"stoge" poems
There is nothing
worse
than smoking a stoge alone
knowing the white paper wrapped
around leaves is a Hearse.
Dying slowly with a friend
feels almost alright
but when the smoke
billows out at night
a locomotive with no incentive
you get pensive
and wish that cancer would develope
dropping you in an early grave.
The stench of burning bodies
isn't a story
with a life lived next to a crematory
the sizzle of the cigarette
akin to the sound of
bacon cooking in the morning.
No warning signs
from a petered out mind
cracked spine causing
an acid flash back
fluorescent butterflies
peek over the guitar strings
stinging like beautiful bees
while the trees take deep breaths
singing
"Breathe child...breathe"
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 4:52 AM UTC
Trapped in my mind
the cage of which there is no release...
Endless time
a myth I hold on to which brings no peace...
These hands... attached to me...
not truly mine...
a bowl of thought seeps through them...
I'm losing my mind.
Vision blurring...
alphabet soup is what I see.
No words form...
I ***** out my belief.
You're disgusted!
Your life full of ****
You don't care...
I'm no one...
I swear I'm legit.
I feels you.
Though different neurons...
and separate plains...
I'm thankful to breathe smoke
and momentarily ease the pain.
I dare you!
Shred off my garments!
Release the true me within!
Then spark up that stoge
and judge
my
naked cigarette.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
It is 6:57. Startled am I,
by the nights dream.
Son of Jocasta, King of Thebes!
I head t’ward the morning steam,
To rid one’s eyes of the malaise
A few stabs
And my mind is clear.
Abruptly, like fire on the agora.
Desire veer me to vices!
A cup of Columbian roast, with stoge in hand,
I perch upon the balcony,
With no intent to slip, I s’pose
Each inhalation and sip
Fulfill temporal desire
beneath our aging celestial fire.
7:54
I am out the door,
out out with it!
It being me, me being it.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 4:09 PM UTC
She stated the obvious
while I puffed on my cigarette
"You know smoking kills?"
"Yeah, want to die?"
I held out my stoge
"I like life"
"How do you know
you don't like death
if you've never tried it?"
She stayed
silent
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
My downstairs neighbor got evicted,
he gave me a charm to keep away evil spirits, hung it right on my door. Acceptance from a few time aqaintance
had never felt so good. We stood and smoked stoge after stoge, swapping stories, who would have thought two stories and a noise complaint to meet a Pisces just like me, and have him call me a saint. That ***** quivered on the air followed by I don't care, a high five, and a see you around. Drop the stoge to the ground, stamp it out, peace out.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 4:28 AM UTC
I smoked a stoge
with a homeless bloke
and as I took drags
he spun tales of signs
coming from a tiny silver dolphin
laying in the parking lot
my aura was pure white, he saw
because he sees these things
and when the words
jumped off his
drunken breath
my blood
f
r
o
z
e
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 1:01 AM UTC
You ain't never had a friend like me
bumping Tupac while we smoke the bud down to the last leaf,
puffing on the roaches out the ash tray
to stay high, watch the nights slip by
fingers raised to the sky, "Die god , Die!"
You need a ride from the scene so I fly
pick you up even if you packed with a four five
Let you piece the last stoge out the pack
and if you got caught up you know I
always got you back, foot on the gas cause I
stay throttled for a homie like you cause you
ain't never had a friend like me.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
I was 17.
My hair was shaggy, I finally had some
curves, and my room was always a mess.
He was 18.
He was taller than me by a foot, so strong
and devastatingly charming.
He was a gentleman.
He never sagged his pants, he liked big
expensive watches, Zippos, and taking
girls out for dinner.
He'd offer to drive me home even though
I live down the street.
The first night we met he shook my
hand just like a man should.
He was grandma's basement.
A secret place that's always a mess
with crushed beers littered on the floor,
bleary stains, and ***** smells.
Where Tuesdays are spent like Fridays
making memories with friends we all
hardly remember.
He'd try to sneak looks at me from
across the room.
He was my best friend.
We saw each other ever day for
weeks, never getting sick of it.
We swallowed pizza like air, talked
with our mouths full, and belched
like a couple of boys.
He was FIDLAR.
One day I said, "Have you heard this band?"
He stared at me in a daze, turned up
the volume, and that was that.
The whole neighborhood could hear us
singing along that day.
He was a green Chevy Tahoe.
It could be heard from down the street.
I'd wait to hear the roar outside my window.
The passenger seat, a second home.
My feet on the dash, his wrist dripped
over the steering wheel.
We had no cares in the world.
He was getting high
at 3 in the morning outside my
house while my parents sleep.
I already felt like I was on drugs, so
no high compared.
But we laughed, and laughed, and laughed
some more until out ribs were sore.
He was a pack of camel blues.
His lips stained my neck. Nicotine on
my tongue, so sweet.
He'd flip a stoge for luck, leaving it for last.
That's when I knew.
Maybe we'd get lucky somehow.
Has she ever noticed the
pungent smell my skin leaves?
When he goes back to her,
leaving me for last.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
He sat tapping his finger on the bottom of his shoe, Italian leather, legs crossed.
“I really think the whole things ********
He was Anthony Ratier. Sitting outside a coffee shop along a crowded path.
“Its been carried on for so ******* long, nobody even considers it.”
He wore a Black Italian suit jacket. Black slacks. White Shirt.
“The one thing I can’t quite understand is how nobody else seems to question it.”
He was smoking a hand rolled stoge. Loosely rolling it between his fingers carelessly and occasionally pressing it to his lips.
“They just scuttle on day after day with such putrid confidence. I can’t stand it.”
He had a dark and sharp complexion. Long bangs of straight jet black hair hanging in front of the blue windows of his soul. The blue so bright, so sharp, so penetrating…
“I just want to stand on this chair and scream at them! Tear them from their ******** shells and throw them into oblivion!”
At this he took a long drag on his hand roll and extinguished it directly on the table.
“But no one would allow that. They’d shut me out with ease. Not a soul would hear me.”
At this he stood up and straightened his tie.
His tie.
About the only thing original on the guy.
Bright intricate patterns of red gold and silver.
With a large flower of life in the center.
“To know thyself. Ha! We can’t know the sky isn’t about to come crashing into the ocean to tear apart the hills.”
“Ourselves is about the last thing we’ll ever know.”
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 2:12 AM UTC
I am made of flaws
And bad decisions
Stitched together with recklessness
In such a way
That makes self destruction
Inevitable
I stitched my heart
Onto your sleeve
But you let my world crumbled
Around your fingertips
You whispered promises
You couldn’t keep
In my ear
In my sleep
But these dreams you sold to me
Have turned into nightmares and defeat
You left my life
Crumbling ‘round my feet
My anxiety rose
I spiraled out of control
I fell down this darkened hole
And so self destruction began
Have you ever choked on the smoke
That numbs your chest
And clouds your mind?
The bottle went up
And the fear went down
I stumbled back and forth
Between pain and numbness
I think I saw you in a dream
And I thought I heard the door open
But the door was just closing
And the dream was a drunken haze
I close my eyes
And I see yours
Staring back at me
I still remember the way
Your fingertips traced my skin
Your cool skin
Pressed against mine
I offered you my warmth
And you took it all away
I look at myself
And I understand
Why you left
**** I’m such a mess
But you made me like this
I’m not sad anymore
And the numbness has gone away
My emotion has turned a page
Now all I feel is rage
I won’t waste my unscarred knuckles
I have hands
So I can break things
I yell
Until my lungs seem empty
But the room is filled
I’m angry
But I don’t know at who
You
Or me
I’ve slipped back into numbness
I think I like this best
The nagging pain
Is easily taken away
With a stoge and a shot
I think I like this best
Did you know
That the sun still rises
Even though you’re not here?
The stars still shine
The moon waxes and wanes
Did you know?
Because I didn’t
I woke up
And your pillow didn’t smell like you anymore
All the pictures of us
Were broken
All the traces of you
Were gone
In biology
We learned that cells get replaced
Every 6.5 years
That means one day
I will have a body
That you have never touched
I put away the whiskey
I stopped buying stoges
And I picked up the pieces
Most of them, at least
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC