"ravings" poems
Kanye West visited Trump
At the White House, and man, what a scene!
His words were bouncing off all the walls,
Just like a ball in a pinball machine.
His disjointed rantings and ravings
Made little if any sense.
He ****** up to the president
More than even Michael Pence.
Rambling about the 13th Amendment,
The Unabomber, and then trap doors,
He ended the strange concoction of thoughts
With a weird reference to thirteen floors.
To him, Trump is a father figure.
To prove how much he is fan,
Whenever he wears his MAGA cap,
It makes him feel like Superman.
Illegal guns, tasting fine wines,
And liberals controlling blacks
Through racism? You wanted to say,
Calm down, Kanye. Try to relax.
One thing is certain: We can see
From trying to follow his monologue threads,
That Kanye needs some serious help.
Kanye, please get back on your meds!
-by Bob B (10-14-18)
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
You quote from Leviticus
Call me an abomination
As you eat cheeseburgers
And claim a Christian nation.
You don’t ****** daughters
Who have had unmarried love
Yet, demonizing gay people
Fits you like an expensive glove.
You vilify your children daily
And quote the bible to boot,
While you work on the Sabbath
In your fine mixed-fabric suit.
You talk so glibly about us
Out of both sides of your mouth.
You are embarrassing examples
Of the sickness of the Old South.
You just ain’t right.
Your head’s on wrong.
Your hypocritical ravings
Are the cause of this song.
You’re a liar and a nut
And you’re halfway crazy.
We'd make laws against you
But we’re too **** lazy.
You wave your hands and pray
In public so you are well seen.
You copy your Christianity
From the latest People magazine.
Your idea of pious philosophy
Is way off the Christian track.
If I ever shake hands with you
I’ll count the fingers I get back.
You just ain’t right.
Your head’s on wrong.
Your hypocritical ravings
Are the cause of this song.
You’re a liar and a nut
And you’re halfway crazy.
We'd make laws against you
But we’re too **** lazy.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 8:18 PM UTC
quips scrawled on scraps of paper, written
during a come-down stupor. something
she wrote, and then proceeded to destroy.
(i gathered all the pieces but have become
too lazy to care how she upset herself)
drawings drawn in between sentences,
in between words. in between syllables. drawn
to obviate thought, to put me somewhere
between Zen and poser. (the drugs obviate titles,
but i’d hedge my bets on the latter)
the remains of the Urban Squirrel Hunter –
a mythology of the Grey Fox –
shredded in the maw of a blue heeler-mutt.
written while ****** drunk, and heat-stroked.
poetry of a homeless kid.
ramblings of an alcoholic, ravings of a tweaker,
with commentary by the one who is just visiting –
self-destruction is all we can ever be certain of.
religion created in a notebook while
doing research on a chemical. figured out what
near-death means, found life by dumb luck.
found life via pocket valiums,
gave up religion while sweating in the snow.
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 10:41 PM UTC
I have always aspired to a more spacious form
that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose
and would let us understand each other without exposing
the author or reader to sublime agonies.
In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent:
a thing is brought forth which we didn't know we had in us,
so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out
and stood in the light, lashing his tail.
That's why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a daimonion,
though its an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an angel.
It's hard to guess where that pride of poets comes from,
when so often they're put to shame by the disclosure of their frailty.
What reasonable man would like to be a city of demons,
who behave as if they were at home, speak in many tongues,
and who, not satisfied with stealing his lips or hand,
work at changing his destiny for their convenience?
It's true that what is morbid is highly valued today,
and so you may think that I am only joking
or that I've devised just one more means
of praising Art with thehelp of irony.
There was a time when only wise books were read
helping us to bear our pain and misery.
This, after all, is not quite the same
as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics.
And yet the world is different from what it seems to be
and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.
People therefore preserve silent integrity
thus earning the respect of their relatives and neighbors.
The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.
What I'm saying here is not, I agree, poetry,
as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly,
under unbearable duress and only with the hope
that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.
1.9k
The continuous pondering of life after death has recently plagued our existence
This might be a hindrance for our previously unfailing pious persistence
Thoughts arise that cause an imbalance in the tumultuous mind
Free you, they might, of the pacts into which you yourself do bind
Magnanimous flatulence shall reign unbridled upon the fields of plenty
But the door to unanimous qunatipulation shall come unhinged on the count of twenty
Promiscuity leads to a mind frame disgusted by a joyous initiation
Humongous amounts of gelatinous goo shall be written off as depreciation
Pig tails and concubines disperse with molecular ease
While the dead paperweights converse heatedly in Cantonese
May these words sit upon you, heavy as the dark interstellar skies
May your brain be confounded, let no infallible logic suffice
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 9:29 AM UTC
Some poets have degrees,
Be they Bachelors or Phds.
But a poet, a poet is really qualified by experience,
And the ability to distil language to the dance of written form,
To transpose observations into song.
Etching stretches of moments too short,
Into something long enough to match the longing for it.
Weaving yearning with touches of genius,
Abstracting epiphanies from cracks in the pavement,
Extending the halls of learning by
Stencilling truths onto toilet walls,
So that even to **** is to experience the profound.
A poet is one who can make meaning out of madness,
Pluck obscurities from the air, exposing the bindings of being,
Or explain how words, in their whirling make the world go round.
But a poet, a poet does not understand that ache inside,
That ache that drives them to write, to whisper and to yell
Words, metaphors and similies, in the constant attempt
To quantify that special kind of hell,
That haunts them, as ravings in their head,
That inspiration that is their constant torment.
And sometimes, sometimes its heaven instead,
But that’s when it’s hardest to write
Because suffering, when transformed to stanzas,
Is somehow easier to ignite
Than that intangible something we call joy.
For something as simple as a smile
Cannot be matched by any extravaganza
Of words no matter how we try.
But a poet, a poet will spend lifetimes trying
To describe that very sensation, that fleeting
Sense of something greater than oneself, greater,
Even than the offerings left in ink at the poet’s
Altar of a page.
And sometimes it will be so hard, this attempt to transcribe
Emotion into a form decipherable to others
That the poet will feel only rage,
And exhaustion,
Till even the point of the pen begins to expire
But a poet, a poet, even in the pits of despair,
Does not retire,
For there, lingering somewhere
Above in the air, is a glimmer of truth
Just waiting to be shared.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 8:06 AM UTC
He held my hand,
freshly wrought from
my mother's womb,
torn through a hole in
her belly and spilled from
a hole in his heart.
He smelled of Old Spice and
body odor and
marijuana,
he wore gold chains when
he was born to rags and
stacks of wood.
His grip on my hand,
so firm and strong and settled,
his gentle cooings and
warmth;
I miss the safety of it.
You can't be held
when you're the same size,
when the holder is the one
who might need to be held.
What nightmares had you seen
in white-washed walls and
halls of ravings and throwings and
the violence of a withdrawn mind?
Father,
it is you
that I have become,
that I still fixate toward--
my heart is heavy and
my head is torn apart.
You are my North Star
that guides me through life's oceans,
my scale to balance
my heart to a feather;
I wonder if it might be weighed down
with regret?
Father,
it is you
that I march toward,
that I find myself morphing into,
plucked from the cocoon of maturity from
a hole torn in its belly.
I had left one womb
for another,
it seemed.
Did I ever truly tell you
what you meant to me?
Even when
you weren't around
I turned to the air
to the warmth around me
to a stranger's grip or
the embrace of another.
Even when
you had left the world
for the one in your head
I only looked up to the twinkling of the night
to find my guide;
I remember
reaching a shaky hand
out to the skies.
The starry curtain
wrapped around my arm,
flowing like a gentle ocean,
like the fluid in the womb
then solidifying
like bedrock
like bottoms
like bases.
Even when
I hadn't seen you in months or
spoken to you in years,
I still held on
to that firm grip,
that far-too gentle
hand.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 3:14 AM UTC
Dec. 30, 1989
In the valley of the angels
In the fields of broken snow
On the mountains of the warriors
Where the devil fears to go.
In the passions unapparent
In the tears of a restless child
In the calmness of the country
In the cities growing wild
Wherever love lies sleeping, whenever hope is lost,
A gentle heart forgiving will rise up from the frost
In the heart of bitter conquests
In the nights that never end
In the lies that hold the moment
dangling from a liar’s thread.
In the eyes of well know strangers
In the looks of friends that care
In the path of eminent danger
In the light of all that’s fair
Wherever love lies sleeping, whenever hope is lost,
A gentle heart forgiving will rise up from the frost
In the never ending stories
In the poems of bitter youth
In the ravings of an old man
Who has never faced the truth.
In the silence of the villain
In the victim’s callous laugh
In the arms of lover’s smitten
In the families torn in half
Wherever love lies sleeping, whenever hope is lost,
A gentle heart forgiving will rise up from the frost
In the bending of the willow
In the arrow’s perfect path
In the breath that any minute
Could always be your last .
In the patience of the hero
In the soul that takes a stand
In the seizing of the moment
When the moment is at hand
Wherever love lies sleeping, whenever hope is lost,
A gentle heart forgiving will rise up from the frost
J. H. Webb
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC
I am not a mad man
Indeed, I’m not a man
I am the Fisher King
An enigmatic fraction
Of your frantic imagination
I come and go as I please
Mixing serene silence
With immaculate impotence
Who will help me
The King and his kinsmen
The King and his people
A barren madman
In a barren world
Living on hope alone
Hope and make-belief
Yet behind the façade
Of a harmless hermit
Lies greatness and goodness
And the promise of purity
The meaning of life
And the riddance of meanness
The secret of bliss
Without ignorance
The purest pleasure
For both body and soul
For the King and his kinsmen
The King and his people
The barren madman
Changing the barren world
Into a painting-like paradise
So forget about reason
And the rules they imply
And embrace the essence
Of my delusional ravings
Look out for the invisible
Listen to silent whispers
And expose hidden meanings
I’ll be here for a while
Resting on the riverside
For I am not a mad man
I am not a man
I am not mad
I am the Fisher King
A barren beacon
In a dark, dark world
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
In a kingdom full of inclemencies my hubris does not fail me
Profuse and Fierce, Some may call me arrogant
'Hubris!' chuckled I, 'Yes Hubris!'
It's a recording of my failings.
'It's that amorality,' I muttered.
My hubris is my substratum towards my nescience.
It is that aspect that will lean me towards drowning in the sea of my own incoherent imbecility.
It's a deep program in my faulty code, a nightmare towards monks.
It's the ink on my arms, tattooed to my soul.
'Hubris!' chuckled I, 'Yes Hubris!'
It does not fail to show in my wording.
It's the ferry to sea, the net in the ocean.
It is limber as it is inventive, with every exception.
It has no ingenuousness, it is unlike modesty and threatens to surmount me.
It's a sandwich in which has caught every hitch of breath, it leaves me bewitched, no certain pitch that I can tell afore it chokes me.
It leaves no correspondence with those around me, too caught up in my own fantasies that I can no longer celebrate or verbalize felicitously.
Many times I wished that I preserved my receipt so that I could trade in my Hubris for something a little less mucusless for it is something akin to Judas, and I cannot utilize it for anything utilizable.
If I could somehow find a way that would lead me to a resilient recuperation. I would judge that to be more utilizable then this Hubris that encumbers me. No matter how many times I beat it down, it war's like a lion and a bunch of tourists on a safari.
If only this grotesque lion-like hubris was shot by the doter of a hubris poacher. Every generation would be gratified and they would find that it is much more facile to coerce without that unpleasant Hubris.
Of course, I suppose in a way hubris could be utilizable in some situations that required it. If I somehow found a way to trade my hubris for something like modestly and found that I missed my hubris quite dearly. I would laugh at my incoherent imbecility and perceive myself to be remotely mad!
These ravings of my hubris I'm quite sure because I found it so consequential to indite a poem of stark preposterousness. In a contingency like this, I suppose my hubris is getting quite polished, so sharply able to strike down any sense of modesty.
I conjecture this is the terminus of this arrangement, please omit my hubris for a moment. I suppose I should give you some tea afore I dose myself in a salubrious dose of radiation.
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 11:01 PM UTC
I am exhausted by the endless pontification from
Professional apologists for every form of
Bad behavior from the protected class of the day.
I am tired of hearing from people for whom
Race / *** / color / creed / disability / ****** orientation
Is a hammer and the whole world is a nail.
I am weary of politicians passing laws
They neither read nor understand
And of the media that gives them cover.
I am fatigued by the endless lecturing from talking heads
About the need to strictly adhere to political correctness
And their attempts to quash speech and rewrite history.
I am haggard from having to deflect the constant, blatant,
Insidious efforts at indoctrination from the self-appointed
Thought police peddling propaganda masquerading as news.
I am burned out from the galloping gall,
Of apologists portraying criminals as victims,
While ignoring the harm done to their actual victims.
I am tuckered out by the double standard,
Of some racists who hide behind a perpetual cry of racism,
As the only acceptable answer to every difficult question.
I am petered out by having to listen,
To the mad ravings of newly arrived Representatives,
Barely out of diapers proposing ideas from The Twilight Zone.
I am drained by the injustice of heroes attacked as monsters,
Monsters treated as heroes and proudly worn on T-shirts,
And those who stand for nothing but take a knee for the National Anthem.
I am sapped by traitors who marry terrorists,
Name their children after other terrorist warlords,
Then demand the right to to come home to the country they betrayed.
I am worn out by life in a world ruled by madness that expects me to
Nod, pump my fist in the air and march in lockstep to an imposed
Drumbeat while ignoring the man behind the curtain orchestrating the show.
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 1:27 AM UTC
you stand in front of your bathroom mirror
with puffed-red eyes and dried-tight cheeks
as you practice your smiling and deception
your thoughts feel light but your feet are heavy
and you cannot bring yourself to unlock the door
and soon you’re sitting on your little sister’s
step-stool with the unfamiliar pill bottle in your
hands when the cacophony in your brain comes to a
caesura. The sudden serenity caresses your soul
and makes peace with your demons
you know the treaty is only temporary and soon
you’ll hear the mad ravings of the demons once more
but for now you are grateful and release yourself
from your prison cell into your weary reality
the sadness murmurs beneath your skin
and deep within your chest, but its aches are
distant like an animal caged and restrained
your days become photocopies as you
continue wearing contrived smiles and still
no one knows your proud laurels are also
your crown of thorns
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 5:51 PM UTC
Today's lesson's theme is political repression, through
Media deception, how men behind the curtain,
Treat the truth with an aggression, displacing crucial issues, by
Societal regression, material fixation, obsession with *** and
Through years of inspection, I've learned to detest them,
My mind reels in anguish, I battle my depression, 'cause
When I look around, do you know what I see?
A bunch of petty ******** that makes no sense to me, and
I can't help but feel, that it's not meant to be, see
These many different reasons, why I'm stressed mentally?
Cause if we'd all get together, and behave sensibly, then
We'd throw these crooked bankers in the penitentiary, but
Instead, it's L.B. he was down on the block, the
Cops stopped him and found a crack rock in his sock,
Now he's locked upstate on a 5 year bid, though
His crime can't hold a candle to what Wall Street did
Wait... did I say 'did'? I did?... I meant does
Modify the tense to present; that's an is, not was
'Cause those ******* empty suits stay all day on a buzz, from
Champagne, ******* and the high class ****** then
In board room meetings, while behind closed doors,
They all gamble on the future of entire generations,
Make austerity and poverty, with wage stagnation, and
Stack private prison profits, selling mass incarceration,
Take steps at every turn to undermine our population,
These are ravings from a psyche with a short supply of patience.
