"slugging" poems
NY Hip Hop
Gold Express
Bling Shop
Afro Brothers
proprietorship
buyin and sellin
filthy lucre
of down hard
Gat packin
Gangstas
on the down low
throwin down
fallin hook
line and stinker
just a bunch
of lil fishies
wigglin at the end
of golden chains
its all about
the bling baby
all about the bling
"I pity the fool"
saith Mr. T
the potentate of
soul and gold
who ain't
down with
the cool jewels
of righteous
B Teamers
arrested by
the silk rope
of glitzy discos
bribing bouncers
with an
earnest Jackson
to *** rush
the vanity faire
of bumping
A Listers
Or was it
Def Jam
Buddhas
minting
coin on
MTV?
exploiting
misogyny
and ghost
face killas
NWAs
slugging cases
of Kristol
blowing
fat spliff
smoke
up the *** of
Phat Farm
kids in
the hood
shooting
silver
bullets at
the man
takin baths
in tubs
of fifties
lighting up
with crisp
C Notes
rollin
through
life
in black
Escalades
its silver
spinners
twisting fast
round
corners
where
being cool
went blind
and
Coolie High
homies
still tip
a sip
for the
brothers
who ain't
there
Today
its all about
the raised fist
of power to
the P Diddy
fighting
the power
of the people
as leggy
Beyonce
warbles
songs
for the
posse
of a
Libyan
Dictator
whose
blood
money
pays
a cool
mil
cover
for a
New Years
Eve
tune
Its all about
the bling
baby
All about
the bling
baby, all
about the
bling.
NY Hip Hop
Gold Express
Best Prices in
Trenton Since
1997
You Tube Video:
Gil Scott Heron
Ain't No Such Thing As Superman
Trenton
2/25/11
jbm
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 9:19 AM UTC
we danced in the streets as the days were long
only recess and reckoning while water crept in
this city of dead, our place, where the stench lives
and bodies float, lying above the crypt's graves
hurricane red absinthe & hand grenades
slugging the gulf like a shooter's brigade
a forecast shifts, flooding any escape
so we fire our motors with boats on em.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 2:04 AM UTC
Stuff is in our blood, a stain on us
Slugging around, these sad star sore guts
Stuff is a stuffy word that’s embarrassing to utter when someone asks you, “What are you doing today... this Summer?”
...
Stuff is what saves us - but stuff bumps and slumps around waiting for its bus
Dress-stressing in its own looks/love - knowing and not -
A stopped migraine, stuff is euphoria sensed through architecture, a sunk shot.
You learn to be the butcher... Sleep with soul hooks...
Dance in the kitchen. Stoop in the shower.
Stake it out, stronger, wiser, these flow-wilters - over-studiers...
Old young bears, hard and soft stuffed in neat beds, hawk hearts bated...
For when we grab us, hug us, twist us, throw us
up-out. Reinstate us...
Aug 20, 2025
Aug 20, 2025 at 6:31 PM UTC
Some dudes are down to fight
but they don't.
But what's crazy
is that *******
won't fight around white people
they're trying to impress.
They don't want to be a ****
even though
they don't know that we're all *****
in some way.
So when I slug you,
I'm not slugging you,
and when you slug me;
you're not slugging me;
we're just trying
to break free.
I miss the days of black pride,
black panthers
and black determinism,
when we weren't killing each other
and we weren't killing them
we were killing
what needed to be killed;
a mindset.
Without Marcus,
Malcolm,
Tupac,
Martin,
and Carlos
we are lost and we fight,
because all the black flowers that used to bloom
no longer bloom,
and the hope the resided in the birth of a screaming child
no longer resides.
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 9:25 PM UTC
He goes to the basement, without a word he flys
To grab a sufficent sourse of numbness
To write freely and speak not so clearly
But to engage of times of the unknown and times of Modern times
The weather tide, the things of our demise
And the music rides, and the glass clinks
Goodbye to on time
hello to sweet dreams highs
Rummy is a card game
*** isn't for the hard weak
It's not win to fame when you're
Slugging back ***
It's not fun, it gags and try's to overthrow your reflexes
To misconcept your reasons
Why *** is for pirates and not for mere kitchen writers
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 5:30 AM UTC
It's the awkwardness and strangeness and
slugging-in-time-ness
of discovering a new
person.
Too often, movies portray the meeting of the
protagonists as some
heady rush or a
whirlwind of sparks or some
******** like that.
In reality, it's a slow fire
laboriously
begun with two
sticks.
And sometimes that fire never even starts.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
slugging and chortling all infinite and lax
leaning back on monobloc chairs—
some borrowed courage some borrowed reflex some leased home
to a figure shadowboxing in stereophonic eclipsing volume
sentimental love song, some humdrum alchemy of ale and whiskey,
feeding us with lies straight to our
fallible ears as guava and atis whiplash in inebriated sensurround
of playful mirth and feelingfulness
toppling the signs painting the avatars incarnadine with black-wounds
again the music rending the vale
lying straight to the face something the
heart still is— gears and clash-work
of analog deceit and fecund belief;
some permutation of early, imagined
falling into fledgling beats of
pining softly dancing in echoing beds
watch this twitch of my finger
meets to cigarette ember afloat
in verdure-jazz, lunar offspring of the
tubular deadbeat — crossing this
side of strife-torn street, hopscotch
in staccato. i believe there is rescue
in here somewhere as a tricycle blares
its rapacious orchestra of metal
underneath the makeshift moon,
why, it is so much better to burn out
than fade away, the song lying
again straight to our disgusted faces.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
It all started with a big mistake;
I’m here to tell it was all a big fake.
Fred hit Kelly in his great big mouth;
He said he caught Kelly at his girl’s house.
Rosie was jealous of Fred’s main squeeze;
Said she always does what she pleases.
So, she cooked up the story about her.
And Kelly never knew a thing either.
But that didn’t stop the fur from flying.
I tell you the truth, if I’m lying I’m dying.
The mood changed in the old hangout.
Everyone stuck around, nobody cut out.
Everyone was gathered for birthday cheer.
You know, some pool and some beer.
Nobody knew about Rosie’s big lie
Or what kind of crap would soon fly.
They just laughed and cracked jokes;
Enjoyed some legal and illegal smokes.
And when the mood was sufficiently jolly
Rosie quietly took Kelly out into the ally.
Said she saw Kelly go into the house
Fred started fuming, calling Kelly a louse.
He went back in and he smacked old Kelly
And followed it up with a shot to the belly.
While Kelly was reacting, Fred purely raged.
He wasn’t quite done, was not even assuaged.
But Kelly’s girl Lydia heard what Fred said
And smacked Rosie up side of her head.
She started screaming that Rosie was a liar,
And then there were two more irons in the fire.
It was two women and two men slugging.
The Fist City Express started chugging.
Mirrors were broken by costly pool sticks
The bartender finally got tired of the tricks
And got out his baseball bat and stepped in.
Rosie ******* up and hit him on the chin.
By now, a customer called nine one one,
And the end of the brouhaha had begun.
All four of the combatants were busted.
And the cops finally decided they trusted
The regular customers who all insisted
That the bartender not be arrested.
It might be good to say it was a big shame
But fights in bars are the name of the game.
Especially when women fight, it’s a show
And bystanders in bars always let them go
And then cheer and some even take bets.
This is how selling alcohol to fools often gets.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
Death of a Poet
Bittersweet, the whispers in my head,
Slugging tender punches intended to dismiss –
and yet they aggravate my sensitivities.
Calm, the winds that catch my sails
churning waters flow beneath my bow –
yet aggravate my need for comfort.
I witness beauty in the stars that hang their glowing spark
an effervescence in night's taut and endless hold –
yet aggravate my desire to endure another day.
On this Sea of Consciousness my shapeless form exists
to float upon its undulations and ride the coming storm –
knowing that sea's starving mouth
hungers to consume a ragged soul.
And knowing that this soul is mine.
Now sinking deeply to bottom's waiting bed
I close the final curtain
of a poet's pathetic act
this pretense that he existed –
as a poet –
at all.
Birth of a Poet
Renewed,
light beckons my arrival
spirit’s song still buried in this heart
its beating throb nurtures undying lessons
awareness courses through a sunken soul.
Returned to water’s restless surface
A vessel waits unscarred from stormy ire
I paddle, sensing land’s embrace –
encouraging my desires…
… to aggravate my sensitivities
… earn my comfort
… and encourage my desire to endure another day.
As this new act begins the curtain rises to reveal
a soul finding ground to call his own – and knowing –
that he never existed –
any less –
than a poet –
at all.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 10:29 AM UTC
slippy slimy slime
slugging through time
sublime hate crime
it’s a pain going through mine
• • •
don’t you know?
what it’s like to fight with all your might
pity going through
but at the end
you’ve won the battle
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 1:00 PM UTC
Slugging outside of this imploding cube
Instantly, the air is contaminated,
And only momentarily, will I pollute the entire room,
My jangly displeasure consolidated.
I come in solely as an interior
Burying my face in my cuffs.
You look down at me as I am inferior,
Smiling, with your hands full of ashes and dust,
Of all that remains from our cremated hearts.
Your swift steps reverberates the dilapidated tiled floors
Like the hums of wishes through laboured breathing,
Like the creaking in my head from the pre-vocalizing doors.
Sinking into the essence of my sadness,
Journeying back and forth and back again.
Uncomfortably, through these conditioned doors I crawl,
To seek and assemble words,
To position them like Velcro on the polysyllabic cerebrum walls.
That will shape the size of my cuts and bruises
In undeniable places,
As a mouthful begins to cascade and fall.
Sinking in my invertebrate state,
My physical texture of life
Salutes me once again.
Of the stem of creation,
And unpleasant satisfaction,
Inside my gelatin head.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC
You can't keep this up.
I burned the walls of your pasture,
I'm no longer yours to herd.
And you're right.
I am guiltless, free of that pressure
you forced onto my shoulders.
That avalanche of boulders you hurled
at me have crumbled to dust at my feet.
Fueled by you.
Your constant slugging, endless dependability,
fixation on control that destroyed us, and now
are about to destroy you. (If they haven't already.)
I am freed.
I've found solace in something new.
And it's about time you did too.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
Sleepy Swagger Striding the Sideline,
the Sidewalk, the Street.
Soundlessly Slugging through
the Daunting Day Dawning Deep
Within the Weary, Worn, Walls of
the Hapless Hearts of
Various Vicarious Victors
Cunningly, Cleverly
Questing and Questioning
For the Forgotten and Frail.
Jun 2, 2010
Jun 2, 2010 at 6:39 PM UTC
Lately time seems to be going by in a lethargic manner, making me feel a little uneasy. Driving, the cars on the highway seemed to be slugging by, red lights lasting days long. The street lights flicked on. I glance at them and a trail of thin bleached light would follow as I turn my head, vision acting as a slow shutter speed. People walking across the street with their feet crawling weakly, heals clutching the ground. I stare.
Jun 16, 2010
Jun 16, 2010 at 7:04 PM UTC
A starved fruit
is that,
of the open mouthed end,
to a warm,
bottle of wine
slugging back,
the bitter
disgust.
Reaping benefits
like ergot
off rye.
Tumultuous temptations,
shouting out
the window;
"I'll do it, I'll do it,
******* it, I'll do it"
One last look
into
the soul-sucking rim,
of a warm,
bottle of wine.
Swimming into
the sediment,
gravity of cement,
drowning.
"I'll do it, ******* it,
I'll do it"
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 11:57 AM UTC
my gift to you are these few little things
that i have managed to save
like moths who fell asleep in my
care
and
who probably will never wake
preserved in a yellow clothe, folded and placed
in a box beneath my tongue
carefully so as not to disturb the dust on their wings
in case they should
fly again...
(the rustic child’s toy)
morning as blue as the eyes
of god
upon the roof
entrapped in it’s
crisp clutches
love and other
shining, stupid things
teeming below our crunched
bodies
something like euphoria
(or much to much wine)
and
silence finally
watching planes
leave their billowing
impressions on
the flesh
of the sky.
2.(the newspaper clipping)
we sank into the ground
bellow the bridge
and pretended we were
trolls
scaring the
goatlings
that trampled
by
you smelt of oranges
and wood-chips
we
grumbled and smiled
into one another’s
available
skin
to keep
laughter from
penetrating
the web of
fantasy
we were spinning
3.(the photograph)
naked beneath
the togas of wool that
our mothers gave
to us
tears trembling on their
eyelashes
(before
we walked away)
there is now fire dividing the
space between
our salty smiles
neil young-
a tiny voice
tickling the smoky
air
like little fingers
of sound
4.(the letter to yourself)
no contact
aside from
the mingling of
breath
and other
invisible
body things
like the mutual
recognition
of comfort
when was this
but
most
moments
mornings
in
cold that
froze
words
between ear
and mouth, slowing them
like insects,
caterpillars
slugging along
a frosted
branch
imbedding them
in the space
between our cherry
faces.
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 9:24 PM UTC
the sound of a car crash, the sound of your ex lovers heart breaking,
knowing it wasn't meant to be
this way, i called you and every clock stopped
i don't know how long it's
been since the last time i believed
you, last week i wanted to
night creeps up on you like the ghosts hanging in your closet, you didn't think you'd grow up to be this,
you didn't want to
and i swore in the seventh grade
never would i follow in my fathers footsteps, here i am, saturday morning
slugging wine from the bottle
a pandemonium of sadness, these corrupting juxtapositions are the only thing i speak with lately
maybe "we" were an overture for what we'd grow into, you know
the nights you text me asking why the hell i won't get out of your dreams, are the nights after you haunted mine
this,
****** penumbra, i see it too often
it shows up in the dreams where i find you too
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 8:44 AM UTC
Back to the same old me, the very being to splinter. Had I seen it coming I could have stocked up on happy feelings for my emotional winter. That single glimmer of my true north all behind me the irony too much to tackle straight on. I ranted on and on and on, feelings clinging to me expecting release and finding the very bottles they were meant to be stored. Nothing more of me to give, I wept silently. Holding shame, accepting blame, all thought within my brain had managed to shoot from my head. A chain had broken, All hope was dead. Slugging now through halted gears and slowed micro-thoughts. breaking apart every mistake as if looking for a cure. Nothing prospered, mark the end.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 6:41 AM UTC
He held some Romantic notion
His years of love and devotion,
The exposition of emotion
Could overcome the troubles.
