"skinhead" poems
Just a wicked peacenik’n quick draw from the Paw
Game of Thrones’n the Shah, cRussian bones of the law
And still spewing the news like the red dragon’s maw
When the baby-skull splitters want nuclear winter
Ideal New Cold steel and send Chernobyl shivers
Down Roman Republicans’ severed headlines
Till there’s no more dead kids on for prophet front lines
I’m in exile sharpenin’ [sic]kles in style
Pyongyang’n Kuomintang climate denials
Erasing their nation-hate racial profiles
Outpacing their skinhead disgraces by miles
Shell casin’ this place like the Nuremberg trials
For Fords sellin’ swastikas stockpile bibles
Defiled by Normandy tide genocidals
Fresh meat off the boat spreadin’ Plague mercantiles
I smile and **** ‘em with kindness
Then grind
Battle tax in my acid bath
Salt Marchin’ prime
Because WAR IS THE CRIME
I’m the Clown Prince of Rhyme,
Level 9 state of mind
Like the state of Rakhine
The Black Hand before time
Runnin’ Africa’s Luciest Sky Diamond mine
I’m the ronin alone in
The monkey god shrine
And my guile’s reprisal’s Versailles treaty signed
Strippin’ pride from the Rhine
‘Till your Motherland’s mine
Swine
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 2:37 AM UTC
Give him a skinhead, insignia, boots
Less scruples, a swagger-stick, crowds, money.
No black shirts visible. Just business suits,
and pride is restored: tragic but funny.
Proud like a skyscraper, godless as sin
Babylonian promises, towering lies
Reality shows when plutocrats win,
Their rhetoric raining from empty skies.
She-wolves, elected by uninformed sheep
behave predictably, eyeing the flock
Their wool (and the lamb-chops) are hers to keep
Grazing voter—this should come as no shock.
It’s a bitter pill (more like pilloried)
So shall we now be ******* or Hillary-ed?
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 8:59 PM UTC
What you think about other
peoples' hair is a trick by
the establishment to keep you
down. Not all with long
hair are hippies, not every
skinhead is a *******
An afro doesn't make you
funky, having soul does.
It isn't what is on the
skull that matters, ******
it is what happens
underneath.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 10:38 AM UTC
Skinhead
super short
military hair
with a strong jawline
jutting out
I saw you
One random
blindingly hot afternoon
In a jeep
I tried to squeeze in
the small space so the two guys
could scoot over
You’re the guy to my right
Reluctant to pass to the driver
my exact change
You sat upright
Your right arm lifted, hand
closed on the security rail
I could only see your profile
Your jawline and Aviators
Mouth set in a deadpan line
Lean, quietly confident
Dressed casually and carefully
Odd eggplant-colored shirt over
whitewashed jeans
You turned slightly,
your nose strong
chin dignified
skin clean, with slight
blemishes of stress
Pretty eyes
That never landed on me
Your lips slightly curved
as if remembering something
You are beautiful
Arrogant-looking
Bored
Worldly
You’re not from here
Not from common places
Not from this wretched community I belong to
Then my eyes traveled to the back of your head,
An inscription was tattooed
at the back of your skull.
Your hair growing, beginning to cover up
the past?
A dangerous past?
New life?
A mere change of look?
Where are you going?
Where are you from?
Why are you taking this route
to and from common places?
What is your agenda
on this high afternoon?
Are you a rockstar?
Are you a poet
A gangster?
Then finally it’s my stop.
I got up and wished you
were following behind
That we have the same destination
Just so I could look at you
in full view
I stepped into
the sad, bright afternoon
Then I turned around
You’re not there
You sped away
To some place
Some life
With your Aviators
And your principles
And it hurt
That I never even
knew what
your tattoo meant
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 3:36 AM UTC
Excuse me Sir, I'm ready to order.
Can I please get some breakfast sandwiches
and a couple of bagels?
Uh, excuse me rudeness! What the hell was that look for?
Can you believe this motherfucker?! One look at my nopal
and he went straight into his skinhead manners brown paper bag
and picked up a big ol' hand full of **** you" and put it all
over his ******* face.
I like how now racism has a new look.
Indifference and side ways looks.
I still ******* matter.
I have a right to be where I please.
As a matter of fact, I have a right to be.
