do so only if there was no hostility
which is impossible
so I suppose this will have to do
only hearing stories
googling images
reading books and learning languages
and just imagine the view from another mountain.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 4:26 PM UTC
What can you say
to a generation who don't remember
your summer of love.
Who don't see the ribbon in the sky
Stevie wonder,
couldn't see
but saw .
The eventual maturity of a culture
whose built their identity off those brave enough to speak up.
when so many of us have been rendered cowards,
a perceived perception
fulfilling the essence of,
"Throw that *** in the circle!"
For that moment of miniscule acceptance
a belonging without question, we’ved missed since grade school .
“i am Full of myself, full of myself, i am full of myself” ,
as beyonica sells dreams of bootylicious billion dollar unions
nicki minaj and *** implants is the logical evolutionary conclusion
what's going on
no Marvin gaye
we already know
found our idol's.
they comes on
Mondays at 7.
So we don't look for them no more
Their Preprogrammed
Failed by the previous generation
who couldn't seem to find themselves and their patients long enough to lead.
What can you say to a generation
whose music don't speak of waiting in waters, but shaking those waters just enough
to get what you can from EBT
or being just quite enough so you don't have to scream
“I can't breathe”.
A battle between law and survival
and Democrats ain't been no better than Republicans since the 1700's
we’re still holding our breath in waiting..
**** your revolution old *****
it ain't did nothing
but make people believe that I have something that I could never
hold in my hand.
A black president
freedom
and a land
Turn up.
To the slowest change in history,
still waiting for equality on all fronts
this movement was debunked,
like the memories of Americans
30 minutes primetime cycles
What can you say
to a generation
who does the nea nea
where teddy bears and liquor bottles mark the legacy of the deceased
once lay,
such a short memory
these corner they lived and died for a singular belief
money over ******* get rich by all means.
that's our raising the bar
“go for the millions”
and if we play it right
miley cyrus
will twork your way to a grammy.
What can you say
to a generation.
where gay is so gay
no one knows it’s true meaning
we're all just dreaming
make it up as we go
bought into a coma
now trying to wake up.
What can you say
to this generation
except sorry
we left you nothing to hold on too.
but shadows
and hypocritical finger
that rely
“don't as i do “
but
“do as i say”
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC
nestled in the fist of fury
followers following followers
machine numbers generated
to the size of egos
the devils henchman lurks
saturated by cryptic code
destruction embedded
in his fused brain
waiting
to puncture your alterego
and spill your conscience
into a crucible of sacrifices
on the altar of recognition
indecent pictures
bloated for primetime consumption
on the sidewalks of galley slaves
surfing social media
with oars of phony cosmetic
happiness. where do you stand?
welcome to a world of make-believe.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 27 days ago
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
I am an actor
In a primetime show
In national tv
Love me or hate me
It is not easy, I know.
I am an accused
Being questioned
Being judged
Believe me or hate me
It is not easy, I know.
I am a butterfly
Newly emerged from a chrysalis
The world outside
Loves me or hates me
It is not easy, I know.
When will they accept
When will they change
When will their words
Be an embrace
It is not easy, I know.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 3:21 AM UTC
Primetime TV is asinine;
Intellectual cyanide.
Empty like a home in Palestine,
And corrosive like an alkaline:
It's the software for the poor.
Subliminally shutting your doors
Of perception,
While they pump the town full of more --
More liquor stores
And two cent ******
Deadbolted doors
Adorned with gang graffiti
Where the government ignores.
So how can I sleep
When all these kids never eat?
And where's the sweeps
For the bodies in the streets?
They'll just pour more concrete
Over our homes.
Gentrified zones,
Minorities in tow.
High interest loans.
Money's dried up,
Foreclosure and drones
Dropping tear gas on the protesters;
Arresting anyone not in their homes
Please tell me, how can I atone
For the sins of a system
That riddles the world with victims?
This is the modern vista
The ghetto is everywhere
The aftermath of an affair
Between the elite
And their federal clientele.
Predatory lending,
Bailouts, drop outs,
A culture without.
Humanitarian drought.
Where's the empathy?
The love?
The care and clemency?
A solution for this endemic peasantry?
Man, I wish I knew.
I wish the numbers weren't true,
And I wish the sunrise brought a nice view,
Instead of billboards and condemned buildings,
Abandoned homes, potholes, **** and trash:
The ashes of a golden age long past.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 6:24 AM UTC
Signals get mixed up
we're broadcasting ********
I'll shout 'til my mouth's dry
you'll spit like a dragon
the summers all static, now--
I'll wait for the season
to switch over channels
for less interference.
On mute.
Bracing our brains
for primetime quakes
**** off a day
trapped in escapes
The fate of the union,
the sake of my habits,
Estate of illusions
auctioned off from your pulpit
I'll shovel the static 'til
the street's within reaching.
Now follow new channels
with buzzing devotion
switched off.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 2:40 PM UTC
In one year I want to fly
And not on any human made machine
or
jumping out of an airplane with a safety net to know I wont die.
Forget that nonsense,
I'm going to sprout wings out my back
Exactly where those knots have been hurting me soooooo bad
from pulling double shifts everyday
picking up 50lb bags.
I'm going to do exactly what birds do
and turn back evolution
because we all know we resemble birds when we're embryos.
But my wings won't look like angels
and they wont have feathers
instead they will have scales reincarnated
from jurassic park days.
A human pterodactyl.
And the newspapers won't know what to do with it.
What nickname would be given to the flying beast above the city?
It sure ain't superman or Lois Lane by any measure
it looks like a dinosaur with a human for a head.
And that will be me.
Flying above streettops and staring down at the landstuck animals.
I won't fight crime, or save the world
I might just scare window washers until they slip and fall
and then swooooooooop down to "play" hero
I probably will end up a freak...
a misunderstood adventurer
turning back time and trying to play GOD
I can hear the scientists and religious preachers preaching their own disdain for what I have done
Destroying darwinism in an instant and completely ruining the human genome
The republicans will attack me and The democrats won't back me
the independents will call for love and peace for eternity
but please, they don't have enough money for primetime tv.
No
No
NO
I will end up the outcast of society and hated by every human that has a country on their Passport
I will be terrorist threat number one and you can see me on Unsolved Mysteries.
The History channel will have hour long specials with experts you never knew existed
getting paid to share expertise on something you didn't even know existed
But that sounds kinda cool...
So now I'm wondering, should I start to sprout these wings?
I am no fool, I began the process 15 minutes ago when I began writing
but now I want to pull these wings deep within the rib cage and hide them forever.
No
It doesn't matter what they say
They're JEALOUS
They could yell and scream and throw missiles and stones and fake bullets and best laid plans
But I will dodge them all
Remember
I can fly.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
Every minute
Of every day
I trudge on to make it to this moment:
His heartbeat in my ear,
My hand on his rounded hip,
Love in our hearts.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC
I flowed into the beat,
breathing you deeply
into my creation,
swallowing your titillating alliteration,
the aromatic syllables,
the rich, succulent similes
synchronizing with the fine metaphors.
I was choking on complex conjunctions
and gerunds, unable to function
in the immense junction where your love
glistened like a constellation of diamond crystals,
lost in your overload of supreme sauciness,
so litty with it, pulling me into your primetime design.
into the grand slamming anthems playing
in your kingdom of perennial delectation.
Feb 18, 2021
Feb 18, 2021 at 9:44 PM UTC
just another rerun
of minutes
people and places
that still live
inside
or in front of your face
all jumbled up vying for primetime
in your mind's eye
channels change up
every now and again
to trailer new events
breaks the humdrum reruns
reminds that not all days are
same time , same station.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
The night
time
strikes
true at
the right time,
as I stay inside
for the
evening
my window is open,
and my door is shut tight
when
primetime arrives
as the clock
hand
lands on the dime
and comfort lands
on my mind
what better feeling is there than,
a night spent inside,
with a warm cup
of coffee, and a
seeping book to go with it
as the coffee comes out sip,
by sip, the book pours uncontrollably
with the words flooding my mind and
eventually my room
as it
takes me by force and
drowns me, filling my
lungs, and my soul
my soul strengthens
and my lungs breathe
better as they are consumed
by the words pouring in
words from books,
and my own words are all around me
as I sink deeper and deeper
into the wash of imagination
and slowly start
to
dread the morning to come
when I am pulled out of the
water and the
words evaporate
from my soul
and from my lungs
and the air feels bitter again.
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 8:52 PM UTC
I recall the wonder of discovery and
The awesome Technicolor
When you , taking me in your hand,
Perplexed the monarch of my affections
And I was a spinster no longer
My cataracts bent themselves rectangle
As you made primetime of my matinee
Made me pixellated
The world was square
And the Sky without limits
When I moved you into my private chamber
The pause button, having broken
Made us live in the moment
Every sound wave a fluttering falsetto
That we dare not turn the channel over
You came to me in flat format
But you were the set top box of times now gone
I longed to open you up
And absorb your teletext- the sonnets of old
Primetime was a kaleidoscope
As I lay there in bed with you, my precious television
Suddenly this slim rectangular riddle, when switched on,
was a philanthropist without shackles
The infinite gift that kept on giving
Mid-way through Holby City
20:20
Vision slipping
I lay there captivated by the elements of some fictional dame
And her fiery mane as it lights up the screen
The screen flickered 24 frames per second
And with it I slip into a familiar abyss
Ah, the reassuring comfort of my companion
And how you lulled me to sleep
Every press of the remote was a celebration of my admiration
Groping and clinging to it like some wilting tradition
Night after night you kept me company
Breathing warmth and pointing your aerial towards me
As I begged Mr Murdoch to
Open my eyes and fill me with information
Nothing dared distract me from you
Though there are those that tried
Those who found themselves muted
I was glued
And when the schedules faded to shopping or teletext
I’d switch you off
And listen to you on standby
How your heavy breathing would soothe me
The red on/off light that burns brightly into the night
Lets me know that you are alive
I hide the remote from prying eyes
Beneath the pillow that, on top, sit’s the TV guide
My encyclopaedia to the stars
How you have pleased me endlessly
Illuminating me
Filling me with light
I swift you off and reach for the plug
When suddenly a shock of electricity runs through my body
I feel it in my bones
You are possessive
It reminds me that I am alive
End
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 9:11 AM UTC