He tried to be meta-physical,
Raised his crucible to the celestial,
Prayed to move the unchangeable
To overcome the troubles.
For years he toiled in his realism,
The jobs, debts and persistent requiems,
The slugging burdens of their tediums,
To overcome the troubles.
He was Dada, then Grand-dada.
She was Mama, then Grand-mama.
Once an in-law, now an outlaw,
Yet always there was trouble.
Now he's lost his generation,
Learned the cost of retribution;
Still sourcing out his frustration,
Considering the final solution
For dealing with his troubles.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
as a kid I believed
I thought of the stars as high in a sky grown
from the ground up straight for a hundred years
in the eye-shaped pattern of sight I
with my spade-shoes dug slugging heaps in steps eighty-years
long like there was somewhere else to be or go but o this is it I'm
stuck in the awe of an out-of-focus centre and infinity that scares
me but is truly just a blurred hour glass fallen on its this side
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 1:27 AM UTC
Where does one go
when there is no new show?
A lack of an act
in which to invest in your time
Eats your soul away
with the loss of every silver dime.
I have the fight left to fight the "life's thieves"
You feel punch drunk
like a fighter fighting just to stay in one click of a moment
of joy and fellowship.
Here it goes..let's get this slug fest over
and let me be free to have freedom of movement...
Into life's light and partnership.
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 8:03 PM UTC
Someone I use to say I love
Someone I use to say I wanna be
But now I look at it with eyes with blades
I use to blame u for the reason that I quit
On happiness and the only thing that made me
Now I locked myself up
Not one tear every leaves
Now my hatred for you is as hard as my fist
Now I wish how u would leave
Bc at least then I hope I'll see straight
Hopefully be happy another day
Abuse of alcohol and drugs
Trying to pick 18 year olds when you're 40
Only thinking of himself
And I think
I wanted to be like this
Be a drug addict who abuses alcohol
And try's to get girls my age
Divided by 2
Now I realize I was blinded and that won't happen again
Keep my back against the wall and slugging fools
Not thinking about walking bc once I do
Well then someone can come up from behind and end me there
And whenever I look in a mirror I wanna scream
Disgusted by what I see
I can't believe it
He very thing I despise if become
**** how could this happen
Disappointed suicide seems like an option
Wait till alone
Grabs a knife
And goes to cut
Stops and breaks down crying
Alone
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 8:52 PM UTC
Sometimes I catch myself
but by then of course it's too late
sometimes the little angel that typically resides on my shoulder bursts into my room like my angry father
to catch me and that little devil slugging back **** rips laughing like we have not a care in the world
Sometimes I catch myself
and I don't know what to say
I'm as speechless as my eloquent mother when
I disappoint, over and over again
shooting myself in the foot for the thousandth time
slapping a fresh clip into this smoking gun so the cycle can start anew
Sometimes I catch myself
scribbling poems in class rather than listening
as if this trite basic verse is worth more to me than
mygradesmyfuturemylife
Sometimes I catch myself
and I shake my head in disbelief
I look in my mirror with disgust
my knuckles throb ignored
I glance up at that dangling sword
splash cold water on my neck and watch it run down
soaking my shirt
already wet with my nervous sweat
Sometimes I catch myself
and I'm already inside
not thinking about the emotional ramifications of my lust
escaping the day, driving off the world's problems
and forgetting more and more with each ******
Sometimes I catch myself
and I question that being in my mind
this thing I call a person
this skinny body
well what the ****
how the **** are you going to fix this one?
bare minimum last minute
excuses poured out like shots
but then I catch myself
and silently implore the gods I have rejected
for my third fourth fifth sixth second chance
hoping it's not too late
for me to catch myself
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 6:15 AM UTC
embracing your diverse vibe
I hold in my arctic breath as we wander outside
grasping the cigarette between my shivering fingers
I feel the warmth of the smoke linger
I howl it upwards
notice your fist in a clench
slugging my eyes to meet yours
I see your fragileness shining through
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC