"riff" poems
Good king Selassie looked out
on the feast of Marley
When the kush lay round about
dank and green and sticky
Loudly bumped reggae that night
As the king did turn
When a stoner came in sight
Gathering kush to burn
"Come here boy and stand by me
if you know this then say;
where would that young stoner be
at the end of this day?"
"My King he lives quite far away
rather close to Babylon
where exactly I can not say
he surely lives in Zion."
"Bring me kush and fine hashish
bring me bongs and paper
You and I, his base shall reach
bringing dank kush vapour!"
Island boy and Selassie
went across great Zion
eyes all red and mouths all dry
They rode upon the lion
"King, my eyes are growing white
and we smoked our last spliff
I fear that I may die tonight
play me one last reggae riff..."
"Island boy you don't recall
who it is you roll wit
unto me JAH trusted all
of the kush on this planet!"
So Selassie I was blessed
they were high once more
the stoner was offered the rest
of what they had in store
Therefore rasta men be sure
if you have that dank kush
share it with your brothers poor
and find yourself with more bush
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 11:12 AM UTC
We embarked upon a titanic voyage to a new world.
It’s said that behind every great man there's a great woman; But a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.
7 bells rang late that night, as our ship stuck fast; between the devil and the deep blue sea.
Fingers frantic! tapping code…—-…
Sailors quickly battened down the hatches and stowed away the Riff-raff, for they knew fine words would butter no parsnips, Better here than there in third class.
Some fiddlers on the deck played “Nearer My God to Thee", As the bubbles rose from beneath the sea, come buckle down boys for the devils to pay, come hell or high water he’ll have his pay.
Mothers row, land lubbers row, it's time to leave this god forsaken place. pulling hard for freedom.
Ten steel decks split and snap, as they join the ***** and hundreds either shriek or pray; as La dolce vita slowly ebbed away.
Mercifully the cacophony descends ever silent, as fifteen hundred souls become neither fish nor flesh, rotting from the head down.
Save our souls •••- - - •••. … — …
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 4:15 PM UTC
nobody gets the cancer twice.
(a blues guitar riff)
blood in the stool
ain’t nobody’s fool,
whent to high school
did not graduate,
but know it wasn’t no thing I ate
scale greets me friendly like,
long lost buddy from yesterday morn,
‘let get right down to it,
let’s see how much less of you borne
leftover alive from the prior day’
spirit spit blood from my gums,
got me a woman, she’s way over town,
woman said I’m brushing with
too hard a brush, alright, alright,
make no fuss, she’s good to me
nobody’s fool whent to school,
though I did not graduate,
a mean riff is better than a
slow moving woman blues cry,
got the strings to do my screaming
doctor is a fan, name is Jimmy,
played music like last time round,
Jimmy-jamming, dancing in the waiting room,
“that cancer got kick, it’s gonna get ya,
think I told ya that about hunner times before”
‘nobody gets the cancer twice,’
an old wives tale for unlucky po’ somofabitches,
do you some tests, tell ya the specifics,
right now, lay, lay down them new tracks,
no quitting time less the good lord comes a-calling’
blues guitar makes a man
cry shiver scream and shake,
progressions licks and tricks,
so you can’t tell what’s making
a grownup man cry and laugh louder
bring me my medicine
bring me my guitar
all I know is how it makes me feel,
oh baby once a night it’s true,
nobody gets the cancer twice
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC
Have a little slice of key lime pie; get down on your knees and get real high,
'cause mamma’s gone and cut you a slice of key lime pie!
Spank step, toe hop, cramp-shuffle, paddle and roll;
Mamma’s gone and cut you a slice of key lime pie.
Dig deep, riff-walk, clunk-click, scuff those feet;
Mamma’s gone and cut you a slice of key lime pie!
Soft shoe or metal tap on the heel or toe, get your shoes on honey here we go!
Tastes so good, tastes so neat,
it’s a sweet and salty treat!
'cause mamma’s gone and cut you a slice of key lime pie!
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 8:02 AM UTC
Replaying a riff four times perfectly
One missed fret and the entire day ends disastrously
Replaying moments of kindness and warmth
To overcome the feverish idea that I hold no heart
Every fourth step, threes end in ******
Maimed images constantly creep
This subconscious ludovico technique
These thoughts come and go in no particular order
A seat at the table and a serviette on my lap
What if I leapt out my chair and suddenly attacked?
What if I aimed the knife towards my hand?
I constantly question if that’s who I am
I will have a picnic with her today, all joy and cheer
When these intrusive thoughts will inexplicably get near
And terrorize my attitude as well as my image
Disassociating with a perplexed and horrified visage
I’m so incredibly tired of existing
A cruel and ironic fate
I’ve missed out on so many opportunities
All because of this miserable headspace
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 1:05 PM UTC
To have them shipped across the sea,
sitting like ornamental drops
tinsel strung around your eyes
pocketed the tree
walking down sunset avenue
reeking of bamboo stalks and water chestnuts
looking for a place to submerge your treasure
with a rattling breath do you deflate
And the Oak trunk that grows unimpeded
hanging her branches
caressing the Spaniard shingles
the clay missionary tabs
touching the stucco with a golden blade
of sunlight
cutting a thousand little strips
to hang about the face
moving a thousand miles a second
stopped in place with the quiet repose
of a yoga state
humming and shimmering
yet let me be sweet oak tree.
And I wander through the canyon boulevard
between the rocky cliffs and the endless riff
of surf-rock echoed off skate parks
and riding the PC
highway hair bedraggled and snaked into next week
lingering bonfire on the cotton shirt
plant for plant
*** for tat
seed to breed
Now dance, you and me.
Insinuation
drooling salivary tongue full
bacon
pigging out on burgers
getting red-eyes from vegans
smoking plants
murderers
We squirt,
relish on the act of dying
all things dying
choking life second by second
dying to live.
Staring at neon fins lining the gravel lot
Koi flickering beneath the celestial night
Suspended pondwater
pondering
In surfce tension
the deep mysteries of life
Tracing the snake through the winding streams
we watch atop the rooftop
Gaia
Taking in the burgeoning
Ocean of incandescent tangerine
and Peyote-light
Cacti hidden somewhere between
the quiet slumber of mindless streets
aligned by formless hands
Drinking the mescaline
air
Twisting the nightly moments
as locks of hair
I curled them, slipping, within my fingertips
tracing the long winding road of Tao
along her shoulders
Enraptured by her sensual bliss
When I finally drifted along the clouded memories
of divine rumbling eyes
she disappeared into the sky
blinking along the Jet turbines
Never meant to be mine
for more than a night
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 12:25 AM UTC
Pawpaw would rock by the fireplace in his favorite rocker ! The occasional whiff of Oak firewood and Borkum Riff pipe tobacco , I was hanging on to every word ! A narrative about a little boy in 1925 . Standing by his chair , as proud as I could be ! He'd look straight into your eyes without even flinching , the smell of Old Spice aftershave and Kentucky Bourbon . A shot glass with a gold rim ..A pocket watch his Father passed on to him ..Stories of a little fella from the south side of Atlanta relayed to a captive audience of one ! A starstruck grandson with a cup of hot chocolate , cap pistol , belt , holster , pajamas and house shoes ! Astonished with tales of Buffalo Bill ! Sergeant York and Wild Bill Hickok !
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 8:14 PM UTC
Us together was exemplary devastation and even in pieces, I yearned for more...
Us together now is pure conservation even perpetual I want more...
Can I compare you to my lovely day? But you are the art more lovely and more adumbrate...
Your cherry blossom hue never gonna wash away by heavy showers of rain I'm not even gonna let ragged wind shake my darlings, Dovey...
You can savour me... But only with your eyes... And I will vow with mine.. then there will be no surprise...
May our path be cohered forever and get entwined... We can epoch our kiss in a barrel then we not gonna need chardonnay wine...
What signifies how intimate we shall be??
Not what you are but what you're to me...
But you are so far away... And we are planning to make our stay... we are staying under the blanket of starry nights...
And it's a sight to behold because we gonna see two moons collide...
As long as the sun shines we traverse and expands...
May we reach the end of it all and may this never ends...
Feb 21, 2022
Feb 21, 2022 at 6:01 AM UTC
Ganders...gargantua--ensconced in far-fetched space...
(attrition)...LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...
ROUND THE CORNERS OF PERPETUITY...predilections.
A soul's inalienable fracas...on bend and knee...hop...and
whoop...miasmic gargoyles poppy-wreathed...
for all-too-lucid dreaming...chanting etceteras of bare riff raffs.
Golden breastplates...weeping willow wings...empurpled--
fending fang trumping lines of: yuck, cluck, claw and kook.
...Listless eyes...alphabetize...think a blind oracle's informed
absentia...holy and bovine.
Redolent airs...perspiration of spume's most distancing shore--
eyepieces for the specks and logs in the oculos of brothers
and sisters.
As dust to dust doth not settle...heart's yonder score...nay cease
of interstice...off-world amorousness.
Gather ye yarrow sticks...hurl them at days...roofless arcady...
live into the spectra of their worlds, come friend or foe...Fate's foundling.
Lines strung as prayer beads...curs-ed beads...forget-me-nots
enclosed in letters baiting Long Farewells, in the great literary
correspondence of authored and Author.
...Ye gorgeous gargoyles come perch and push.
Persona non grata...the wide world...unisex prodigal...All--returneth.
LOOK AT THAT LINE...LOOK AT IT...(attrition)...ROUND THE
CORNERS OF PERPETUITY.
NEBULAEIC FANFARE...come perch to push...lo...ANGELS!
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 12:35 PM UTC
I be jammin down da beach
When I heard da pastor preach
"Baatiboys stay far from we!" he yell
"Baatiboys will burn in hell!"
He take a drag from the spliff
He jam out a reggae riff
"Excuse I" I say
"You should be on your way"
The spliff be shaped like a ****
He light it with tha bic
Baatiboy wink at me
His last wink that'll be
I rise up like Jah
I smack him in da jaw
Da spliff be fallin'
Da baatiboy be bawling'
He runnin' away cryin'
But this baatiboy gonna be dyin'
Pull out tha chopper
BAWH BRAP BRAP POW drop er'
Pastor be cheering
At the baatiboys I'm sneering
Stay off me beach
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 10:45 PM UTC
In the reserved room built with teenage angst
sat a guitar waiting for a dear friend.
My quick fingers were tentative to touch.
I listened to the chords I brought about—
played a tangle labyrinth. I wish to quit.
Was that a G sharp or a B flat note?
Frustration brews like a furious storm.
I wanted to toss everything away.
This instrument? Not mine. And that is that.
Too embarrassed by my ineptitude.
I loathe guitars! I cannot play them right.
That riff was supposed to be heavy metal.
Not math rock, but it’s enough to settle.
That might change if I use guitar pedals.
Cmon, keep your head high. Let it stay bright.
A friendship with my guitar has begun.
There are bounds I’m still trying not to reach.
And one day, I’ll be good enough to teach
or possess an audience at the beach.
Hey, the guitar is becoming quite fun!
**** metal. I’m a stoner rock artist.
I can play bends, solos, and vibrato.
Look, I even came up with a motto:
to thrive, start with anger in a bottle.
With my advice, you will go the farthest.
My fingers’ pink blush irritates my skin.
Still eager to play. I ignore the sore.
It doesn’t feel like a chore anymore.
This instrument? It’s mine. It led to doors.
It helped me find heaven and become kin.
Jan 8, 2022
Jan 8, 2022 at 4:39 PM UTC
I've got too many books that I just don't read
and too many lines which I need not speak
and so many times I still forget to breathe
So darling, you're not what I need
I've so many thoughts running through my mind
and too many lines in queue for me to write them
and so many mates who could do with good advice
So darling, I've not got the time
I've seen too many films and I've seen this bit
I've had too many drugs and I know this trip
I can't play the guitar but I've played this riff
So darling, why don't we just leave it?
Sometimes I speak slightly at an angle,
or blow money out quick like a candle.
Sometimes I'll be too heavy to handle
so don't pick me up because I could be ******* fragile.
I've been to all the shows and I know this song
and I'll still get the key, tune, note, words wrong
and I've a long list of friends where it's been way too long
I'm sorry, you're not what I want
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 10:41 AM UTC
Those of you who sleep at nite,
Maybe unaware of the riff raff
Of poets who, two if by night,
Riff each other All Night Long,
Trade barbarous compliments,
Hipping and dipping, jiving & shucking
(Yes I am outdatedly old, yes I know)
Slipping in scepters of sly verse,
Interspersed with an occasional curse,
Riposte and repost each other,
Always seeking a word edgewise,
Or the last word
(Even better)
Whipping, sticking and licking
Each other's poems
With jabs of kind words,
&
That seldom are heard,
In fact a never-land rule,
A contemptuous thread,
And it's off with your head,
And you gotta be there,
To believe,
But its ok, sleep well,
And leave the S(word) play
To those who live and die
By the coda
Only the young-at-heart-poets
never get olda,
So there!
Jul 19, 2025
Jul 19, 2025 at 3:35 AM UTC
OUR POVERTY HAS COLOUR
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; [email protected])
Most illusive and elusive
Like the devils of Congo forest
Is the impish poverty
Permeating all seals with vicious wily
Into the midst of callous humanity
Biting country men and country women
With carnivorous dentalities so ruthless
Putting man to a forlorn shame
As the wife looks in desperate flaggerbastation
Putting matriarchal womenfolk to humiliation
As the expectant sire wallow in the askance of looks
Condemning communities to status ad absurdum initio
Thinning man from man, culling woman from woman
Eating flesh by flesh social koprpers of man
Eating the native flesh in the farms of Brazil
Tearing the ***** steak into ghetto lacerations of Chicago
Whizzling sombre morning tunes to the Zulus in the black tundra
Cementing pale casted clusters for the Patels of India
Commanding suave drills to poor (wo) menfolk; left! Left! Left! –abouuuuturn!
With its accomplice Mr. Hunger son of starvation, they both command drills
For black factory workers, Maids and gravediggers to dance
Watchmen, thieves and prostitutes to match
In the hinterland of Africa all the riff-raff in deep despair
Dance in a tandem to the irritating drills of the duo;
You come on! Left! Right! Left! Right!—fowaaard match!
Backward match! Left! Right! Left! Right! Sharpp uuuuuuuturn!
The duo communiqué; Go home and wait for your pay announcement.
Surely; what colour is our poverty?
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 11:13 AM UTC
RiFF RaFF pullin' up with five ace-cards.
Maybe five jokers, your ***** playin' strip poker.
I'm outside eating fried okra, with Oprah.
Diamonds on my piece and chain, looking like Mufasa.
Look like Lion King, drive a Sebring.
Fifty thousand dollas, bought myself a wedding-ring.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
Sitting in de street
Spitting out a reggae beat
Rollin up a sticky spliff
Jammin out a reggae riff
JAH knows I take the fattest hit
**** this ****** is strong as ****
I see a glint in the eye of a guy
On de street, just passin by
He flicks some cash in me cup, and I begin to smile;
For in my heart of hearts I know, he feels my reggae style
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
The truck was full, its open back
heaped black, and there a leg, an eye;
daylight thickened on the sweating
stack and blurred the further sky.
Ten feet away I pulled the key
and let the engine jolt and choke,
the CD skipped, an old riff jarred,
a line of meaning stopped and broke
and something in that silence straightened,
left a splintered ****** mark,
I closed my eyes and felt it there,
hating in the blinded dark.
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 3:09 PM UTC
there is an old persian legend of a man who falls in love
with a woman and goes insane when he cannot have her.
even after she is married to someone else, he spends his days
composing love songs in the dirt, building sandcastle hearts
just to watch them collapse again when the tide rolls back in.
years pass, and the girl never writes anything back.
i still wonder if she was ever given the chance to.
i was twenty-seven when i learned that you could fashion a
stethoscope out of a cassette tape, broadcast the sounds of your
heart to a double guitar riff that screamed desire. you pressed
play and in an instant, i was priest to your deepest confessional.
i never asked about how you looked at me on the days that my
husband was too busy finding god to join me in bed at night.
i never wanted to know that you sinned in the color of my eyes.
i never thought i’d be remembered for the moment that i traded
krishna for ******* and the thousand days that followed:
day 176: we mix love and self-destruction in an old hotel room
until they go down my throat as easily as sweet red wine.
day 472: you turn watching me get ready for a party into an
excuse to make love to my reflection with the windows open.
day 894: you spend the entire morning restringing your guitar
but i can still recognize another woman’s voice in its tone.
day 1000: i loved you but never had the instruments to prove it.
we’ve both realized that obsession is a drug best left to legend.
to this day, they still call me the greatest muse of rock and roll,
but each switch of the radio dial is just another reminder that i
once tasted like music in the mouths of men, that their words built
me up like a flower-child mona lisa in all the permanence of three
minutes of vinyl, that though i inspired the most beautiful lyrics
ever written about love, they never called me onstage to sing them.
i was once told that if you love a woman to the point of madness, she
will become it. but any insanity i have remains etched on the insides
of my veins; i walk beaches now, much too old for sandcastle-building.
years pass, and the girl has never written anything back.
i still wonder if she will ever be given the chance to.
even the world’s greatest muses sometimes want to hold the pen.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
They had thin arms and basketballs
Jokes and jackstones
I only had my lunch box
They were eating together
I was alone
Across me
A riff of tables and chairs
There were my classmates
Exchanging butterscotch
Their laughter rang
In the white sound, I could not even speak because
Love never needed to talk
It just needed to create sense in my mouth
My mouth was full. Stuffed with the tanginess of gravy
This is why lonely is my bliss
Grow
Fat but I belong
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
THE BOXING DAY SALES
WHAT CAN I SAY ABOUT THE BOXING DAY SALES
WELL, THE MALL IS OFTEN A PLACE FOR PEOPLE TO
DO THEIR STUFF, BUT BOXING DAY EVERYONE
IS PUSHING OVER EACH OTHER
THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH GOING TO THE MALL ON BOXING DAY
BUT BE PREPARED, IT’S LIKE ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE
YA SEE, PEOPLE BUY THINFS THEY NEVER USE
AND THE MOTHERS BUY KIDS LUNCH, NEVER GETS EATEN
KIDS RUNNING AROUND, SAYING YEAH WE AIN’T AT SCHOOL
LET’S CELEBRATE LET’S CELEBRATE
YOU SEE BOXING DAY IS THE FRANTIC DAY
IF YOU LIKE THE REGULAR DAYS AT THE MALL
NEVER GO ON BOXING DAY
CAUSE, THEY CALL IT BOXING DAY
CAUSE PEOPLE AT THE MALL BOX YOU OUT OF THE WAY
TO EXCHANGE THE TACKY COAT YOUR MOTHER BOUGHT YOU
TO A STYLISH RED LEATHER COAT, LOOKS BETTER AND COSTS THE FUCKEN EARTH
YA SEE IN MELBOURNE, THE BOXING DAY TEST, WITH AUSTRALIA AGAINST THE REST
AND THEN IN SYDNEY, IS THE SYDNEY - HOBART YACHT RACE, AND THAT IS RAD
AND OFTEN PEOPLE ARE CAMPED OUTSIDE SHOPPING CENTRES
TO GET FIRST GRASP AT THE BOXING DAY SALES
WITH ME, I SHOP FOR THE MOMENT, SOM I DON’T GET DISSAPOINTED
I DON’T NEED TO FALL ASLEEP OUTSIDE WESTFIELD BELCONNEN MALL
I AM USING PANADOL CAUSE ATHENA’S METHANE IS POUNDING
BUT THAT IS PREVIOUS LIFE TRAUMA, YA SEE THE PARACETAMOL IS REALLY GETTING IN
AND I CAN FEEL, WITH THE COCA COLA, AND REGULAR BRUSHING
THERE WILL BE ON INFECTION IN MY MOUTH, I DON’T WANT THAT
I PUT MY VIDEOS ON SOCIAL MEDIA TO ATTRACT A COOLER KIND OF PERSON
YA SEE, I DON’T NEED THE FIRST THINGS IN THE BOXING DAY SALES
I GET WHAT I WANT OUT OF LIFE, I REMEMBER A SONG
THE FESTIVAL OF SYDNEY IS OUR DAY, SYDNEY SYDNEY SYDNEY OI OI OI
I HAVE MY HOME NOW, SO I DON’T NEED TO HANG AT THE MALL AS MUCH
BUT CURRENTLY I AM DOING A TAPESTRY ON PATRICK DUNBARS LITTLE LEAGUE BASEBALL
I FEEL COOL, I FEEL ON TOP OF THE WORLD, LOOKING, OVER CREATION, LOOKING
THE ONLY SOLUTION I CAN FIND, AND AS I SANG FINE, PETER BUCHANAN
A MATE IN WOODBERRY IN THE 1970S, DID A REALLY COOL FINNNEEE
WITH A DEEPER VOICE, HE WAS COOOL MAN
I FAKED HIM TO PROVE A POINT TO THE YOUNG DUDES SAYING
JUST BECAUSE THE OTHER YOUNG DUDES UNDERSTOOD DAD’S WAY
DOESN’T MEAN I DID, HE LOOKED LIKE A REAL PAIN IN THE ***
TAKING MY COOL KID AWAY, BUT MUSTN’T DWELL, WE MUST HAVE FUN
I AM OFF TO THE CAVALRY MATCH TOMORROW, TO SEE THE FIRST
BUT I AM LEAVING AFTER THE FIRST MATCH, NO BUSES IN THE NIGHT
AND THE BOXING DAY SALES BRINGS OUT THE RIFF RAFF THE ROUGHER TYPES
AND THE CHEAP SUPERMARKET PUDDING JUNKIES LIKE ME WHO NEED TO GO TO THE MALL TO LEAVE THE HOUSE
BUT BOXING DAY SALES ARE FUN, IF YOU AIN’T IN THE INITIAL LINE
THAT CAN BE FRANTIC
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC
There was no one at the funeral
No one there to say goodbye
It took them two whole weeks to find him
No one knew that he had died
Set out in the countryside
A farm with lots of land
He died there in his easy chair
It was just, but not as planned
We grew up there with no neighbors
Just a dad and his three girls
No one heard our screaming
In our pinies and our curls
THE MONSTER ISN'T IN THE ROOM
NOT IN THE CLOSET, NOR 'NEATH THE BED
HE'S IN THE BEDROOM DOWN THE HALL
DAD'S THE MONSTER IN HIS STEAD
HE COMES TO MY ROOM IN THE NIGHT
AND DOES THINGS THAT DAD'S DON'T DO
HE TOUCHES ME WHERE HE SHOULD NOT
DID HE TOUCH THE OTHERS TOO?
It's my task to clean out the house
To get rid of all that's here
There's memories in every room
And nightmares too, I fear
The scent of Borkhum Riff
Still hangs lightly in the air
I remember it as he lay down
It was in his clothes and hair
I can smell his after shave cologne
In the living room, it lingers
I remember lying silent
As he probed me with his fingers
THE MONSTER ISN'T IN THE ROOM
NOT IN THE CLOSET, NOR 'NEATH THE BED
HE'S IN THE BEDROOM DOWN THE HALL
DAD'S THE MONSTER IN HIS STEAD
HE COMES TO MY ROOM IN THE NIGHT
AND DOES THINGS THAT DAD'S DON'T DO
HE TOUCHES ME WHERE HE SHOULD NOT
DID HE TOUCH THE OTHERS TOO?
Boxes of old memories
To discard of and move out
I don't want to take them with me
Not with the memories about
My bedroom, like the others
Sits unchanged through out the years
There isn't many smiles there
Just dirt amongst the tears
I wonder as I go outside
To get a break from all the smells
I know he's not in heaven
My daddy's down in hell
THE MONSTER ISN'T IN THE ROOM
NOT IN THE CLOSET, NOR 'NEATH THE BED
HE'S IN THE BEDROOM DOWN THE HALL
DAD'S THE MONSTER IN HIS STEAD
HE COMES TO MY ROOM IN THE NIGHT
AND DOES THINGS THAT DAD'S DON'T DO
HE TOUCHES ME WHERE HE SHOULD NOT
DID HE TOUCH THE OTHERS TOO?
As time goes by know what I
Must do with this old place
I must obliterate it from my mind
And build a new house in it's place
Five miles from the closest farm
All alone with none around
I can free myself form the nightmare
If I burn it to the ground
I call up both my sisters
Knowing what he did to me
He wouldn't be selective
He did it to all three
THE MONSTER ISN'T IN THE ROOM
NOT IN THE CLOSET, NOR 'NEATH THE BED
HE'S IN THE BEDROOM DOWN THE HALL
DAD'S THE MONSTER IN HIS STEAD
HE COMES TO MY ROOM IN THE NIGHT
AND DOES THINGS THAT DAD'S DON'T DO
HE TOUCHES ME WHERE HE SHOULD NOT
DID HE TOUCH THE OTHERS TOO?
Through arguments and logic
I lay out to them my plan
They tell me they will come home
They'll be there when they can
The day arrives as do the girls
We start the plan out in the patch
We've each one can of gasoline
And we each have just one match
The house burns rather quickly
Oily smoke it fills the air
The only thing that's missing
Is that the monster isn't there.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
Passion fruit. Banana ***** papaya dreams so nice and juicy.
Papa's up. The game is down, these other kings just ain't around.
Bang, Bang, Who's Up?! Bang, Bang, Who's Down?!
These other authors they hit the ground.
I don't mean to fright, I don't mean to leave
I just got this thing that drives me.
I don't need to fight, but it feels, so, soo, good.
But all the po' lease think that it's my neighborhood.
Ooh girl I like ya'
C'mon over I like ya'
Ooh girl I like ya'
C'mon over I'll bite ya'
I know you's a freak, so bring a friend
I got rubber sheets, so I can break you in
Some other girls, think go around
But the truth is I just go downtown
The Rick Owens Store is like my homepage
If you ain't Facebook than you ain't gettin' laid
Obscur is fresh, Henrik's a boss, but I have to say
Trentemoeller really Lost. I liked Last Resort, even
Harbour Trips, but lately he's been on some ****** up ****
My parents want me to go get a Jay Oh Bee
But I'm too busy, sleeping.
My baby's face is porcelain, but I can't afford it
So I said it looked aluminum.
Dem people not, be steppin' on my toes
Cause' I'll show up reppin' Sheridan Rd. with my Colt '44.
Ooh girl I like ya
C'mon over ya ripe now
Ooh girl I like ya
C'mon over I'll bite ya
Your black garters' hot, so is yo' lace bikini
When it comes to lingerie, I play it like Houdini
Whether it's Agent Provocateur or Victoria's Secret
I hold my *** until I can put it in your ****
Relationship is such a ***** word
But when it comes to ***** I like 4-letter verbs
You can bring..um..whatever you want
But if you gotta **** **** ***** I'm out.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 3:09 AM UTC
Bathed in the shade of
a rubbery rhododendron,
I sway imperceptibly,
Lulled by nature's rhythms,
A silent, sleepy visitor
splayed on a ropey nest,
Serenaded by an aerial orchestra,
Chirps and trills
and throaty warbles
spiral downward,
Atomized in the languid breeze
like a Roman candle,
A staccato riff,
Jack-hammered into a dying birch,
Urges me back from the edge,
Where dream and dreamer part,
A gauzy memory of a melody lost,
Performed for the oblivious,
and a dozing, grateful
audience of one.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC