"smokes" poems
out of the arm of one love
and into the arms of another
I have been saved from dying on the cross
by a lady who smokes ***
writes songs and stories
and is much kinder than the last,
much much kinder,
and the *** is just as good or better.
it isn't pleasant to be put on the cross and left there,
it is much more pleasant to forget a love which didn't
work
as all love
finally
doesn't work ...
it is much more pleasant to make love
along the shore in Del Mar
in room 42, and afterwards
sitting up in bed
drinking good wine, talking and touching
smoking
listening to the waves ...
I have died too many times
believing and waiting, waiting
in a room
staring at a cracked ceiling
wating for the phone, a letter, a knock, a sound ...
going wild inside
while she danced with strangers in nightclubs ...
out of the arms of one love
and into the arms of another
it's not pleasant to die on the cross,
it is much more pleasant to hear your name whispered in
the dark.
30.1k
me truck
me truck is where i get my luck
good luck, bad luck, nice luck
me truck stunk like a skunk
that seems like bad luck
but it was the good skunk
the wan that gets u bunked
me cat has a bad case of lice
no more chasing ***** mice
the stupid thing only eats rice
the ganga it smokes is so nice
it somkes great out of me pipe
my truck makes me lots of money
me honey likes me money
me brain aint very funny
i also aint a big smarty
so me truck is me only option
i like it, its so very nice
almost as good as mariwawa
otherwise known as de ganga
good bye
tank u truck
for me money and me food
to feed me fam
and me ganga addiction
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 11:32 AM UTC
She has her own star
Down on the boulevard
Where they all line up to see her
Welcome to her life
Welcome to her world
Her life did not go as planned
She thought the whole world was in her hands
She craves intimacy in the worst way
But has to settle for whatever the fellows are paying for that day
She parades around on her concrete stars perfumed and sprayed
Hopeful that someone will find her desirable rather than doubtful
Wears tons of makeup
Smokes two packs a day
She thinks the sooner she leaves this world the better
She had a plan she had a path
Before that monster stole her soul and caused her wrath
Now alcohol and drugs help numb her pain
Nothing but a ghost girl remains
The other girl shed herself just a pile of skin left on the floor
This new person is all anyone will see anymore
She does have a good heart
but rarely uses it
too many people have let her down
No one ever tries to see the person that she is
they never stop to hear her story
They say it's hard work to look that easy
Some may even call her ******
But not me
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 9:57 AM UTC
coffee.
we meet at starbucks and i can almost pretend nothing changed until i feel the distance in your voice.
i am calm and quiet. i did not expect this
yet here i am sitting in front of you as you explain how you feel (a rarity).
and you and i are alike in more ways than i realized before.
cantalope.
flying through the young night air
i feel alive and free and happy again.
i meet theresa j hanson. dancer, 19, long thin hair and long thin body.
she says she's heard a lot about me and i am surprised and i like her very much (or my first impression anyways) even though you told me that one time that you had *** with her and other girls would probably instinctively hate her. but i can't. she's just so nice and anyways that *** had nothing to do with me.
she gives us cantalope and me ice water.
cigar smoke.
we go out on the little apartament porch and you smoke the cheap cigar, the kind your grandfather smokes. get a red solo cup for the ashes and i found an old ***** butter knife out here. and we sit. and unexpectedly you say can we start over. and im shocked(you've suprisde me so much tonight) but so grateful and of course we can. you blow smoke rings and when you say whooo are youuu i cannot help but think of alice in wonderland and you are the smoking catepillar who asks life's hard questions and am i alice or the queen or the mad hatter or lewis carroll
coming back.
we reinact a a scene as if we just met and i kiss you as if it's the first time and that is how you will remember me and my lips are cold and your mouth is full of smoke and the kiss is fire and ice it's a wonder we did not steam. something so you'll remember me{i will never forget} and i guess we'll figure out on the way.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
he is not heaven. he is not a deep breath of fresh air after being
trapped inside for so long he is suffocation. when his saturated fingers
touch me I am filled with a never ending fire that keeps me
awake until two a.m. and makes me question everything I've
ever believed. he likes to swear up and down on the metal cross
around his neck and pretend he is God when he looks at me.
his kisses are never filled with love they are filled with narcotics
and taste like a bittersweet kind of hatred. he smokes quietly and
slowly inhaling every toxic fume and making clouds
big enough to convince you that they are skies. everything about him
screams shades of cool he is blue he is black his smile is gold
his eyes are grey and he is the color spectrum at its darkest.
he speaks quietly and laughs loudly and cries silently when
he thinks nobody can hear him. I wake up every morning to the
sound of tiny bullets of water scorching his back but he
likes the burn so I do not say a thing. he loves the way I sing
and teases me endlessly and whispers ****** things when
our friends are around because he is an exhibitionist.
I do not know what this is. I do not know who he is.
but at the same time I do not know who I am either,
we are cataclysmic together and wreak havoc wherever we go
but there is something so beautiful about what a disaster
we are together that i do not want to say goodbye.
he is the lover I never have to worry about loving back
and that if nothing else matters
(h.l.)
11.25.15
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 9:21 PM UTC
Even the idea was worthy of a fight
and all too much preparation.
We dolled ourselves up for alienation,
even though the faces present
were so familiar and etched into memory.
Who are you Mr.Cool?
If that is your real name.
Whiskey breath and filterless smokes
only impresses the girls in the movies,
with scripts written by clueless men
like you, who can't supply injury
so they bring only insult.
You are a secretary bird,
a mime, and the copycat kid.
Trying to be a bad boy and hide
amongst the spoiled brats you claim.
Keep on burrowing and severing ties,
ravishing resources leads to ruin.
You say you've heard rumors?
Well, I've heard facts.
I've seen facts!
Your parasitic disguise will crumble
under the weight of your genuinely selfish persona.
While the company I keep will only know
the side you wished to reveal
in front of all the pretty boys and girls.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC
Frosty the snowman is packing a fat bowl
In his Rockstar pipe he puffs and blows
Until all that's left is coal
Frosty the snowman has the nicest **** around
Oh but don't say so to the old 5-0
Or he'll beat your punk *** down
There must have been some magic in
That old *** bag he found
For when he took it to his head
He turned into a ******* snowman
O, Frosty the snowman
Smokes the dankest bud in town
But you wouldn't know you silly ***
Cuz the **** you smoke is brown
Frosty the snowman
Will green you out one day
You can say you're through
But it's oh so true
Cuz ***** Frosty don't play
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 1:22 AM UTC
I was told when six
lighted smokes show up for miles
during a blackout
Toward home, Christmas eve
lighted candles on tree bough
pierce through dark windows
Moonlight can become
bright enough to cast shadows
beneath my movements
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 5:40 PM UTC
We were promised
Glitz and glam
Love and security
Never the beating down
Of our own
Never the feeling
Of an unlovable soul
Waterfalls into the night
We all know something ain't right
The nonsensical millennial
Smokes into the night
The harder we work
The harder we fall to our dying depths
And you wonder why
We haven't slept yet
We were promised
And now we are ****** off
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
Daddy liked his whiskey
Momma liked her smokes
Momma cursed like crazy
Dad told ***** jokes
To all the people 'round here
They was ordinary folks
Momma puffed on camels
Dad drank whiskey cokes
I dropped out of high school
By the time I was fourteen
I had no direction
And I got mighty mean
Sis, she had two babies
But neither one was seen
And to all the people 'round here
We were just both normal teens
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree
You do not want to grow and be like me
Listen to what I tell you, don't you do the things you see
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree
Nope, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree
When ever there is fighting
Folks 'round here go blind
They all have got their secrets
they don't want us to find
That apples in around their house
Are not quite as designed
It's best to look at others
For the truth, it isn't kind
Momma kept on smoking
Daddy drank his rye
sis and I both left here
No one ever asked them why
Nothing changes ever
so nobody will try
and all the folks around here
live inside this little lie
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree
You do not want to grow and be like me
Listen to what I tell you, don't you do the things you see
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree
Nope, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
Pure? What does it mean?
The tongues of hell
Are dull, dull as the triple
Tongues of dull, fat Cerebus
Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable
Of licking clean
The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.
The tinder cries.
The indelible smell
Of a snuffed candle!
Love, love, the low smokes roll
From me like Isadora's scarves, I'm in a fright
One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel.
Such yellow sullen smokes
Make their own element. They will not rise,
But trundle round the globe
Choking the aged and the meek,
The weak
Hothouse baby in its crib,
The ghastly orchid
Hanging its hanging garden in the air,
Devilish leopard!
Radiation turned it white
And killed it in an hour.
Greasing the bodies of adulterers
Like Hiroshima ash and eating in.
The sin. The sin.
Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.
The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.
Three days. Three nights.
Lemon water, chicken
Water, water make me retch.
I am too pure for you or anyone.
Your body
Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern ----
My head a moon
Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin
Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.
Does not my heat astound you. And my light.
All by myself I am a huge camellia
Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush.
I think I am going up,
I think I may rise ----
The beads of hot metal fly, and I, love, I
Am a pure acetylene
******
Attended by roses,
By kisses, by cherubim,
By whatever these pink things mean.
Not you, nor him.
Not him, nor him
(My selves dissolving, old ***** petticoats) ----
To Paradise.
11k
I see she smokes cigarettes
& I wonder why she wants to die.
She sighs, "Personally,
it's my own method of suicide."
She inhales,
& blows out beautiful smoke rings.
Then she slashes away each one to nothing.
"There," she whispers,
"destruction by the creator."
She smiled softly and inhaled.
I understood what she said.
She was destroying herself,
because she blames herself,
for the final creation of herself.
3 more perfect smoke rings sighed out of her.
They were intense, honest, & powerful,
just like she was.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
Pearl Avenue runs past the high-school lot,
Bends with the trolley tracks, and stops, cut off
Before it has a chance to go two blocks,
At Colonel McComsky Plaza. Berth's Garage
Is on the corner facing west, and there,
Most days, you'll find Flick Webb, who helps Berth out.
Flick stands tall among the idiot pumps-
Five on a side, the old bubble-head style,
Their rubber elbows hanging loose and low.
One's nostrils are two S's, and his eyes
An E and O. And one is squat, without
A head at all-more of a football type.
Once Flick played for the high-school team, the Wizards.
He was good: in fact, the best. In '46
He bucketed three hundred ninety points,
A county record still. The ball loved Flick.
I saw him rack up thirty-eight or forty
In one home game. His hands were like wild birds.
He never learned a trade, he just sells gas,
Checks oil, and changes flats. Once in a while,
As a gag, he dribbles an inner tube,
But most of us remember anyway.
His hands are fine and nervous on the lug wrench.
It makes no difference to the lug wrench, though.
Off work, he hangs around Mae's Luncheonette.
Grease-gray and kind of coiled, he plays pinball,
Smokes those thin cigars, nurses lemon phosphates.
Flick seldom says a word to Mae, just nods
Beyond her face toward bright applauding tiers
Of Necco Wafers, Nibs, and Juju Beads.
8.4k
claude: battles tabletop.
reaches for maple syrup, into breakfast,
& breaks down puking.
the girlfriend/abortion situation.
the cash
& cream corn.
smells of deeper spring.
grandma & her bible.
to pray.
to eat lunch.
to television &
honey blunt the relief of a sunday night.
lily: into decay.
into dark days of her america.
detox: she breathes on vapor. sweet leaf.
sweats the heat & dead-dreams off. off on wavelengths &
resonance::: sound therapeutics,
at 528.111 hz,
enhanced dream frequency. she falls
into bliss. into
unopened codons & the rigor
of vibrational analog.
love cassette.
achilles: wheelchair-bound & boning
still. gripping ***
the girl & couch.
the couch & modern warfare.
old warfare: harvest of limbs.
he crawls across the lawn to pick strawberries.
thumbs the dirt for entrance
to another world. smokes a jar
of roaches, as monument
to his second generation revival.
cool.
wallace: & the zebra jeep.
red rock monkeywrenched billboards & the ****** of flame upon milk factory.
chemical factory.
fertilizer bomb///return/
to town & grotto.
porch-light wood & breath of bong-rotation.
the babylon journeyman,
embroiled in plots against the order.
to simply disappear.
to portal away.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
As thick as sin,
With multiple lips,
Climbing up the walls,
I guess she's taking trips,
Smokes everywhere,
Hell started in the room tonight,
Wouldn't even hurt if I had to put up a fight,
Cuts on my face,
The preacher still praying now,
Everybody is dead in the party but their not laying down,
Sometimes I fight with my mother,
There's nothing that could make her proud,
They say, You said it would be alright,
I keep on saying,
For now.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 9:50 PM UTC
Sharp shard with blood, it cuts
your armored heart of crystalline
no one knows you, nor gets in
barbwire wrapped and shut
black, the deep - you've fallen
your desultory descent ever sullen
gasp of strife that smokes
and chokes apart your life
makes a slave of you, alone
calls for your blood
and bones
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
The crochet needles are stuck
in my teeth.
The hooks settle in my throat,
dripping with
saliva and *****
The calendar winds its way
through the winter months,
and it is still winter,
but it has been hot like spring(s).
The crochet lingers.
The white thread
consumes.
I love you, but that is all I ever say
anymore.
I miss you.
The blood drips down the alley
and God smokes a Cuban.
Death laughs. Death reds. Death dog.
Death to the death-heart, the dead-heart;
and I will ensnare your---
I will ensoul and be ensouled
because I am God.
I am God smoking a Cuban.
The wedding bells get caught
in the cilia,
and they are frozen.
I am deaf. I am death I am God without a Cuban cigar.
I'm sorry as I pick the dirt
from my fingernailed coffin tomb.
The abort-fetus clings to your ******
You love your ******
I never really liked mine.
The crochet grids lie in
woven embroidery dreams,
hot as fever,
cold as the call of the void.
Jump. Jump.
It is not autumn here.
But here, see, I'm sorry.
Mar 8, 2012
Mar 8, 2012 at 4:47 PM UTC
He looks like a rasta
Preaches no money only peace
But smokes no ****
He’s been sober all his life
Like he just got out of rehab
But doesn't mind if his friends smoke a couple trees
He breaks it down like a b-boy
That might of known Michael Jackson
Then belts out American country music
In the heart of Africa
Designs fashion making Europeans wonder
If they should colonize Africa again to get his resources.
Neo-colonization anyone?
He has small money
He lives poor
But lives rich
Has his own humble home
Like the adult he’s been since 15
And loves helplessly like he’s still 15
Despite the bruises the world continues to lash on his never aging soul.
Ohhh
Those bruises must hurt
But he’s trying to heal them with his art
He is an anomaly
Doesn’t fit here or there
But anomalies are perfectly normal
They choose to sit in there soul
Release truth that needs to be told
Because it’s only natural
Not fabricated
The fabricated
Really hates it.
The fabricated
Still takes a taste of it
Because they want that
Freedom
The fabricated
Watch in awe
They say no
You aren’t allowed to do that
That’s a contradiction
You’re a paradox
Social lines wont let you cross that.
Get back in line
Get back in line
Before we shoot you
Because we want your freedom too.
He’s been shot a couple times
I think his soul is his armor
But he lives in a human body
So you can imagine he’s not all that bullet proof.
Even if his body dies one day
I swear his soul will live on.
His freedom has no expiration date.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 3:41 AM UTC
**I have an issue
One that weighs heavily upon my heart
One that, if left unchecked, threatens to tear our social moral fiber apart
An issue I will express in English, with some help from my old friend *Swahili
Hii imenisumbua akili, kwa hivyo kuiongelea ni kitu tunastahili
Hii story ya immorality tunaichukulia so so light
Dem akiji'expose kidogo mbele ya kamera haina mseo, tunampandisha cheo kwa society, all of a sudden ye ni socialite
The new cool, eti ‘good girl gone bad’
Hiyo njaro siyo polite*
We have a lot more to live for than that which we seem to be aware of
It’s not always about a good time, or lack thereof
Our reputation as a culture I believe is something we badly need to take care of
*Siyo game
Siyo Jokes
Si eti mambo na fame*
It shouldn’t just be about who drinks, who smokes, who vomits and who chokes
*Hiyo lifestyle siyo dope
Na siyo right*
Six hundred and seventy something ways to die… choose one
I refuse to go… speeding down a highway, drunk out of my mind, on another booz run
However, I may not exactly be the right person to point out how messed up you are
On a scale of one to ten?
I’m probably as guilty as you are
******
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC
Smelly Red Neck
I knew a man who was a smelly red neck,
this poor fellow was always having a wreck.
Two whole teeth and can barely read,
drinks his ***** and smokes his ****
Blind in one eye, can't see out the other,
his sister is also his mother.
It's a family filled with ******
born and raised in the southern mid-west.
Twelve toes and eight fingers,
grandma ***** by a gang of *******
He was mostly white, with a big black *****
Daisy Duke calls him Enos.
Hair is red, ***** are blue,
when it comes to words, he knows a few.
Can't drive a car, can't ride a bike,
strongly believes in the Third *****
Dumber than an old door ****
never had a god **** job.
The laughing stock of the town,
underwear is always sticky brown.
Has one ear and three *******
even gets picked on by the cripples.
Ten feet tall, with an IQ of twenty,
gets hard when he sees a penny.
Family was killed in a tractor accident,
there he sat naked in an over-sized cabinet.
Being molested by every perverted predator,
started to crack from all the pressure.
Grabs a gun and goes out shooting,
it's the devils work and he was recruiting.
Police came and shot him dead,
saying **** he had a big black head.
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 8:00 PM UTC
let go, brother
let go of your forest
your ocean spray
your frantic
manic
tendencies
the ability to wipe it all away
lost somewhere in the wind
let go of your rain
let go of your shaky hands
and hold your pencil straight
with your teeth
don’t fret, forest
don’t burn, brother
hold
hold tight
the hallucinations of what swims
a polished stone skipping
in one endless encephalon cycle
fogged and
fogged again
the forest smokes
and the rain to put it out wanes
steam
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 4:37 PM UTC
Sarah
Sarah is a virgo
but she is no ******
She is full of experience,
and im not talking about *** or drugs.
( though she had her fair share.)
Im talking about life.
Sarah hasnt lived in a fairy tale,
but if she did,
she would be a prince.
She is charming,
bold,
kind,
and tenacious.
Sarah would **** a dragon
just to make sure you were safe.
She will make you laugh,
and iron soap,
Dancing as she watches you with
her precious knowledge of Amity.
Sarah will hold you when you cry,
and she will tell you its okay to be sad.
Sarah had her vision turn gray when she was a child;
words tore at her skin,
but she is still alive.
Her vision turned back to technicolor
but that doesn’t mean it won’t turn back to gray.
Sarah dosent like to talk about herself,
but you can talk to her,
She will help you see the world.
If you can’t see the flowers
Sarah will hold your hand and
sing you a picture.
Sarah holds all of her friends,
there names taped to the front of her heart.
She plants her seed of friendship
deep in the roots of your garden.
You dont need to meet her more than once,
you can tell that she is always there.
Sarah can be mean,
but thats just cause shes tired.
Sarah carries the troubles she has with her,
they are wrapped with the sign
“do not enter”
but she dosen’t let them weigh her down.
Sarah dosent ask for help
she is given it,
and she will always return the favor
but she will complain about you giving
even before you finish your task.
Sarah is a mystery,
She smokes a lot of
cigarettes
but she still
smells like
Sarah.
She is far from perfect,
she animates her life with overdramatic hand movements
and tells her wisdom with sonnets or
Monologues from act i scene ii,
She plays overtures from her heart,
and talks lyrics from her soul.
Sarah is a musical of a life
full of future.
She is a name in lights
not yet recognized.
Sarah hasn’t finished her life yet,
but she is the lines
of poetry, and songs
not yet written.
Sarah adds years to peoples lives.
Sarah is a friend,
and im happy to know her
even if a short minute of her hourglass
is all I ever see.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 8:36 AM UTC
Feed my addiction
Feed my addiction
Have a nice day
Yes have a nice day
Give me money
So I can buy a pack of smokes
And give me money to buy myself
A case of beer dude
You need to feed my addiction
Feed my addiction
Have a nice day
I want to eat junk food
I want to smoke like I am a chimney
I know there are people in third countries but who cares
Just care for me
Feed my addiction
Feed my addiction
Have a nice day, mate
I just want to ask for money
Like you are a walking atm
You see you should give me money
So my addiction is fed
I look like to people on the street
Like I am big ted
Feed my addiction
Feed my addiction
Have a nice day
Give me money for smokes and beer
So I can have my solitude
That is important very important
To give me what I want
Feed my addiction
Give me money right now buddy
To feed my addiction
Feed my addiction
Have a have a have a really nice day
This isn’t about me personally
It is about beggars on the street
They ask for money every day
Which can be annoying especially
When it is just to feed their addiction
For beer or smokes
Jul 7, 2019
Jul 7, 2019 at 3:18 AM UTC
They took their arms
and faced the ground
who will rise and who will fall?
the flare is up and now it starts
until the end, until were done.
A fire began
and the night is longer than it used to be
pitch black but it's clear
the smokes and fog are terrible
yet the world is fast asleep
before the dawn breaks
before the sun shines
one goal will be certain
one feud will be settled
I'm alive, I know I am
with one more gasp
I faced the ground
Goodnight..
Goodnight..
Nov 9, 2010
Nov 9, 2010 at 6:07 PM UTC
When you turn a blind eye
I know you still see
it just means its ok
what he's doing to me
You think of yourself
and what you have to lose
every time he comes home
stinking of *****
Turning your back
gives the ok to do
whatever to me
so he don't do it to you
I hope that its worth it
all the **** that you'd lose
to you let me your son
become bruised and abused
You dont hear the screams
or the cries in the night
or the slaps and the punches
when I put up a fight
But don't worry about me
cos I died long ago
just forgot to lie down
so that no one would know
There's nowhere I can run
and nowhere I can hide
When folks tried to help
you just stood there and lied
Well lie about this
when this poem gets read
the truth will come out
they'll know why I'm dead
They'll know that you knew
and you turned a blind eye
right up to the day
I decided to die
For the longest time now
I've been dead inside
well enough of this ****
I got nothing to hide
I was only a kid
that was destined to lose
so his ***** of a mom
got her smokes and her *****
And her **** of a boyfriend
that twisted old ****
got his pleasure from kids
or as he called me her "runt"
You should know when you read this
fore the razor bit down
that I emailed this poem
to the papers in town
I hope that you find me
and it fills you with pride
try and turn a blind eye
now you've nowhere to hide
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 4:03 PM UTC