"snus" poems
I was packing some snus
when I got up from a snooze
to put a ****
In a boiling vat of hotdog juice.
She was screaming and yelling
as I poured in the salt
and the cops busted my door
as my meal came to a halt.
I said "whats the rush?"
He said ***** hush"
As he sipped very angrily
at his watermelon slush.
I am black
yes very black
so they put me in the back
of their ****** cop van.
I went to jail again
For trying to cook a ****
in a boiling vat of hotdog juice
as I watched espn.
I got out of jail
Cause my drug money was bail
went back home
to see a fresh cooked **** in my garbage pail.
I was so happy
that I took a break to fappy
on my nice leather couch
while my girlfriend was napping.
Today was a good day.
Ice cube agreed.
I smoked all of my ****
and gave into my greed.
***** don't **** my vibe.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
I swear I had snus
Sorely missin my chew
Well ding dang
I got myself the Copenhagen blues
Guess I'll run to the store
Cuz I just ain't sane
Without a little Copenhagen
I might forget my name
Looks like I'm makin a ***** run
I love Cope so much so
I gotta go get some
But when I ask for a can
The clerk says sorry sweetie
Just sold my last to that man
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 7:37 PM UTC
I sat at a table with Death.
I ate from his plate while he
Pinched from my snus.
We were drinking, and not unamused.
He was quite a good listener; took in
Every word.
He laughed at my jokes, and my
Stories he heard
With a keeness about him,
Charisma and charm,
So far from a force of such terror
And harm?
Not once did he hint at my life or my
Soul.
He paid for my drinks and for
Every bowl of
Nachos they served as we sat
Through the night.
Laughing and sharing until
The first light.
The best of my times. As if on
My request.
Then Death sat his cup down, put
Thumb to his chest.
Belched and stood up, took his scythe
And said: "Boy,
You went as you wanted; with
Beverage and joy.
Now leave every worry, forget
Each regret.
Come home and lay down, you have
Earned right to rest.
No second of Life that you lived,
You'll forget.
I sat at a table with Death.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 5:35 PM UTC
It's only half past the point of no return,
And I'm just dying for a drink to get me by.
A cigarette in either hand would suffice,
Or a nice bit of snus to cure my sliced up wrists and my sliced up heart.
I never bled for you directly, better conditioned to waste away nights with ***** and poor decisions.
I don't know who decided that my plans were wrong and misguided,
But **** 'em.
I have been beaten down by the one I loved, to the extent that no one else should, not even her.
I just need a little of the bud I hate in order to quiet the demons that scream every waking moment without you.
I write to fight them off, to fight the sinking memories of "everything" we had, and force them into an airtight box, with an unbreakable seal.
So that not even ghost whispers of "I think I love you too" can taunt me.
I am steel, iron, titanium!
You will not break me.
You've done enough already with intention and I crave physical pain to prove your hatred.
But you never laid a hand on me, better equipped with sour words and a vice grip on my heart that wouldn't stop squeezing.
It's only half past eight,
And the sun is a distant memory, just like all the little moments we had that meant so much at the time.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 9:38 PM UTC
-------
OK!
Giving up cigarettes on top of all this is a little too much
But
Don't quit smoking
The number one rule:
Never ever quit anything
Focus on what to do instead
Just don't smoke more than five cigarettes a day
And stuff your face and your mouth with ***** and snus or whatever **** you can find
But don't smoke
It will **** you
And a lot faster than you think
But it's still difficult
Especially if you got a constant death wish hanging around you
But I have faith
Occasionally
And I know by now
That I can **** myself
If worse comes to worse
But dying is easy
I know a lot of people who have died
And they have died
One hundred percent
And not all of them have been all that smart
You'd be surprised that they could eat with a knife and fork
But they died anyway
Nature knows this ****
You either die because you're sick
And trust me on this
AIDS does this to you
When you are so sick that you're dying
You're busy taking your next breath
And death is of no concern
Or getting well
Whichever way is the shortest
Or you get run over
Or something
And you're dead in eighteen seconds
Or you die because you're old
Not that living is all that bad
But you've been there
And you've done that
So it's not all that important anymore
But you perverts, who hardly survived your hamster dying when you were seven, want to know how to deal with the doctor saying you've got cancer
Terminal!
You already know what to do!
You smash everything in the kitchen
Then you go over to your neighbors
And smash everything in their kitchen
And then you cry for three days
And you probably find another kitchen
Repeat
Until you die
But you already know what to do
Life is a funny place
But it's not for weaklings
Let's play
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 7:14 AM UTC
We are possibility.
Nothing undone:
the red key swung,
the pins aligned.
Spite and Malice -
you won in Burque;
in Buffalo, in April,
I'll be writing in coffee shops.
Cage made fake acrostics
and clamoured more than us.
He watered himself in blenders
tacked his piano like stigmata.
But really, he just put the right letter
on the correct line (if he
ever wrote a line),
but our house was a mess
of books and skulls
and everywhere you looked
too perfect a nest,
so we tore ourselves apart.
Why don't we stop?
Someone will spend graduate school
anthologizing our correspondence,
analyzing the details we missed,
et al., hic et nunc.
The girls dancing in Budapest
and the guys making passes at you in the snow
reduce us to baser instincts
by counting how we
could, might, tentatively
hurt again
on our second-class driver's test.
Fortunately, I am with you
when you look at computer screens
and you're with me at the bar
when television commercials
show off their bras and the beer hits
harder than libretto
and snus drips down the candle wax
making arcs like the Scott Monument.
The imperfection is bliss,
the knots loosen and move
up our spines. We'll soak
the tub and swell
our glands with menthe
and tumble
further down the mud,
until we either love or ****
what makes us whole.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 8:35 AM UTC