If I want a bagel I would like it without
a side of Caucasian *******
Pinches gringos cabrones.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 3:39 PM UTC
kids only see txt
they don't have any feelings
only the screens
of their smartphones
they only talk via tweets
RTs & "comments"
low poly skinhead cyberpunks
living in HD premium worlds
it's only diodes
that iphone ain't got no soul -
not like it used to be
it used to be real
they don't have feelings
it's just txts on screens
they dnt have feelings
they dnt hv any feelng
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC
my paris begins with
those early days
as a conscious flaneur
i recall the couple
seated opposite me
on the metro
when i was still innocent
of its labyrinthine complexity
slim pretty white girl
clad head to toe in denim
smiling wistfully
while her muscular black beau
stared through me
with fathomless orbs
and one of them spoke
almost in a whisper
qu'est-ce-que t'en pense
and it dawned on me
yes the young parisienne
with the distant desirous eyes
was no less male than me
dismal movies
in the forum des halles
being screamed at in pigalle
and then howled at again
by some kind of madman
or vagrant who told me
to go to the bois de boulogne
to meet what he saw
as my destiny
menaced
by a sinister skinhead
for trying on tessa's
wide-brimmed hat
getting ****** in les halles
with sara
who'd just seen
dillon as rusty james
and was walking in a daze
sara again with jade
at the caveau
de la huchette jazz cellar
cash squandered
on a gold tootbrush
two tone shoes
from close by
to the place d'italie
portrait sketched
at the place du tertre
paperback books
by symbolist poets
but second hand volumes
by trakl and deleve
and a leather jacket
from the marche aux puces
porte de clignancourt
losing gary's address
scrawled on a page
of musset's confession
walking the length
and breadth of the rue st denis,
what an artist's paradise
(as juliette once wrote me).
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 7:23 AM UTC
Yeah
well I sat in the barbers chair while you walked up and down the crowded aisles in a half deserted Tesco store
I wondered why
what was it for?
The freezer stood alone at home
freezing cold as was its wont but it was stacked with want me nothing more at all
for it was full up to its freezing chin
with something brought from albuquerque
and two fifths of London Gin.
The barber gave a weirdly grin and gave me one of number two
I should have fekin known that's what the little *** would do
but you just wandered round and did you see that skinhead passing by the deli' counter?
that was me
I waved atop my fresh shaved head
but I was dead meat on the cooked meat and it shook me wide awake
I need to take a breather
might even leave her
she would not care
she's got Tesco's in her brain and not to mention in her hair with apple summer fresh smell,how much dumber can one get
well if I stick about just watch this space
look out for the smiling vacant face
that will be me
taking her
to do her hair
just like mine.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
Listening to old ***** spirituals
loud and proud
with a dedicated skinhead
in the drivers seat.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 4:06 PM UTC
There's eight dead in Mississippi.
My hair makes me look like a hippy.
It's awfully cold for the month of June.
I hope it warms up soon.
The skinny chef is serving something strange.
Benjamins are out begging for change.
The shaggy barber gives a skinhead a trim.
The chunky trainer tells me how to get slim.
There's attacks in the UK.
I haven't anything to do today.
I think I'll walk along the railroad.
See how far it goes.
The skinny chef is serving something strange.
Benjamins are out begging for change.
The shaggy barber gives a skinhead a trim.
The chunky trainer tells me how to get slim.
A young boy drowned in the river.
My girl's touch makes my body quiver.
Superteams ruined in NBA.
But that's okay.
The skinny chef is serving something strange.
Benjamins are out begging for change.
The shaggy barber gives a skinhead a trim.
The chunky trainer tells me how to get slim.
I'm not comfy in my streetclothes.
I'd like to be wrapped up in silk.
I poured a big bowl of cherrios .
But I don't have any milk.
Ooohh
I don't have any milk.
Oh no no
I don't have any milk.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 2:28 AM UTC
Walking through the corridors, feeling the judgemental looks burning on my skin.
To them I'm a stereotype, a girl filled with tattoos, a skinhead jacket and a fake smile.
A threat maybe?
No I can't be?
I'm laughing all the time, so no one will notice.
If they only knew..
What's hiding inside me.
A broken sensitive heart.
A trumatized girl,
who only wants to be herself,
without people looking at her differently and constantly.
Do they see the victim-stamp tattooed on my forehead?
Do they know? Can they?
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 10:50 AM UTC
social media haircut...
it never felt so liberating
having ****** off
about 50 people from your
life, then another 50...
monday a head-banger
Tuesday a punk...
i might as well keep cutting off
the mohikan to get a skinhead
and heads toward below 100.
i like Camden Road at 5a.m.,
reminds me of Hollywood Apocalypse;
and i like keeping a village atmosphere.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 7:40 PM UTC
hypochondira and hyperactivity,
misguiding nouns.
*vinum bonum et suave,
bonis binum, pravis prave,
ave mundana laetitia!*
łyski - whiskey -
łysy... itching to slap a skinhead...
so the question:
what are the ad hoc parameters of
cogito ergo sum?
i so wish to be given an
ad hoc clarity for certain maxims...
in most instances they're bibles,
obscurity riddles them a hymnal status,
and that said: holy.
i wan't to be given the ad hoc
instruction manual for certain
eurekas...
i'm told that the already stated
prefigures subjectivity...
and that the subconscious
isn't merely a bystanders' experience of
puppetteering...
insinuation sphere...
just like i might add third party
inquisitors demanding of me that:
every dream has a hidden meaning behind it.
so many have died trying to
create the uncoscious contraceptive...
this mental *******
this exploitative subconscious insinuation
puppet motivation...
the subconscious only exists
to create the other's drone capitalisation
of fragility...
the synonym of the subconscious
within groundwork of making choices,
acknowledging ethic, is insinuation,
spies and the alphabetical fixation on
subversion, and all other subs- congregate.
and it really does sound like nonsense
once the enemy's tongue is waggling...
some even called it the
omnivore safehaven...
when in fact so much was prioritised
for dietary requirements...
that became bouldered
anorexic grey-areas;
synchronised skeleton army
tugging the chimeras of crimea,
shortened to the word: Krym.
knowing this tongue, i should be apt at
forging any and all ethnic linkage with it
being expressed: i should be gagging
for a forthnight spent in las vegas!
but there's me, dreaming of a tartar steak.
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 2:11 PM UTC
Procasti-Nation by Rob Sandman
Let it wait,get it straight,I can do it tomorrow,
I'm a Hobbit-on the pipeweed,stayin in my burrow,
what's the hurry anyway?,no need for trepidation,
relaxin on my throne king of Procrasti-nation
What's the deal man?,chillin,killin noobs online,
what,the job interview?,nah man I let it slide,
6am wake up?,man I'm barely asleep,
on a killstreak here,hah noobs roll deep,
got an bar yesterday,I'll split 50/50,
smoked a lot last night,should divide it swiftly...
*nevermind,do it later, I ain't rushin a thing,
procrastination is a country and you know I'm the King*,
loungin' on the game of swords Throne,spliff in my mouth,
getting low on munch,but don't want to venture out,
may be lazy,even crazy,I don't like crowds,
had my feet on the ground-and my head in the clouds,
but lately the ground's turned into quick-sand,
get knocked on my **** every time I take a stand,
don't worry bout me man,no need for consternation,
I'm the clown with the crown,king of Procrastination,
So I let it wait head's not straight,I'm livin in tomorrow,
like Bilbo on the pipeweed,hidin in me burrow,
me family are wonderin exactly why I'm waitin'
it's a hollow crown now,king of Procrastination
See the thing about a rut is(look it up)you're stuck,
motivation is gone, and sure the country's ******
could try to get a job,hmmm what are my skills?,
I can sling weed,talk shit,and get high kills,
on COD-not a good CV,
a big bogey lookin skinhead,who'd hire me?,
could go back on the doors,yeah,like back in the day,
but nowadays you need a license from the PSA,
and that costs cash,here today gone tomorrow,
so it's back to the hustle,beg Steal,and borrow,
but recently I medically got kicked in the ***
so I put words to work,cause my rhyming's class,
bare me soul to stranger's,disguised as lies,
good listener so no-one see's the pain in MY eyes,
I got a gameplan,sure to sweep the Nation...
think I'll start tomorrow,King of Procrasti-nation.
So I let it wait,got it straight,I'll rule the world tomorrow,
cause it's scary out there,but comfy in me burrow,
every day another reason for my hesitation,
tomorrow is my Kingdom- yeah- Procrasti-nation.
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 4:13 PM UTC
I've learnt to know dread like I've learnt to break bread,
For fear, it's unsaid, cause kids go unfed,
cops are mislead about the bloodshed, lay dead, not a sound skinhead.
I've learnt to be on my own, like I've learnt to hate your throne,
I'd think I was made of stone for not the broken bones. No numbers in my phone, I walk into the unknown, no fear for I am alone.
I've learnt to know pain like I've learnt to love rain,
Cause it hurts to wash stains of the blood from split veins, but the burn from thin canes won't keep me in chains. Still sane,
this is the end of your reign.
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 4:55 AM UTC
the war tells a story,
its like peeling layers of onion,
each layer have its painful memory,
we walk through Saigon swamp,
and its cities filled with hatred,
i traveled from america,
hearts fill with pride,
when i got through Vietnam,
i felt alone,
some felt all messed up,
we all didn't have a clue what we doing,
all we told to ****
when we gather with all our weapons held high,
its like the age of golden eras,
where men would wear armor,
then we storm the battlefield,
some say this war is for our families,
and others too naive say we fight for freedom
of whatever cause we don't know
we sprayed lots of bullet for money.
we build walls to save lives,
but we purge it instead saving,
sometimes i think outside the wall
beyond the jungle ,
and the ninh river,
all i ever think is back home,
my boy is 12 now,
i miss his 12th year birthday,
i was out to fight the *****
but their freedom wasn't theirs,
it was ours,
we didn't have a clue who we fight for.
i was laid as a skinhead on us,
born in bald hair with sealed uniform,
that looks like we going to war,
arrived in vietnam,
was shocked to see all these innocent died,
for freedom that we don't earn,
it's theirs and its there to stay,
as i grew up around the war,
i learn how to l be human.
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 10:39 AM UTC
He cut his hair, 21,
because at 13, he thought
it would be the end of the world to
don a skinhead. In the end, though,
his scalp looked okay.
It tickled his palm, touching it.
It felt like a baptism
to have been wrong.
/
Books with no pictures started
appealing to him, 14, when he read
about a highschooler who played tennis,
and a fellow highschooler who attempted suicide
because they got to him, stunned him.
This book was lost one day,
and it felt like the world ended.
A language was embedded there that
seemed to belong to him exclusively.
But it was time for it to be somebody else’s.
Someone needed to own it. Then lose it, too.
It needed passing-around, so that it could evolve.
It might return someday, all tattered and shopworn.
Will it feel the same?
Maybe. But perhaps it would be him who isn’t.
/
He imagines, 25, a life somewhere else.
He’s tired of punctuality and order.
The older he gets, the more
it seems control is mere illusion.
It terrifies him to accept that
at some point, he would have to jump.
He would have leave behind everything,
everyone. A major overhaul of the self
is bound to hurt orbiting objects, but it takes
an explosion, maybe, to begin like
It was the first time.
/
The pain of self-hatred
will never leave. It has distorted
the way he perceives, the way he accepts,
the way he welcomes. Hugs
will feel like something he has to do.
Tears won’t come at command.
Excess will seem ordinary.
Horrors will be regular intervals of stimulation.
That is the burden of not knowing
How to save yourself.
/
He will wrestle with time one day,
argue, bargain with it.
But it’s not something
that gives, only occurs.
Maybe he has to stop thinking
he needs to give.
Like time, maybe he has to
let himself occur.
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 12:07 AM UTC
White Boy
Think you're better than your fellow man
Cause your skin is pale and not tan
You despise cause the colour of skin
Cant you see we are all kin
White Boy
Think those swastikas make you cool
You're nothing but a **** fool
Who can't help but go red if they a see a Jew
But if anyone's the animal it's you
White Boy
You march down the street
Spouting hate at everyone's feet
You follow groups like the Brotherhood and ****
Skinhead trash you aren't a man
White Boy
You have freedom of speech
To spread the trash you teach
We have that freedom too
We just have to talk louder than you
White Boy
They tell me love must be silent
And I dont want to be violent
But you are getting ready for war
You're not welcome here anymore
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 6:46 PM UTC
and there was a Fiona,
and me working the Edinburgh
***** nightclub
picking empty glasses
from the parkiet...
emptying ****** into
bottles of beer,
getting cornered by skinhead
homos eager for a blow...
Fiona...
played her the mandolin,
outside her window like
a ******* twised Romeo...
rod steward's maggie may...
then there was Janina,
a love worthy of a canvas,
and a rose... roses bewilder women...
not ough pearl or oyster shells
on them... come next spring...
like any Dutch tulip addiction...
frivolous scoop...
n'ah... this ***** hit the bull's eye
of the bell tower...
ich troje's song
zawsze z tobą chciabym być...
a commoner party song...
became a critique of my skull...
as she deemed it,
the protruding occipital of Africans...
and the squashed, flat "missing"
protrusion was a sign of degeneracy...
even though we shared the same ancestor...
from a pop song...
toward a flat occipital...
wheat-gob bulging jawline
of African Amricans?
they stick corn cobs in there or what?
come on... even Somalia pirates
know the diffrence between not liking
a pleb song, and making comments
about the ******* cranium...
oh wait... and all of this...
in art class...
so I sketched an answer for her...
her youth...
eyes with no pupils and no iris,
pure sclera... looking into a mirror
and a babushka...
if they **** for a reward
of 72 virgins...
god give me strength...
anticipating 72 doberman
or alsatians, or rottweiler puppies...
too much fictive love,
when the reality demands...
once upon a time,
when a young couple were
to be married,
the parents of both bride
and groom...
invested in...
the rewards of retirement,
and the anticipation of reinvigoration
by youth in the format of
grandchildren...
now?
oh you know the subsequent script...
**** off.
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 8:11 PM UTC