I'm a little bit curious, why you aren't furious, and
Sometimes, I wonder, as they pillage and they plunder,
Where we're all gonna live when the world's torn asunder, and
I wait for the day the giant wakes from its slumber, and
The voice of the people, shakes the earth like thunder, to
Shatter shackled chains, and alleviate the pain, but
I guess my final question must be: do I wait in vain?
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 3:07 AM UTC
And then it came to mind,
How to operate within my station,
Facets of degradation,
Open with a wiliness to accept.
Mind’s eye wandering,
Everything in a quicken pace moves,
Surrounded
Blanketed in,
Blackened will to survive,
To escape the common,
Graced by impeding disaster,
Trying to dig yourself out.
The reservoir of hope,
The **** of surplus sacrilege,
Slowly drained by the common,
Conformity of the Herd.
Reasoning to keep the smile?
Why not envelope the enveloper,
The world is an oyster without a pearl,
Your life begins today and is one nanosecond shorter,
Fancy ornaments
Pathetic compensation,
Being a disillusioned higher up,
Means being a corporate *****
Your boss,
My boss,
Has something in common,
They felt that stress is necessary,
Nervousness a virtue,
Stoicism means to be malleable,
Easy to break the spirit,
Difficult to understand that,
Below the surface,
The fault lines of the two hemispheres,
Begin to overlap and scrap,
Unravel and become lucid in plain simplicity,
Like pulling the lever which spills more
Useless garbage on your lap.
Envelope that and be comfortable with its existence,
Never agree with it, then stagnate standing water
Becomes the cesspools surface,
Underneath is the ravings of a diabolical cynic
That isn’t going to shovel the **** anymore
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 11:26 PM UTC
The train sirens fell ill on my skin as the gates of waves descended upon the lowly burrows of 12th street and blew it straight into tomorrow's windy, lamenting unification of loneliness. The plague it drew on the youth only rivaled the great hallow abyss in it's forthcoming nature. To the young it was the rotting, the sinister desecration of our world to come. I am only stunned by the great rivalry that seems to coincide in my generation's thoughts, capricious-now or wiseful-tomorrow. We strain to be in the eyes of our fathers and mothers and aunts and uncles, proving to our grandfather that we alone will carry the family name and legacy towards great and unimaginable heights, without the help of others and without the need for pity. Conger a frightful doe perking it's ears to every other sound it hears, that quiet din, it's last acquaintance before the grand, all-knowing silence takes over and surrounds it's being forever. Love thy harkening sorrow and writhe in heavy screams. All will pass but I see none with the sanctity to carry a soul farther than you have already; the seas spring longer and will soon swallow the world. Too many years will pass by before I can understand this with a sober mind. One day will come before I realize that drunken ravings of my night will see it's critical truth in the day by scholars and priests of common sense.
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 2:34 AM UTC
I left you very long ago
To you, my baby, I said no.
T’was like a movie in slo-mo,
I just stood there, and I watched you go.
Now have none to watch my back
No one to fill that which I lack
No one to make me lose all track
Of time. Oh, silence doth attack.
I thought I didn’t need you
I need to clearly see through
The lies, but they were true.
I’m back to old, and broken new.
Just go. You don’t deserve me,
Though I scream, forever empty.
Never good enough. Never shall I see:
You’re my water; I’m a tree.
I draw this X upon my chest
With knife and blood and gory rest
To show what’s there: naught but void.
Your heart’s not here, and mine’s destroyed.
Don’t care if you were right or not,
My heart’s not even here to rot.
Don’t preserve it; throw away.
I don’t deserve it. Dead I stay.
Cut it out? I can no more.
You did already, blood and gore.
In madness, shoved you to the floor.
For all the ravings, I’m the *****
No longer have angelic wings
Of yours to sooth me, nor any rings
Of promise. None of this can sing
Because I don’t have anything.
Nothing but this X upon my chest
With knife and blood and gory rest
To show what’s there: naught but void.
Your heart’s not here, and mine’s destroyed.
Don’t care if you are right or not,
My heart’s not here to rot.
Don’t preserve it; throw away.
I don’t deserve it. Dead I stay.
Yes, it really is still there.
Staring from its angry glare
Red eyes burning like a flare
It cloaks my breast, when even bare.
Funny, I didn’t feel at all,
When I cut the four-side, evil stall.
Empty spaces: chambers missing.
When skin tore, ne’er did this sting.
I rip an X upon my chest!
Forever more I’ll do this test
To show no longer have I my best
I lost it all, and gory rest.
Yes, I care that you were right
But it’s too late to save that night.
I began and ended stupid fight,
And live forever with my plight.
Stir, stir, filthy cur.
Mix it well, to be sure.
Drink it down to make all blur,
To curse me hard for losing her.
Slice, slash, petty trash.
Mark a symbol with a lash.
An X to signal monstrous crash
Infect it for eternal rash.
Jab, stab, to feel some pain
Maybe I will feel again.
Harder, faster! Make it rain!
Blood my sins and errors stain.
Mark this X upon my breast,
Deeply, cutting, hard I press.
Slicing through my dirtied chest
‘Til in the shadows I find rest.
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 10:51 PM UTC
You see my friend there is season to it all even when the simple silent sparrow doth fall swiftly to ground
So is the writing on the wall.
It was foretold
Cast into the wind no heartless sin
So fret not thyself of evil doers,neither be thou envious.
Bear witness. My soul has fled. Silver pieces they simge my palm as lead young.still hot from crucible.
STILL
my.spirit cries out
The ravings of the moonstruck loon.
Shackles as adornmet they follow me as suckling child.
And the twisted path leads me on.to.stumble me
Humbled
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 2:24 AM UTC
the air hit my face like a slap to a helpless child
cold and unrelenting
like every morning as I leave before the Sun is up
I wanted to say something before starting the long drive
I turned but could think of nothing
perhaps there was nothing to say
perhaps it no longer mattered
eighteen inches fell last night
a Winter Wonderland here in the mountains
I may see the children before they sleep tonight
or I may miss them as I often do
traffic and that silent road have numbed me
snow has begun falling again
thick and oddly quiet
like the ravings of a mad man on tv
with the volume turned down
funny how wonderfully creative the mind becomes
moments before sanity escapes
just as I had nothing to say
when I began this typical Tuesday
I again have no rhyme
no verse
no connection to reality
as I flatten the pedal
and disappear into the white
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 12:52 AM UTC
my lungs are not my lungs....
they belong to the wrong air of our winter's jest.
at best, we peruse the hush of our dormant lust
and gather twigs for our empty nest. you might suggest, but i demand
an answer to our star fall. to stall the heavens long
to briefly glimpse the shorthand of god's script
to a play that has no favorite in the scheme... only
the ravings of an infinite dream
about snow.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
Who breaks hearts anymore? Break mine. Conversation is not my strong point. Nor is quality poetry. But here I am, nevertheless. Peering over the chasm that separates legit poetry from the ravings of a lunatic. Slapping it down as if it were the former on a website, a deadsite, devoted to the highest art in all it's levels of quality. Listening to an old Steve Forbert record and not caring that no one who reads this will have a clue to who Steve Forbert was and especially with why I'm listening.
But you oughta know
It's a necessary ingredient in Brutal Juice
You ever heard of Romeo?
He never sang to Juliet
I'd let you know why but there are too many prying eyes spying trying to find themselves in the Juice's style and besides this ain't about Romeo just his tune and that's what keeps me going back to Jackrabbit Slim
No, tossing in obscure references does not elevate it to the level of quality poetry
I've tried that enough times to know
Sad fact is Brutal Juice flatters himself to type such dreck into a text field for to post on such a regal Internet destination for poetry that ranges from the silly to the sublime
Brutal Juice hovers somewhere between those poles
All the while wondering
Why he bothers
He's a joke without a punchline but funny as hell for all that at least to the few who sit in the same bathtub
Who rub-a-dub in the same Juice
Orange Simpson, rotting away behind concrete walls
And Brutal Joyce, retired and misunderstood
Yes, maybe only the three of us
It will hurt my feelings if you pull your snob **** peanut butter tude on me because you are a foreigner with an ever-so-subtle difference in vernactitude. My spell check tells me that "vernactitude" is not an actual word and that's just great, it's exactly what I was looking for.
Look deep but not too deep and you'll possibly find something worth keeping from Brutal Juice but I don't guarantee it. It's worth a
Try
I ain't trying to be King Fool here, that position is already taken, but it's **** hard to write and listen to Steve Forbert at the same time...
....and don't nobody tell me to choose one or the other....
that's not how I roll
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
I abandoned the
accepted standard
found the edge of the map
and fell off.
The world is flat
Just how deep
does the rabbit hole
go?
We may never know
but I dove head first
into the ground.
Try and find me now
The universe is vast
but I
rearrange the planets
in a pattern more familiar
The system can collapse
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 11:06 PM UTC
Carted off to who-hears paths
doubly deep of our weathers.
Keeping armfuls of guts from
spilling, ***** worms uncoiling
for their native soils.
Saying loudly our slippery peaces...
to break with surface light.
To trade ravings hinged on absence,
moistly noodling context in place.
Freakishly conducive to metabolizing
the essence of otherness.
May 3, 2017
May 3, 2017 at 12:35 PM UTC
A tree sways in the murmuring breeze,
On its crooked branch a nightingale is perched,
Humming and singing, a song,
Of memories sweet and long gone,
Of nights passionate and amorous,
Of kisses and embraces, delicate and rapturous,
And i remember those shudders of ecstasy,
That raging fervour of love,
With melancholy sighs,
And with those melancholy sighs,
I wish to conjure a mysterious magic,
Which could fill my heart with memories,
Instead of blood,
So tht in my veins will course a flood,
A flood of pure love ,
And let my body tremble with that bliss ,
Of knowing tht u reside so deep,
Inside my body and soul ,
Of knowing that there is nothing to separate us,
And knowing that my heart is finally whole
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
Feel like I'm falling somewhere
somewhat transcendental
needing to stop pretending
that what I feel
and see
and live
isn't
real.
I suppose that I wanted to write
something that may
have been something
magically enticing
that could
bring me
back to
you.
But I'm sick of these vicious ravings
tacked up on some kind
of failing travesty
crying out
for an
idea.
So what that I was looking for someone
to cling to in this raging sea
so what that I may have
been the exact opposite
of who and what
she and I
may have
desired.
I don't think that my absolute and unwelcome
need to write whatever comes to mind
is some kind of balm that may cure
whatever sinking, slithering thing
that ails me so, irresolute
and very sullen
but rather
is a mirror
unforgiving.
How this phrase grown out of a horror movie
and one thousand years of Alchemy
has become a byword between us
living as a hashtag and a symbol
in the world we now have here
our only complete interaction
contact in something
souls flung
carelessly
away.
Realizing that I'm not writing this to you or me
but rather all of us that have fought
in our own way to continue
believing in something
greater than ourselves
weak and yet
resilient as
firelight.
I have not the words to break through the walls
that I have built for myself out of
shame and a soul wounded
and so scarred as to
have torn your
happiness from
you.
But I still retain this deep suspicion that
what still lives within us all
is a burning and a knowing
something not for Truth
but for not needing
to feel so
****** lonely
so sickeningly
often.
And so I sit here behind by computer forged from
metal and silicon and greed, typing out love and rage
not really believing that what I say
will ever have any real impact
on the society that I have
come here, truly
to destroy.
So let's take a true gander at this wretch of a world
that we've created for ourselves, hoping
that all of this half-assed search
for real and absolute
freedom from oppression
is more
than
a
pipe-dream.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC