"spitters" poems
April doesnt hurt here
Like it does in New England
The ground
Vast and brown
Surrounds dry towns
Located in the dust
Of the coming locust
Live for survival, not for 'kicks'
Be a bangtail describer,
like of shrouded traveler
in Textile tenement & the birds fighting in yr ears-like Burroughs exact to describe & gettin $
The Angry Hunger
(hunger is anger)
who fears the
hungry feareth
the angry)
And so I came home
To Golden far away
Twas on the horizon
Every blessed day
As we rolled And we rolled
From Donner tragic Pass
Thru April in Nevada And out Salt City Way Into the dry Nebraskas And sad Wyomings Where young girls And pretty lover boys
With Mickey Mantle eyes
Wander under moons
Sawing in lost cradle
And Judge O Fasterc
Passes whiggling by To ask of young love: ,,Was it the same wind Of April Plains eve that ruffled the dress
Of my lost love
Louanna
In the Western
Far off night
Lost as the whistle
Of the passing Train
Everywhere West
Roams moaning
The deep basso
- Vom! Vom!
- Was it the same love
Notified my bones As mortify yrs now
Children of the soft
Wyoming April night?
Couldna been!
But was! But was!'
And on the prairie
The wildflower blows
In the night For bees & birds And sleeping hidden Animals of life.
The Chicago
Spitters in the spotty street
Cheap beans, loop, Girls made eyes at me And I had 35 Cents in my jeans -
Then Toledo
Springtime starry
Lover night Of hot rod boys And cool girls A wandering
A wandering
In search of April pain A plash of rain
Will not dispel This fumigatin hell Of lover lane This park of roses Blue as bees
In former airy poses
In aerial O Way hoses
No tamarand And figancine Can the musterand Be less kind
Sol -
Sol -
Bring forth yr Ah Sunflower - Ah me Montana
Phosphorescent Rose
And bridge in
fairly land
I'd understand it all -
11.1k
Look at that *****
swallowing pills
like *****
because the people endowed to her
this poem
and she only bothered to read
the title.
.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
before I knew he had.
His flight trailed off into a Utah
sunrise. He left behind a little strand
of thought, and, in a cramped, amber room that saw
long talks of topics that soon thinned grey,
a set of dog-eared books has been put down.
Books that brought nearer to my thought his own,
while somewhere Interstate-5 grates ‘cross the ground.
I sleep there still, although I left for good.
That house to this day asks me where he was.
Their smiles, the little comfort that they could
give, were emptier than their words. Often
I feel the vague pulse of their ragged stares –
torn, threadbare they unravel in the air
to mask their faces: that inner decree
which shades the truth. Where and how’d they ever grow wrong?
He must have, as the plane touched the runway,
felt the dawn’s shudder fracture his young bones,
his thoughts turning to those dog-earing days.
The seemingly endless months full of groans,
as they should have been, being spent alone.
And that set of books, at least it would seem,
ignited the wick on which our passions gleam –
slate-grey regards.
These six years past since they took him away
held minutes like a needle in plied dust.
There’s something in the spring that brings decay
here. The outward beauty of the world just
clouds the mind’s loss within the spinning gust
that all the blooming flowers usher in.
Then the rain comes –
in spitters and spats it spins the spire.
When gone the white-wick’s still on fire.
As the 5’s scratch cracks up the drying earth,
I recall Nietzsche, Guevara, Burgess.
Famed men who’d not anticipated births
inside my brother and I like cypress
trees, evergreen and coniferous we
drop seeds year-round. The setting Utah sun,
barely audible, gasps in the copse.
He’s with me now. What’s done is done.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:53 AM UTC
The city buskers don't speak til six;
After they've stored the aluminum paint,
Their instruments packed,
The clever boxes stacked,
The clink of coins counted.
Now ready for a pint, a blink and stretch.
Flame spitters, robots, Victorian mannequins,
Chimney sweeps, a Little Bo Peep,
All muted on the street.
On the steps I asked,
Which one are you?
I stand on my head in a bucket, he said.
Yeah, said I, *I know what you mean.
I did the same for thirty years.*
(A perfect metaphor, thought I).
No, really, I continued, What's your gig?
I stand on my head in a bucket, he said.
He wasn't being poetic.
Here's a man who stands on his head in a bucket, I said,
More than once.
So many do this on their feet,
Hearing the echo of their own voice,
Shutting off our daily travails
In an insular pail,
Seeing one's reflection distorted,
With little involvement.
He said he learned his trade
Watching the pigs on his father's farm,
And perfected his talent
Watching CNN.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
Pamela, I suppose,
Has taken one too many lines
And has given birth to a child
With a few extra mental arms and legs.
Green trees and
Vietnamese agent orange
Fell into her lungs a bit early
As she painted her portraits
And found her ideal of love in mine.
Women, I’ve found,
Have quite the strange way
Of making change.
We can’t all be Elizabeth Stantons
And Sylvia Plaths.
We can’t all be the bra-burners,
The Vietnam-Veteran spitters
That this generation of tetosterone-enticers
Has emerged from.
Pamela, like so many other long-haired,
Nail-painted beauties before her,
Lost herself in an opus of *******
And promiscuity
That brought her down
To a level terribly under
Those of substantial criminals.
As Burgess wrote, “You were not
Put on this Earth just
To get in touch
With God.”
Pamela, I suppose,
Failed at just the same,
Became a Russian spy
And illuminated a flame of displeasing energy
In the heart of my breathless being.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
Lost out in the summer rain
Lost in a haze of summer gazes
All the fences razed to the ground
Inescapable sounds
Of oh isn't he smart
He will go places
Yeah but not your places
Places full of plastic faces
Hiding behind glass window display cases
Going to the moon
The scent of mediocre doom
Filling the room
Like whiskey *****
Fined for misconduct
Of a conduit into a cliche artist
Talking like tongues twisted off of
Mouth numbing shots of grey goose and jäger
Talking like slick Rick spitters
Who don't long for quick fillers
Of life experiences poured in a pitcher
And I'm talking ********
Pbr bellied fool ****
But rest assured
My inhibitions cured
I talk true ****
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
Rappin like I'm strappin. Cause every time I rhyme it's a crime of passion. Directing these words to take action, splitting these ******** into fractions. Killing wack rappers for your satisfaction.
Bring back that boom bap for a new vibration. Cause we need to move this nation that slowing to stagnation. These new spitters have no inspiration. No words for the kids that spectating, they raise kids into self hating, unappreciating the knowledge awaiting.
You see.
My reason for breathing is to keep you believing in the dreaming worth seeing.
Rhyming to those who need some healing. The children need to know its ok to have feelings.
There's a king or queen in these young beings.
But you teach em to struggle from the beginning.
But I preach the hustles O.G. meaning.
Teach em your mental muscle out weighs and out pays dope dealing.
That when you die the last thing you take is your with your *** is cash and bling bling.
Teach these kids to run with no legs... Lil tink tink. So dont close your eyes, life passes by in a half blink.
**** conforming I'm preforming to make them think.
This country is not weak we're just on the brink of finding that missing link to confirm the only belief... wich is love, and only our love should reign from above. One love is the riches of all lives, from saints to thugs and that's because...
you matter, I matter, matter of fact we are all made of matter, and equality is still a missing factor. This country was built from immigrants, and it's insignificance has lead to neglence and ignorance. But our omnipresence could be start of our new independence, get out the past and rise up to the present. We have a presence that could change us from the accused to the defendants.
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 7:46 PM UTC
For a long time, I used to let people's opinions void that feeling of being futile; I was so dependent on how they percieved me and let that fuel my self happiness and self worth. But now I realize that kind of "self love" was plastic, utterly unsustainable. There's nothing concrete about deriving happiness anywhere but yourself. The only way to fill that void inside permaently was to live life with acceptance, be grateful with what you have, and have immense gusto for constant self-improvement; be independent from the nay-sayers and stand up to be my own alpha. And that is where I currently am, standing strong and proud to be in my own skin. A happiness derived only from myself.
"Have some fire. Be unstoppable. Be a force of nature. Be better than anyone here, and don't give a **** what anyone thinks. There are no teams here, no buddies. You're on your own. Be your own."
In lieu of the concrete jungle and the smog spitters on wheeles that interpolated -- there was an undeniable buzzing glow of life that reverberated off of the bodies of the youth that fueled the city to life.
It was more than what meets the eye -- a cup of coffee isnt just coffee, its the type of bean and the due process it went through that makes its idiosyncrasies its own. The body, acidity, aroma, color, sweetness... just like that, theres no such thing as anyone being inherently boring. Theres art in every thing. Art instantly turns things interesting. Art is looking at things with rose glasses -- extreme appreciation for what it is and how it is. It sees something more than its worth. It transforms it.
Mar 30, 2019
Mar 30, 2019 at 12:13 AM UTC
Fidelity is strangely hard to come by amongst bandits and naysayers, does a dream seem a thousand years? And shall that thousand years last?
Or abruptly halt to thy end!!!!
A muse is word of choice,
Backtalkers who have no voice show strength!!!
Boomerang spitters continue to be getters of pleasure of sin,
Art thou out? Or do you fit in?....
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 9:34 AM UTC
Candlepins are only disguised pills
the fall, counted.
One by one, swallow. Repeat. Swallow.
Swallow.
Because spitters are quitters, right?
Spit.
It’s only good after cinnamon griffins scale your throat -
comfort in knowing it’s over.
Spit.
If it’s bitter, spit.
If it’s bitter you're too late.
You should have warned me -
the walls did.
They breathe with me,
twisting
patterned.
Because words are only patterns right?
Subtract an “s” from a “t” - keep the “o”
(only for yourself)
Draw up “weak” to steal a “k”
Steal permission.
Breathe with the walls.
Spit.
Chew, choke, spit.
Choke on the numbers.
Steal.
Emptiness, breathe.
Bitter, breathe.
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 1:50 PM UTC