"shitface" poems
The Empire State Building is a giant middle finger
Concrete is broken, NYPD, taxis racing, red light green light
I enter the hand of the city through it's capillaries breaking mad concrete
Warm gusts of **** grime, and transportation swallow me
The city feeds off dreams and hope which we personally, willingly give up
We all somehow learn to accept this fate
The passerby no longer human but broken mirror
The hand inundates my eyes from breezes of tomorrow
The spacy apartment, and the affluent career and the acquantanceship
Of the handful of New Yorkers that run the hand: all questionable plans today
It's as if the hand's grasp, although sharp and brick, would venerate your intellect, guaranteed
If that's the case, I see wizards of wisdom everyday snoozing on concrete and cardboard and plastic
Bearded, black with dirt and skin, threads ripped by a world inferrior than the one in thier minds
Empire "Middle Finger" State of intellect, scrapping billion dollar clouds
Sardine can subways, escalators, elevators, high on crack **** speed of sound
The cash nerve system meltsdown into golden chips to feed the pigeons
Glass and steel craft spaces for modernity to be sold like a Washington Heights *****
You can feel the growth of the hand at the end of your intestines
It's a warm, uncomfortable vibration revealed in your ********
Foreign tongues buzz through the air, through your hair for 19.95
New York needs a haircut, some profound discipline so we wake up from this bizzare life of welcomed pain
You once charmed me with hopes of culture, open minds, connections, real connections, love and laughter
Yet, Today I am hungry in Murray hill
I am cold in Chelsea
I am broken in Union Square
I ***** in SoHo
I have fallen in the East River
And I bleed on financial monoliths
Someone have mercy on my wills
It is an intention trying to be fulfilled
But failed when it became self-aware
Nov 4, 2010
Nov 4, 2010 at 11:44 PM UTC
I suckled my mother's Bluetooth breast
while my father built me a bassinet
of series circuits with high, motherboard
bars.
I've got that artificial baby glow.
But Mom put my ****** on Facebook
at four weeks and I still haven't re-friended
(forgiven) her. My upgrade's in nine months,
but I want my downgrade now
'cause all I get are social invite excuses
from Facebook fuckfaces. We pack
our lives into little boxes that we're
not even allowed to open.
We drink to technology, keep our lazy
eyes on our news feeds, and recycle
ideas like their owners would even
want to see what we've done to them.
We misquote Confucius and credit ourselves
with mangled Robert Frost stanzas.
"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I think
it's awesome that Pepsi used to be blue."
Reblog, revine,
retweet, FaceTime.
Folding chair fold-out on someone's lawn.
White-out Yeats, Keats, Byron, and Auden,
and write John ******** or Tom Whatever.
We're caught in the chicken wire of an LCD
fruit basket so neat, orderly, and brushed
aluminum. How can people write in Starbucks?
S
B
U
X
B
S
The cooler's too ****** music's too shy,
and the sugar, no, not just the sugar.
THE PEOPLE are too artificial.
The carpet-suit inlay I'm standing
on has pencil lead, sock lint,
and receipt shred lapel pins.
Even corporations play dress-up.
But what happens when Y2K kicks
in tomorrow?
Lives will be lost even before
the missiles **** us.
And the planes that drop
from the sky won't even come close
to when the bough breaks your little
girl's heart, baby, because your phone
can't raise her anymore, so you have to.
And based on your search history,
tweets, and recorded dreams,
she's better off in the warm
embrace of a hard drive.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
lSam
Is a Lamb
That eats Bam.
Lucy
Is a wussy
Like a *****
Jack
Is Black
Like my left sack
Keithen
Is a Dumbface
Like a ********
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 6:58 PM UTC
It's funny how you think the world revolves around you
You twirl that ***** finger and you, my notorious boy, are caught
Clearly you haven't gotten the message
You cannot toy with something that cannot be fixed
But you, you always liked breaking things that do not belong to you
Oh the joy it brings you
To crumple up the love letters, random inside jokes and sincerity
To dump it on her and pop the balloon that brings her down
You ignorant, arrogant, ******* ******** ******
Do you not understand when she tells you love is a dart game and she has given all her darts to test your trust
All you do is throw the darts blindfolded, knowing every part of her body, and realizing you have pinned her under your feet
Why would you do this, if she has poured the truth she could not hide from her love
Why would you be so blind to go forth and show her the hard way
That you are not the one
And even long after you're done, you go back to her, to see if her wound still burns from the salty tears that dripped from her worn out eyes
I would like to thank you for showing what love was
Because you were the perfect example of what it can never be
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 6:34 PM UTC
Doo-Doo **** Stinking Crap, Defecation Dung and Turds
Oh my goodness oh my gosh, I have such a way with words
-
Do you go to take, a defecation or a crud?
The stuff that comes right out your *** the consistency of mud
-
**** is what I call it! Does this offend your ears?
Then I wipe my *** and shout out with three cheers
-
How about the other words, that are **** personified
******** ******** ******* **** is so implied!
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
there's nothing quite like being rudely woken
by a cat - that sort of shadow you wish you
had to steer off the incubus...
only the ugliest of the norse founded
kiev...
i wonder, as i manage to peck a spider
off the corner of my room, drink,
then eat it, and subsequently imitate
regurgitation, upon having eaten body,
and then finding the legs,
these twisting, coiling artefacts of some
sort of disembodiment...
i really was planning to drink this whiskey
in the afternoon, then the rudeness of the cat
waking me,
then the rage against the machine
and the idea of a buddhist,
and then the voice, that would never
amount to the said theatric of burn ******
burn...
i can't compete being drunk and
it only being nearing 7 a.m.,
i can only cite:
paper boy took the day off.
and i lost count to
every counted sunday,
thinking it a monday;
and that's a half of a hey-yah! thong
bridget huan jonson jerking off
the next nesting jose johnson,
calling him enrique joe.
or: amazon god king
conquistador it's sunrise you ********
people have to "work",
yeah, they "work", they're
rhetoricians!
they're the embodiment of
what's spectacular about
western society...
high brow romancing of
the averted moral spectrum,
like i really did begin to start ******* cockroaches...
and these women were my sunrise...
keep the gangrenes,
the ******* the abbies...
i love that term,
it's like reviving: greengrocer...
like calling a pet donkey a
chihuahua and then for asking oral ***
calling it a sloppy-jappy...
as if it was aimed as sushi shooting
the raw argument.
hence the love of h'america...
no, i never admire or fashion
the idea of americans waking up
i the globalist part of new york,
that's gobalist, and the 24h oops...
oh wait, you didn't realise we were insomniac?!
fucl me... afternoon for them
is like pretending breakfast for the rest
of us...
i think the dieticians call
it fibre, or something twice as hard to digest,
twice as hard to constipate out on,
and thrice the name of a wife.
i really love they didn't
catch up on the insult:
it's a bit like eating humus,
or catching the sunset.
Oct 1, 2017
Oct 1, 2017 at 2:06 AM UTC