"scottie" poems
Scottie spot a thot
Scottie spot the thot
Taking multiple shots
Scotty hopped right off his stool
Up to the thot he walked
Hoping she didn't find him
A fool
He said hey thot
From across the bar I spot
Such a **** fine thot
Wouldn't you hop on my ****
Now the thot looked restless
What a decision?
This might be the first time the thot
Well..thought
Needless too say it wasn't long
Before the thot hopped on
Scottie's ****
Scottie thought
Man after this thot
I might need a penicillin shot
Oh no, Scottie watch!!!
Here comes the thot's
Big pop
Threatening to give Scottie,
A pop pop
Scottie prayed to god
He wouldn't see no cops
Especially since before he
Made a stop at the ******* spot
And especially not for some
Thot
We all know Scottie
For a thot he's never fought
So he hopped off his stool and
Ran out of the club
He ain't no nub!
Scottie didn't get popped for no
Silly thot
And so is the story
Of Scottie spot the thot
Who took multiple shots
Hopped on Scottie's ****
And called on her
Big pop
Who almost gave Scottie
A pop pop
Scottie went to the clinic
To get a shot
And thought twice
The next time he spot a thot
Taking multiple shots
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 8:08 PM UTC
eight, nine
nine, eight, nine
Hello, father, spare me a dime,
and pay the mime with
five landmines;
**** off the bridge if
we've got time.
Appalachian Yeti-man:
set fire to the trashcan.
Call me hobo-stan,
and if the beard fits
grow it.
Show it;
show me the D.
Dentistry,
stay with me;
Explain for free:
"Dichotomy
of the mind"
thoughtfully,
for a time.
Robot-o me,
Mr. Oregato.
Set phasers to ****
stunningly.
Make fun of he
for bad grammar
and intellectuality.
He dumber;
me smarter.
She's aderall;
I'm martyr.
Destroy my innards,
Captain.
I need them not.
She leaves me rot,
and he feeds me Scott.
Scottie doesn't know
that Fiona and me
eat him in a van while
he's sleeping.
Cannibal,
call me Hannibal,
and she's the Jane to my
Tarzan,
pulling the fruits of
my loom.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 1:40 AM UTC
I would have gone into Scottie's garage to the mattress with you when I was nine and you were twelve, or seemed like you were.
And we would have lain on that bare bed-like thing in a shaft of light and dust.
We might have laughed too.
Initiation rights, the kind I always wanted, might have occurred on that worn out piece of flotsam in a back alley idea of someone's suburban dream in the 1960's.
Between two poets who were destined to meet up anyway, so it was fate, sunshine.
Definitely fate.
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 11:47 PM UTC
*the man of light
knows darkness all to well
he possess sacred knowledge
of source
a living experience with in
radiant
and self effulgent
he knows all is permitted
in the acculturated labyrinths of mind
rooted in bias
and incalculable distortions
a hell house ride
constructed of warbled mirrors
Leprechauns gold
an abusement park
of crepuscular
subconscious ethers
and concertized form
on shape shifting sands
creativity gone mad
where time undoes all
its weary inhabitants worn
they are the color of sleep
attaining misguidance
oh the vacuous business
of guided meditations
through azure skies and verdant fields
while the certified uninitiated
whisper
their pale voices against sonorous winds
as if they could lever boulders with broken twigs
stone churches
gothic crosses
temples of man
monoliths to the imaginary
fantastical man god
re-pleat with beard and cock....how quaint
adulations and prostrations
to there man made deity
through myth that binds
group think
other directed
un-individuated individuals
like tribal ants
a world of shattered light
a white knuckle ride
on a spinning mud ball
yet who knows the secret
of the inner light
the illuminated door
the portal through which
Scottie will really beam you up
The man of the mystic light
in a darkened freakish world
is he not an inconvenience
like a mentor to the deaf dumb and blind
he is rarely recognized
almost never believed
the light is not a metaphor
the source that emanates all
although formless and self effulgent
it is not a religion yet all abide with in it
in the dark funnel of conceit
man turns everything into a noun
as if naming is claiming
when what he seeks is beyond
for it is a great dimension of another order
konx om pax
light in extension*
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 1:08 PM UTC
**** I think the shrooms are starting to take effect
But there's something about the crowd that's getting me upset
There's not enough noise and actually I'm getting a little ******
Me and the Mic start fights with the Bass and Kicks
That's right, this the track you ************* asked for
The grooves from the guys your girlfriend's showin they *** for
The fastest cats laughin while were passin on your action
and crashing your favorite pad to smoke on you favorite stash
and you're mad
but I'm in another galaxy entirely, whole
and I'm watching the smoke trail off the bowl
Reminds me of how my soul leaks out the holes in my body
Given to me as a gift from this kid we call Scottie
Cause his breakbeats so sharp
Piercing through me like darts
and the Tree's basslines change the timing of my heart
Now my spirit's escaping, it's all over the stage
I'm trying to remember the next rhyme on the page
But I'll keep spittin cause my soul grows when I'm rockin a Mic
The bit I lose is made up for when the timing is right
You can see it in the lights, collecting up high
Pooling like mercury, growing with the passing of time
I've got friends with Black Ties, Purple Hearts, and Green Thumbs
Yellow Eyes, and Blue Souls sipping premium Red ***
They burn frosty trees chilling to some cool *** beats
Well what can I say, my soul's blue too some weeks
But that's why we make the music
For scrubbing the spirit, can you hear it?
That's great, but I need you to feel this
Cause this is real **** at last
We clash with popular demand
To make a stand on our hands
And that was always the plan
So if you're at a show
And you see a cloud above the crowd
Remember to breathe deep
Cause it's probably blunt smoke
Mar 18, 2011
Mar 18, 2011 at 6:59 AM UTC
I wish my hands were rockets
So I could see the show
Watching them blast off, whe'er they go
I don't really want them anymore
So to them I wave adieu
Well, I would if I had hands...
Instead I flop arms
Like a seal waiting for a meal at your local circus
I pitch tents
And people sometimes visit (read: never)
but a few have wanted to see the show
And see me bark
They probly honk the horn better than I
In the end of the day I pray for a sickness to leave my body
And to not struggle anymore
But I don't think that's really the point
I think it's a story about rising above...
I'm still at the ocean floor, though
And there's a long way up
but away from the dreary, let's focus on cheery
As I carve pumpkins in the shape of silence
There's nothing in April for the stuff in October
So I fold over a game of poker
For another month or two
Pour me a drink, Scottie!
A fifth of *** and a shot o' her
Wondering eyes cut ties to those morals we hold most dear
None of you are mine, and I have little right to peer over as I do
But oh, do I
Wondering eyes are best plucked out by Ravens
Like that's so Edgar Allen Poe
Half Black females can squander careers... or blame
it on the ***** or disney channel
Spring Break, *******
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 12:41 AM UTC
This happened to Malcolm
My sister Hadley hosed green stuff off the ***
When she squirted my ear I ****** the neck rope. Her skin was hurt so
The horse folded back her lips and bit my thigh with brown yellow teeth.
I was thirteen. I locked myself in the bathroom.
I felt ***** as a smug prayer for running. Mom said,
“Come back out. Don’t get left behind.” My dad had run away.
I splashed my face cold and put on my jeans. I hustled out. Not for my mother.
Scottie was a Brock University girl from PEI who cut and doctored hooves and skin
And shod horses and filed their teeth. You could smell teeth filings and Stockholm tar
And when I went back to the head she held my face
A long time in her hands and said I knew you were a straight arrow.
That might have scared my mom.
That was the first time I ever did it with anyone.
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
In the exploded plan of man
I see no
substance,
a bit
like
skeleton ****
a bit
of
bare bones.
Clone me now 'Scottie'
do a 'Star Trek or 'Mickey Mouse' or
even a 'Shrek' on me.
Warp me to a Factor of three,
infirmity and infinitely beyond anything where anyone can see except for 'Buzz' and me.
In this mapped out, strapped in and crapped out state
I see the skeletons waiting at the pearly gate,
at one time it was 'gates',
but they sold one off for scrap which
is another load of crap,
a bit like skeleton ****
no substance to it.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 8:45 AM UTC
Brisk--
a slight whisp of northern wind
rustles rainbow dewdrop grass,
around me, blooming trees
breathing deeply inward,
their fresh foliage is an assortment
of all green hues, a relief
from the freezing, chill drab grays of winter...
Dandelions splotch [arts of the grass--
nature's lazy Jackson Pollack homage.
The sun seems brighter,
the lighting a stereotypical 1950's Leave It to Beaver-esq TV show.
Here I sit,
wearing all black under a tree;
the only thing colorful about me is the gold writing
on this Pilot jet black pen dribbling these words
in gooey black ink.
I woke feeling uneasy & forlorn,
like rising from a haunted bed.
Not sure why...
Even the dogs in this park trot
with brighter velocity.
A small grey/brown Scottie yipps at me,
as if letting everyone know I'm an anomaly
on this otherwise perfect day.
Part of me wants to scream
at all the people in their colorful neon running garb
or shimmering salvation Sunday cloth,
but another part just wants to jam this pen
through my ****** straight into my heart
& let the ink & my crimson, iron-rich blood seep
into the ground,
because those are the closest feelings
I've found to express something there are no words for.
Sounds like it might be one of those angsty
cloudy type days.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
Let the Ocean run orange...And the sky flash white...and fill my mind with dreams...stories of your visions through orange light beams...and i'll have scottie bring them up...in conversation where space wont fill up..Cuz stars ocuppy..the iris eye..white sky...and die...Leaving a fools gold dusting over crops...and they richly consume thinking that the wealth will never stop...when it never truly began..fate of a star repeated over and over again...But frankly this Ocean swims good...and cleans the fools dust to see it for what he should...Art that should not be consumed...but shared...Not a quick search for fame...or a ticket to wins life game..but the nice scratch you get from old Vinyl...That new sound we found from a Orange Channel
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 7:33 AM UTC
Who can hang with the flow
None so suckas don't wanna go toe to toe
Blow for blow we shuttin' down any shows
Yo I be rippin'and then dippin'
Tearin' up emcees
Like slams of Scottie Pippen my clips in
Begins mad *********** static the stations
Once I step to the nation makin' innovations
My team's basically waiting invoking Satan
Many not Makin? Their moves ya vital signs leakin' homes
I'mma keep rappin' til in a funeral home
I'm makin' rap mortuaries to every body who get buried
And married into the afterworld it varies
Scenarios carry easily we hurry hotter than jamacian curry
Lookin' at my right hand my pistol grip pumpin'
Increase hearts ya jumpin' ivs dumping
Tryna keep you alive bumpin' all jive yo we always into something.....
My ****** rate dominate in all states undercover I'll annihilate
And humiliate to those that wanna test thier fates
I'm makin' casket crates three in a row seven each
That means twenty one bodies leach I preach
What I teach never a leech ya contracts breach
Eulogy given flows hit like Julius Jackson stickin'
Uppercuts from ya head to gut ya know what
We bout to do **** ya crew like soundview
Feel the blast spin around adversaries like Taz
Leave a destructive path death gets the last laugh
Powerful paragraphs that entice blood baths
Master the craft still layin' my grande shaft
A **** ero sick with the turntable beatin' labels
She feelin' on my cables my necklace ain't no checkin' this
Yo this ****** Ludacris number one spot I keep locked
Like an Alcatraz prison spiritually risen
Ya mentals genuflected from the music that christens
Who can hang with the flow
None so suckas don't wanna go toe to toe
Blow for blow we shuttin' down any shows
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 5:18 AM UTC