"slipknot" poems
I'm weaving with yarn
crocheting stitches
across my heart
sewing up my wounds
allowing release
through art
a slipknot here
a whipstitch there
I weave and weave
as I crochet into repair
the frayed edges of my soul
Sep 14, 2011
Sep 14, 2011 at 8:16 PM UTC
I did my part, by staying in.
So effective, bored.
It’s a sacrifice.
The soul is very passionate.
The isolating, the flattening.
Foraging coercion.
For Immuno compromised persons!
Stay in your homes.
Prevent the increase in tombstones!
Then pat yourself on the back.
Knowing all the people you have saved!
Staying in, flattening the curve again.
Outcome, only time will tell.
Feeling relieved I’m not the only one!
And the stupidity will **** us all.
Hoarding toilet paper from the aisles.
But no one else can see.
The effects this has on the elderly.
Social distance, social distance, social distance.
Social distance, social distance, social distance.
Oh, there are arrogant ******** not taking this seriously.
But there are others doing their part.
The nurses and doctors have gone mad.
With people taking all their masks.
But when we cure it all,
The faith will be restored,
Who hopes we will be blessed?
We could start over,
Just cover your mouth when you cough!
It’s that simple.
Now there’s time to watch streaming platforms.
Helpfulness, committed.
To doing what I can.
I’m not the only one.
And the stupidity will **** us all.
Hoarding toilet paper from the aisles.
But no one else can see.
The effects this has on the elderly.
Social distance, social distance, social distance.
Social distance, social distance, social distance.
The limits of the research.
The limits of the research.
The limits of the research.
Fake news outlets (social distance)
Only check AHS, for info (social distance)
Your support to fund research would help (social distance)
Can’t stop the spread (social distance)
If you don’t stay home (social distance)
This is a must (social distance)
I’m not the only one.
And the stupidity will **** us all.
Hoarding toilet paper from the aisles.
But no one else can see.
The effects this has on the elderly.
And the stupidity will **** us all.
Hoarding toilet paper from the aisles.
But no one else can see.
The effects this has on the elderly.
The limits of the research.
The limits of the research.
Apr 5, 2020
Apr 5, 2020 at 1:51 PM UTC
After it all I still hurt
After it ended i cried
I can't live without you
You can't live without me
When can I have you again?
I need you
The suspense has me in a slipknot at the gallows
I need you
I don't want to be part of loves body count
I want you to be with me
I need you
No one else
You
Forget family
Forget friends
I only need you
I only want you
No one else will fill the hole in my chest
No one but you
I need you
I need the only light in my life back
I need you back
I want you back
Please come back
I need you
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 1:48 AM UTC
She walked barefoot in the desert and wore desert boots to bed.
My baby was topsy turvy dipsy swervy crossed up curvy clean out of her head.
A cast iron face that kept the truth bound and shackled.
Deep inside her head.
Self deception was her stock in trade and every choice she ever made was reasoned Wearing blinders.The snake that ate her tail
Her logic was.
Circular in nature no ending or beginning. Which guaranteed her winning
Regardless.
But only in her twisty wheelhouse.
Crazy as aa ********* rat.
Twisting facts into tasty pastry.
Seving them up on shiny ware.
Neither here nor either there
Calculating slipknot tension
Telling tales too tall to mention
The daughter of the pretzel maker
Part deluded.Rabid faker.
Pretzel logic
Pretzel minded.
Twisted now and twisted later.
Down the road I go.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
did you ever do Bojangles at the end of a social rope.
stretched out on an ant hill looking up at the slate gray skies of Babylon.
Slip a notch.
Hop scotch...
give a dog a bone.
Peas porridge hot Peas porridge Cold.
Slip a notch...no porridge at all.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 9:01 AM UTC
*We lose so much talent to addiction
Some of you may not care, but I do
This is my tribute to them*
**Alan Wilson
Canned Heat
Jimi Hendrix
The Jimi Hendrix Experience
Janis Joplin
Jim Morrison
The Doors
Brian Cole
The Association
Billy Murcia
New York Dolls
Danny Whitten
Crazy Horse
Gram Parsons
The Stooges
Gary Thain
Uriah Heep
Elvis Presley
Gregory Herbert
Blood, Sweat & Tears
Keith Moon
The Who
Sid Vicious
*** Pistols
Lowell George
Little Feat
Jimmy McCulloch
Wings
John Bonham
Led Zeppelin
Darby Crash
Germs
James Honeyman-Scott
Pretenders
Pete Farndon
Pretenders
Paul Gardiner
Tubeway Army
Gary Holton
Heavy Metal Kids
Phil Lynott
Thin Lizzy
Andrew Wood
Mother Love Bone
Brent Mydland
Grateful Dead
Steve Clark
Def Leppard
Johnny Thunders
New York Dolls
David Ruffin
The Temptations
Kristen Pfaff
Hole
Shannon Hoon
Blind Melon
Bradley Nowell
Sublime
John Kahn
Jerry Garcia Band
Jonathan Melvoin
The Smashing Pumpkins
Billy Mackenzie
Associates
West Arkeen
The Outpatience
Nick Traina
Link 80
John Baker Saunders
Mad Season
Bobby Sheehan
Blues Traveler
Wes Berggren
Tripping Daisy
Allen Woody
The Allman Brothers Band
Carl Crack
Atari Teenage Riot
Layne Staley
Alice in Chains/Mad Seasons
Kurt Cobain
Nirvana
Dee Dee
Ramones
Robbin Crosby
Ratt
John Entwistle
The Who
Howie Epstein
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
Jeremy Michael Ward
De Facto
Tim Hemensley
GOD
Dave Schulthise
The Dead Milkmen
Rick James
Kevin DuBrow
Quiet Riot
Ike Turner
Gidget Gein
Marilyn Manson
Jay Bennett
Wilco
Michael Jackson
The Rev
Avenged Sevenfold
Paul Gray
Slipknot
Mike Starr
Alice in Chains
Amy Winehouse**
*We are not bad people, we just have bad ways
Yet, not many understand*
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
Behind my smile is something broken.
Broken from growing up in a place,
where my parents and I would have daily death threats.
They worked live-in at a group-home,
I had no choice but to live there among them.
From the age of 7 to current 16,
I've heard every word in the book,
had a child attempt to burn down our house,
in the middle of the night, killing us all...
I've seen my parents brake down in tears,
I've witnessed my family fall apart...
By the age of nine, I imagined myself dead...
I attempted to suffocate myself in grade 4.
I remember crying into my pillow,
but I couldn't bring myself to doing the act.
I still get urges, urges to drag the blade across the wrist,
the urge to tie the slipknot...
I wish I could end it all, the pain and confusion,
but that would help no one.
****
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 6:53 PM UTC
So if you love me, let me go.
And run away before I know.
My heart is just too dark to care.
I can't destroy what isn't there.
Deliver me into my fate -
If I'm alone I cannot hate
I don't deserve to have you...
My smile was taken long ago
If I can change I hope I never know
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 4:43 AM UTC
Slip into madness
Let the thirst consume you
It fills you with passion
Piercing the flesh draining the blood
Knowing the vampire within is growing
No longer human reaching for sanity
On your way to hell but never reaching it
The night gives you immortality never to sleep again
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 6:58 PM UTC
Daisy, Daisy give me your answer do........
boy! That Cadillac was one hell of a piece of engineering.
Burned a long time, like it enjoyed the pain of the flames.
He smiled at the thought.
Handmade by union men the way it should always be.
Not those ******* up ***** like Jimmy Hoffa either.
That ******* probably a ****** like hoover.
The image of him in a basque stuck.
Made him angry, but he soon reined it in.
Lecter was never angry. Not in the books.
He prefered the books, no change-the -ending for the mass appeal.
******* movies.
He was cautious now, the fake i.d. for the rental would fool most.
He was pushing things, her blood in the trunk even burnt black worried him. Next time will be better.
In Daisy's book was a circled name with hearts drawn around it.
Louisa. Her address as well. Nice and easy. 200 miles to go.
Make like Rutger in The Hitcher, move west....
The VW Rabbit was a ****** car after the Caddy.
The two kid's didn't want to give it up easy, but they did in the end.
They looked so silly, tied back-to-back in the rear seat, legs broke to squeeze them in.
Made him smile all through the night.
No blood this time, not yet anyway. Playing Slipknot to **** him off, little *****
Well write a song for these two, clown boy.
He had looked on their lap-top at the poetry site.
Saw the latest post from the pub landlord. He was a little confused, this poem didn't seem to be telling him his next move.
He dragged them out into a ditch before dawn, stood on their necks to **** them, like the coyote trappers did, cruel ********
No blood, just **** all over each other as they died.
Maybe he'd get a reward poem for doing it, in the meantime finding Louisa would keep him occupied.
The vw had a cheap sat nav, hope she's home.....
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 3:20 PM UTC
How loud is too loud for Slipknot?
Ask my neighbour.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
You smoked your throat gone.
I'll sit in bed opening and closing my Opinel No. 8 and stare at an unread compilation of a then-alive poet's correspondence with a then-and-still-dead poet and wonder at the cover art, a fishing-line-thin threaded rope that could well be tied in a slipknot. Tendrils that look like loose straw scattered thirty different ways.
He said *You can't **** your life away* and there are many ways to do that. I'm stuck inside a small bedroom dreaming or hallucinating an open space, streams flowing from nowhere near and flat space so full of sky it is sin to call it empty. The world can be hot and fast; I am bad at resting. I don't sleep well. I can float a river and not once hear it moving.
You drank and dissected your drinking so it could masquerade as something under your control. We all are guilty of this at some point. In some way or another. I am lucky to sit in my bedroom and write that the next two years of my life have well been mapped. I do not pout, there is no malice here. My head is close, fastened between my small shoulders. I share no heart with Yesenin.
*You can't **** your life away* he said he thought. These things change. But you can!
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 3:09 PM UTC
This humble pie
Is more like a shiit sandwich on rye
With a side of sty
Now there's a plank firmly implanted in each pink eye
Life's painful, but I'm suppose to be too mocho to cry
No one knows how many times I've wanted to die
Or the number of times I gave it a good ol' college try
Who do you think I am... no really, who am I
I think I'm my own stories fall guy
Fall back on the lie
That I can fix it all with a slipknot neck tie
What's more influential? Good or evil
In my experience it's surely a tie
But between you and I
The devil has more pull that the "infallible" eye in the sky
Call 'em both out, see who stops by
Or even bothers to reply
My money's on the pitchfork guy
©2024
Jun 17, 2024
Jun 17, 2024 at 4:37 PM UTC
I'm not in a good place, it's written all over my face with a permanence I can not erase
The ace up my sleeve turned out to be a joker with my super imposed face
Lost in the twisted maze that is my head space, I'd chase the cheese but it'd be a waste
Fear infused with a terror base so potent you swear it almost has a taste
The dark haze of my past short circuits any new interface
Filled with a technology way out of date but never had the means to replace
I watch the life I thought I'd be a part of race by at a dizzy pace
But it always made time to come back 'round and knock the taste out my mouth like 808 base
Then leaves post haste without a trace before catchin' a case
Just one more missing personality cold case, chalk it up to another looser fallen from grace
They say to pick yourself up by you boot straps, I'm always breakin' the shoe lace
Bet they didn't think I'd use the bootlace to replace the slipknot necklace I misplaced
The bright young man with aspersions worth the chase now incased in blue skin wearing deaths face
©2023
Dec 13, 2023
Dec 13, 2023 at 6:43 PM UTC
They are the kind of raindrops that hang around for awhile
The ones that laugh at your coat
Get your shirt wet anyway
The kind that if it weren't so **** cold outside
You'd really like to stand under them for a while
The kind they make those slow-motion-water-drop-hitting-water videos out of
Those
And all I'm doing with them is watching
Watching them fall on windows
Watching them tear apart the littered receipts on the sidewalk
I'm watching them tear leaves from cherry trees
And wondering if they listen to Beethoven or Slipknot on their way down
Portland is always so far away until it rains
Then even here in this farm town
Everyone finds their North Face
And these raindrops remind me of something
Not our first kiss though
Or the tears
Or the leaky faucet
Or the day we did nothing but watch the Discovery Channel
It just makes me think of you
And how I never knew if you were there to water me
Or tear me apart
How I never knew if it was a Rascal Flatts day
Or an Evanescence day
How I never knew if my hand on your cheek would be a turn on
Or a trigger
How bad days had ringtones
And good days were just waiting for the call
These raindrops remind me how close I am
To the only city I've ever loved in
How far I am from ever getting over you
And how incredibly jealous I am
That moving on seems to be easy for someone who does it so often
I can't let go of the damage you've done
Even though it's clear now watching the rain
That you were just falling
And I was just in your way
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
She’s a dimple and a drag, corner of Worth and Magpie, French Vogue idioms and her mother’s red flowery hoop earrings. Aloha! Aloha! Oopty-oops in contract loot thru streets and backyard parties, concrete larders, her eyes lie like presidential promises, a slipknot of licorice around her neckline to keep her rising tide from the Menarche Moon.
Anything to keep the little penny featherweight dancer from slipping. Her siblings poke fun at her funny way of speaking, her bath tub is just an excuse for chiseling at her innards, taking a drag at her lungs and punching her duck-billed platypus in the kidneys; a heavy-weight champion of the worm.
That until all the saints come writhing off the fishing lines. Until the ballerina’s edema coexists with Tokyo extremists, serial killer behemoths that keep body parts and *** toys in the freezer. Here, here! Wrath goes to the fella with the wicked demeanor. In an area of limited sight, this country, it’s people are sickened at the sights of themselves, and the wackos are coming out in large swaths, minerals and dimples strapped to their waist belts in the throes of a menopausal demagogue heaving OxyContin down El Camino Real.
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 4:34 PM UTC
Its pretty early
or maybe its just a cloudy day
the light from the big bay windows
is bright and soft and sad in its purity
my heeled black boots click on the standard multi-grained colored tile
I see you in the distance in a familiar hallway
In the mandatory uniform
hands balled up in tan pants, a book bag slung over one shoulder
I stand on the opposite end looking somewhat normal
a gray and black abstract top that screams art teacher/librarian
dark purple lipstick, blue jeans, and a intricate up-do
I believe I am particularly self-conscious about this
but your smiling at me like I'm beautiful anyways
the clicking of the heels get quicker as I magnetize towards you
I fit into you like a puzzle piece
body to body, heart to heart
your arms are wrapped knowingly across my lower back
my arms are clutching your neck holding on for dear life or something else that means so much more
You still smell the same
Your breath is soft against my ear right above the sliver hoop
When we try to remove ourselves from the sticky membranes of the closeness
my nose trails across your cheek
your chin
I want that kiss I will never again receive
I look up and you're wearing that smirk
that rare smirk, that heart shattering smirk, my smirk
This. This embrace echoes things of the past
of chance, and love, and lust, and confusion, frustration, failure, and forgiveness
even though we wear that polite"we're just friends" expression on our faces.
This memory, I can place in the past , present, or future
But sometimes. Sometimes it happens differently
Sometimes I am comfy in an old slipknot shirt outside your house in the pouring rain
Sometimes we are at Parkdale directly after I've crashed and burned, trying to smile bravely like it doesn't hurt
Sometimes I am lost and broken amid the cherry blossoms sighing for you
Sometimes its on Halloween before I take my four month leave
But alot of times
more often than most
its in the way you look at me and say
How are you?
and I know you truly mean it
That's when I realize i don't need to say a word..You know
I loved you
I lost you
And vivid memory maybe the only thing I gain from this
in its embracive care
and that's okay with me
finally.
Dec 23, 2010
Dec 23, 2010 at 9:22 AM UTC
**** the sunglasses...
double ****
dinner... making my father lunch...
triple hush hush ****** third....
i might be a drunk...
(burp)
but i have my obligations;
the day doesn't begin
with or without a dosage
of sleep...
i tango with a sputnik...
what?!
you know just your random ****
sweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet home
Idaho!
Ghana?
**** i misspelled Missishippi....
no,
not exactly Family Guy funny,
but you know,
you spend a night with two Germans
tripping on mushrooms,
watching American dad...
with an Egyptian drinking *****
all quest-west in Amsterdam...
and you're not seeking the company
of a Puerto Rican hubbly-n-bubbly...
touch of flesh...
the night must be pretty entertaining...
so that's what you call exfoliating
when given into excess...
... .... .... (the excess pause)...
and then shhhhhhhhhhhhhh
in a makeshift metaphysical library...
literary... yes... (burp)... literate...
the sunglasses are working
just fine...
the sun isn't...
why do i always sit through the vanilla
sky of a sunset, why?!
hush darling...
Shakie Shtevens is going
to tell you all about what gives him
the Shakes...
shakes? if you drink... hot sweats...
one minor posit of a subverted
hangover...
a slap, a punch, a slap
once more, oh look, i'm found and bound
to sober;
getting drunk,
and then returning to the leash:
well...
covert for: a pristine afternoon.
p.s.
quasi-headbanging to a meat-head
tune...
yeah.... Slipknot... what?!
no.... MC Hammer!
i'm touching jack-shit...
look at me...
touching... clapping using jazz hands.
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 12:46 PM UTC
With slipknot slack
And darkened silk,
My breathing sets to skip.
With lust for love
And versa drags,
A swelling waits for lips.
I feel you only.
The tease, the tight.
With tick tocks set to drip.
I struggle bound
The pleads, the fight.
Your flower's handled slip.
Sep 4, 2010
Sep 4, 2010 at 1:44 AM UTC
*eating breakfast in a long time,
half a teaspoon of sugar,
coffee black, three marzipan
nuggets coated in chocolate,
two cigarettes...*
and wondering where did the time
go since silverchair
released their debut frogstomp (1995),
or what happened to the offspring
after americana (the song *pay the
man* still wasn't a commercial song),
or the sudden thrill of red hot chilli
pepper's reunion with john and
californication, deftone's white pony,
or when buying the mortal kombat
soundtrack, and someone nice enough
at our price putting a different c.d.,
not the score, but the soundtrack
with actual songs: type o negative
(subsequently ****** kisses),
monster magnet, k.m.f.d.m., and beside,
days with cassettes (m.o.d.'s mr. oofus
ha ha) - and gigs, tool in glasgow
with that awesome german girl
who i gave water to in exchange for a kiss,
wolfmother in edinburgh, a few gigs
in london (papa roach, disturbed,
type o negative, iron maiden, the offspring,
american head charge, rammstein,
slipknot, korn, red hot chilli peppers -
when that arena at canary wharf was still open)...
but then there was verdi's la traviata in st. petersburg,
and aerosmith in hyde park, and boy
did depeche mode rock hyde park too...
i mean, most these influences came from
my uncle, but i can't give him credit
for king crimson, jethro tull and other
prog bands (early genesis, for example)...
or the jazz...
but it's just annoying to not have seen
the holy wood tour by m.m.,
or not seeing slayer when jeff hanneman
was still alive - after all i pledged the
tribulation of growing long hair in school
to him, one day, looking at the band's poster,
i was 15 then and became known as chewbacca
for a while.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 5:36 AM UTC
For those who, whenever they chase pavements,
stare at the adjacent road that mimics the starless night sky
And inside their heads they pretend
that they unknowingly trip on a crack on the cement,
so that they could find an excuse to use the incoming vehicle as an escape goat for life
Let's raise a glass to you for not doing so!
To the men high upon beams and chains and towers, overlooking the city skyline
filled with people tracing the sidewalks like ants in a single file,
who think to themselves: the fall will probably hurt less than the onslaught of words
coming from their wives for giving them a hard life
Let's raise a glass to you for not doing so!
I lift the crystal in my hand to the women who, no matter how battered and tattered are their skins,
choose to paint their faces with whatever powdered pallet they have
even though Rowling's metal wand sits beside their makeup inside the drawer of their dresser,
waiting for them to take their own life
Let's raise a glass to you for not doing so!
And to the students who have never gotten over their childhood traumas
and to the bullies who never outgrew the bruises from their fathers
that no matter how much it hurt you,
you never chose to end everything with a slipknot or the edge of a blade or with battery fluid you found in your garage,
I envy you
So, let's raise a glass to you too for not doing so!
I raise my half empty glass to all those who failed to take away god's gift
To the men and women who failed in fear of abandoning their children
I spill the contents of this wine glass
in honor of the sons and daughters of wealthy politicians, who succeeded in receiving eternal punishment for taking their lives
And to those who regret that they failed in their first try, please,
don't throw away your life
You are exquisite, you are tantalizing,
you are worthy of a million praises like the saints we see on mosaics and church pieces
Your works are rousing and they enflame the tiniest of sparks in at least one person's heart
be ravenous and unmerciful when improving your craft
Let's raise a glass!
Because as you are reading this, the glass of wine I have been carrying high above my head
had already spilled on the parchment where I have written these words with utmost care
So, will you raise your glass to me?
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 9:16 AM UTC