I guess I’m okay… What more can I say?
Forget it—never mind,
You wouldn’t understand anyway,
Would you even know what it's like?
Inside a scattered disconnected mind,
Employed to go on strike?
Where indirect misdirect
The sincerity at play,
When sinusoidal chaos spikes
And past meets the future present day?
As paranoid points outlandishly connect
At intervals of broken lines,
Memory lost in recollect,
An array of misshaped bells
Internally infect the eternal confines
Of infinite distributional decay,
Parallels with no intersect,
Streetwise cells with empty signs,
Burned out lights, potholes, and landmines,
Littered all the way.
How am I to convey that all those times
You let your mind wander away
That I was reading, thinking, dreaming,
Teeming, never idle, never strayed,
Seeing, being, so far and away,
Even the brightest intellect beaming,
Could not grasp the feeling
In the slightest of highest orders reeling,
Wound unbound, or as it would be seeming,
Imperfect, even to the disarray
Of the tamest prefect, whose verdict
Could not predict the reflect,
For in this world, seeing is deceiving,
As the lamest reject, defect,
Increasingly decreasing,
In simplistic bliss obey
Crowned unsound fallacies
That contradict all meaning,
Hiding behind reality, the actualities
Lest, protect the thoughtlessness perceiving,
Let me stop you if I may...
I must interject for I digress,
What nonsense was I weaving?
Forget it—I've lost my mind,
I best be leaving,
What more can I say?
It's periodic I must confess,
You probably don't care anyway,
Yeah, yeah, I'll be okay,
Until next time I guess,
I wouldn't want to be misleading.

A thistle is just enough
to encumber a ruff
rider through the hills
never mind the flour mills
to process and possess
and gain interest
on fervent capital gains
which are not worth the pains
for glory be told
for those who'd rather be old
and grey without headfeathers
and times naught but better
have then the vanity
to spew chicanery
to delve into the society
of anti-sobriety
and them then who lost
streetwise cost
but for the depreciated stock
which will be bought up by the flock
will credit its debits
to gangs that met its
match to the makers
and the tough men shakers
who make it possible to move
product without anything else to prove
than to their mothers
dead fathers and brothers
that one can make a living
off of *******, soul ******* and killing.

Wondaland, a.k.a. The Magic Metropolis
June 13th, 2021

Esteemed Readers and Writers, Gangstapoets and Hangarounds,

Gangstapoetry proudly declares that CREATION 96 is now the second unit of our Global Movement.

We are welcoming our new members. You are now a part of us. Much Love.

Tizzop


GANGSTAPOETS


**** 13.8  *  MIKEY DA STREETWISE  *  EAZY LEGS *  ADORABLE GREGGIE  *  MONICA MATADORA  *  SLY BOOTYGIRL  *  COLLAPSIN CHAOT  *  THE LADY REVENANT  *  BEEN  *  WOOZY WIZARD  *  TELLY  *  CRATERSKATER  *  CHEYENNE IS STARVIN  *  CASPER THE PSYCHOTIC GHOST 


GANGSTAPOETS


DESERT SAMURAI  *  PRESTON  *  ALBOW  *  SNOWBLADE  MUTANT  *  SAMBA  * 
UNKLE OF DOOM  *  PLAY  *  ANTWONE  * 
BOBBY BUTCHAH  *  TINA  *  JOEY  *  DREAM SEEKER  *  TRANCE DISCIPLE  *
*  MOTH  *  DR. ****  *  KOBA COBRATONGUE 


GANGSTAPOETS


SVETLANA  *  GUNJAHTOOL  *  LOUIS ORTGIES  *  MISHU BRAVE BEAR  *  GÖKHAN TATCHOUOP  *  DESOCIALIZED KID  *  WIND DIGGER  *  SABIÇ  * JUAN  * DEAL  *  LUCY TARANTULA  *  TEXAS HOLD ME  *  SOUTHSIDE DRILL ASSASIN  *  SHAWN  *  JAMMED JAY 



GANGSTAPOETS


THCO  *  TIMMY ROTTEN  *  PLATIN ZIPPO  *  WORLDWIDE WAGGING  *  ZOMBIE NEIGHBOR  *  BUTCH  *  KWAME'S LOST SON  *  TRANCE24/7  * JIMMY  *  JOSE, FELIPE & CATHERINE  * LAST OPTION PHIL  *  KIAN  *  MAX NEWMAN  *  MAGIC GOON

It's been a long time since I've been to church

My horns are starting to grow back again

I'm back, *******

Well, well...

Missed me?

Relax. There's plenty of me to go around

Enough to keep you coming back for seconds

That's all I ever do.

The thing about a Jezebel is that she's been through stuff

So she's more streetwise and seasoned

With fault and reasoning

To make you keep coming back for more

Ruths are plain and bland

Uncooked meat

Raw and salmonella-inducing

Makes you puke on the spot and swear off meat forever

Turning vegan

Swearing off the word

Turning heathen

Her fingertips loosed the glass
bottle, which had
of late
gathered rain like the
hands of paupers.

Glitter in a heartbeat.
to be collected by old battered shoes
or car tyres
and streetwise magpies.

it joins a city evensong
this oceanic roar of nothing
fusing chords of cars and smoke
and lonely dogs
with hacks
and throngs
of perambulating suits
and suitors
trampling athwart broads of concrete
As swifts in summer.


We swim in it
through open atriums
and barren rooms of
magnolia and magnolia and magnolia.

All the while if you look harder
you see through chinks a sepulchre
in each greying tower
ranging higher and higher still.

Machines and machinations
stacking life upon life to
build pyramids
to gaudy kings
in pinstripe or herringbone.

Flumes of fumes ***** like floods
Into and out of train stops
and bus stands.
Circling lungs like hungry crows.
Crows which haunt
Bombed out chapels made new
resuscitated with waxen ivy
and ivory lilies.

And the leaves of saintly oak trees
chatter in shrinking crevices of green
story telling
Of how people and things grow old.
And you can walk these streets
And dive too like cormorants into
The platitudes of city living.

Soaked to the skin in sound
to tell your story
like the shards
of a broken bottle.

we shook hands
tell-all flashes flared up
this man's shame

I had vowed to curb this curse--
to stop spying on anyone's history;
to not stall long enough,
with streetwise small talk,
until I absorbed every gory secret

fair play denied,
my lips dished out a long enough topic
and by the time we parted,
I knew all
~~
..Sunday, Jan. 13, 2013..(C)2013 Spiros Zafiris
~~

i thought i had a poem... instead i had a conversation,
and a rag doll balled up
to request ******* in elevators,
alongside the chance to see the nest of dr. channard;
there was never a dear love-joy-killing-me-softly-yo-yo
to claim alimony cheques of the satisfied woman...
blah! ha ha ha!
well it comes like a ballooned pair of *******...
why give her the satisfaction of being sidetracked
left on the pavement starving
unlike a greek pagan and more like a question of immorality
like the singer of i.n.x.s.?
i have sanctified my will on that choice like a kamikaze
should the curbing of will come and i be left with
only a spectator sport of choice to “prove a point” bumming it
hungry cold and admiring the success stories of the leftover impermanences
willing for the lost glories of old age, of that age once sanctified
in noble wrinkle and spur of agitation into ***...
but leave the 20 year old man without chance...
and expect holocaust-like loathing! erase the old *******! erase!
my grandfather compared me to a napoleon without a gun...
he said: why didn’t napoleon shoot? no one gave him a gun...
well no one asked for nukes either...
but the third time a nuke dropped all the ***** **** lips started
an ****** of the ****** of the greek god mars
seeing there was no potential to invest in a 100 year war between
the anglos and normans -
so they dropped a nuke... to fake an asteroid...
then started giving out sticks & stones for gladiators’ combat
with einstein being reincarnated as the referee;
and the clowns formed a circus to avoid the technological public:
you embrace anonymity and we embrace the loss of makeup...
crescendo of ha ha... you first... nothing... oh... ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!
you were supposed to sport this streetwise anonymity
on the streets on the freeways of digitalised interest...
and here’s us... clowns... clowns without makeup...
and the only pigment allowed being cow manure... and let me tell you...
that’s a pigment more flaky than the wrinkling skin
of invested-in *******, not that i minded the conception
of working girls within a western from the goo’ ol’ days with whiskey...
nuts bolted that tight with the boys in amsterdam
dreaming up all the “girls” from thailand only aiming at
wild eastern: **** **** **** that with a ****. huh?
i told you had a false poker card shuffle with that when testing islam;
i always knew the jews would win the tree that
translated acrobatic splits in the shape of the majority of trees
splitting into a y and yews.

A roses desire with a street cars name.
It doesn't matter the direction
Cause we're all the same.
Knock three times, to get inside.
Darlings of the night  and shady cabbies are your ride.
A streetwise junkies philosophy  sounds good while your high.
Wisdom of truth, while smoked in a lie.
Sometimes coming down isn't the hardest part.
Sometimes it's reaching  the end,  for another start.

Like that classic hit by Marvin Gaye
I have a story for you guys and gals today
One question you can ask, is how do you mend a broken heart?
How can you fix it when the world you two have created is falling apart

Anyway lemme finish with my tale
It was over a warm summer, the bane of the pale
I was young, wilder, and very streetwise
Little did I know I was dating a snake in disguise
We walked in the park, happy arm in arm

I kissed her cheek softly, like she was my good luck charm,
I said to her "babe I'm gonna be doing the show for flattes and sharpes,
It's a music store that's very very close to my heart

So I threw myself into rehearsals, playing guitar and contributing vocals to another man
Little did I know all the while she was giving something else to another man
I kept in touch with her the best that I could
But she always kept hanging around with the boys in the hood

Show night arrives and I'm nervous naturally
I texted her and she calmed me down actually
I didn't feel a change in her attitude, at least not drastically
I turned off my phone and played both sets
The Show ends and I wake up to an amazing text!
A picture of my girl laying on top of another guy, 
I couldn't help it when I got home i just broke down and cried

But thru that betrayal, from the womb of that pain
Came my list for befriending vowels and blending words now lodged in my brain
Essentially the reason that I write poetry,
Is because a girl cheated on me

The prince and the pauper.
The princess and peasant.
Perpetuating old cliches,
because aren't the differences pleasant?

Romance needs some room to play.
Fill in those gaps of mystery
with grandoise schemes and complex games.

Everyone's a winner.

The beauty and the beast.
The ******* and the tease.
The sheltered ones who live in dreams,
and the streetwise kids who do as they please.

Everyone loves a mystery,
but old cliches only capture so much.
Why do we need a conflict of different world views
to pluck the strings of our hearts?

Half hearted
At least it keeps a beat
I miss your mannerisms and streetwise feet

Thankful to be thankful at least we have a lead
Pointing north or nowhere it's our choice to perceive

Walk on sand turning to rock
Rock to land a grass to frolick in

Thankful for the chance to have this dance I'd let you go if you promise to come back

Don't define yourself with your own mind let the season persuade you to keep god on your side

Sit with me in this undulating sea of concret and center of the continent tides

Roll with me in the green grass of waves that splash us by
never get us wet Say thanks to the Sidewalks and their separation from the street

Traffic light refraction , glass store fronts pan
the main avenue
***** , bluesy , defeated people in line for liquor ,
beer , milk and lottery tickets
Navy skies grow red to the West , streetwise
pigeons work overfilled dumpsters and city cans
Bus stops return workers from Atlanta , the-
local grocery methodically stripped of its inventory ,
children playing games on side streets beneath working-
yellow lamplight ..
Fire trucks fly by , no one even bothers to look up or wonder why
Porch lights irradiate the Westside , amber hues build -
over the interstate , cars travel South , bottlenecked in the race for home ..

I'm fighting Victorians, Edwardians thinking they're Georgians.
Does Cameron think he's a battlestar?
He may shoot from the lips but does he take things too far?
and where are we in all this?

The kiss me quick, vote for me slick brigade come
on a hunting raid and
bang the **** out of my door.

Whatya knocking me up from my bed for?
Votes just confuse me and you lot just
use me.

I'm still fighting, streetwise, keeping tight in
the clinch
at a pinch I could compromise, might let
them see the light that shines but
when I open my eyes
I think
Nah,
I'll not bother.

it was 12 below in Rukatunturi

you were feeding reindeers in the snow

i was drawn to you, like a magnet, not knowing why

pixie hair, porcelain skin, button nose

your doe eyes, midnight black, called, drew me in, like a siren’s

you played it cool, distant, aloof, like a filly, wary of my attention

i had no idea, i was a fly and you, a spider

more than a girl, not yet a woman, you were a precocious, streetwise

oozing ***, sensuality, craving daddy’s attention

seeking my gaze, locking eyes, so intensely, i had to look away

daring me, to kiss, your baby girl lips

wrap you up, hold you tight, in my arms, tap into your passion

you hungered to love, be loved

the eagerness of your kisses, combing the hair on my chest

pulling me down, on top, to penetrate you

christening you from a girl to a woman

Keep sharpening your teeth on my
iron fittings and feeling up my
velvet underground upholstery with
your streetwise alley cat paws and big
gun Remington revolver ballpoint pen
Try to rob these recondite rubies from my
helicopter heart if you can and
follow my complimentary contrail with
your caloric vocabulary until you tire of
my transom and finally bolt like the January wind
I might stay in midnight sight just barely long
enough for my spinnaker curls to furl in twists
around your wrists and make you my
pie in the sky prisoner forever

Written by Sara Fielder © May 2015

You wake and scratch your nuts because
you've squirrelled in the night
yawn a while
while making tea
pull some faces
have a ***.

It's Wednesday and nowhere near
the first beer of the first of lots and
your tongue's got spots on it
so you rub it with your teeth
a bit.

Off to work,
the daily grind,
can't find your shoes,
you must be blind but they're
right there sat on your feet,
you say sheeeeeeeeeit which is
streetwise talk and then you close the
door and off you walk
to work.

to picture him in I would say
he is **** and pusher womanizer
comedian streetwise
strong genius parachute 1st Airborne
Korea and Vietnam
black and white and all religions
player extraordinaire
but, if he likes you he has your back
he is like the Devil the Saint
the best **** man I ever knew.

THE ROBOT SAYS GO

The robot says STOP!

And the chromed steeds align, champing, their reeking tails
caked in ferrous reminders of asphalt and steam.
Still that bright ruby glares.
White-knuckled jockeys, feigning repose, swap dat ol’ faux decorum.
But nobody’s fooling anybody.
Halogen eyes framing high cursive grilles.
Round rubber hooves hugging silvery seals.
Glass-encased egos, too streetwise to dream,
jack shoulders to lobes for a shared primal scream…
Veins race across foreheads, eyes tear up the road.
And just when it looks like those veins will explode—

The robot says go! The robot says go! The robot says go! The robot says go!

The Emerald looms, the frenzy resumes:
Alpha males ****** the old and infirm,
their eight-banger fumes blurring laggers in plumes.
Jocks in jalopies thread rivals and worm
their misshapen monsters round planters in flumes.
Past loads wide and listing—and back in the fray!
Harrowing, narrowing, the pack makes its way,
to one more agenda, two downshifts away, where nearing,
where rearing…appearing like some kind of god in the flow,

this robot says…
slow.

Brief as bliss, blind as bluff,
that amber eye opens, (not quickly enough).
The lead runners race, redoubling their pace!
—rolling dem bones, refusing to place,
hurling their monoliths all but atop
pedestrian puppets who, horrified, hop,
leaping like bugs till the robot says

STOP!

And thus realigned, still fuming in kind,
the new leaders gnaw on their dashes and wheels.
Damning the wire, their backsides on fire,
nerves shooting pins through their palms and their heels,
the gentleman’s juggernaut takes aim and steels.
Eyeballs near bursting revile the stop—
And just when it looks like those eyeballs will pop…

The robot says go! The robot says go! The robot says go! The robot says go!







Copyright 2019
contact Ron Sanders at:

ronsandersartofprose(at)yahoo(dot)com

One day
My man, a gentle knight,
Will know the pain in my eyes
Hidden by my streetwise style
He’ll detect the buttoned down toned tight tremble in my chest
the chill of my breath
And he will lay every piece of armour down
To come bravely
Tenderly
With silence to listen to the words and feelings turning the rhythm of my sobs
Into a partner dance
Ears and eyes, heart and soul
Moving our bare bones
to the wisdom presented by hearts that are
Truth faced
And with this presence and kindness
I will surrender knowing finally I am safe.

While to many, life is a gift
Others yearn for the liberation of death
Many wish for life partner
Loads are trapped in loveless unions
While a 7 course meal seems appropriate to some
In a street Corner man eats out of a trash bin
Life is a mystery

Like a fish in a bowl, many are confined by their religion
Yet others choose to swim in the open sea of spirituality
A man celebrates his academic achievements
Life teachings guide the next man, streetwise
Some pay a fortune to listen to an opera singer
A young girl sits at a Park listening to the birds chirping
Life is a mystery.

Potential life of as juvenile delinquent
(ala bam mean future streetwise ****)
stopped dead in the tracks – manacles
the above two lines hopefully gives hint
nearly changing changing life of one boy
an undersized puny kid
whose aborted theft stint
constitutes the gist of following poem.

Now scores of years
after botched minor theft penchant
courtesy security guard
analogous to inquisitorial trenchant
unforgettable verbal lashing
(suppressing me ululation to vent)
unwittingly arresting snitch behavior
plus potential life
of crime and punishment.

Not a peep passed thru
pursed lip o' mine -
aye vaguely attest
what age ten? eleven? twelve?
of following anecdote at best
educated guess, but no
doubt yours truly
with figurative heart in chest
scared sh__less puny meek boy
tight lipped silently confessed

to foiled attempt, sans trying
unsuccessfully to steal a yoyo,
during Saturday's short break
between gymnastic class
at Lansdale YMCA
(long since razed)
inviting tummy prepubescent
diminutive self unbuttoning
outer garment to stash loot,
revealing substantially sprawling

holy skype size bare breast,
after officer verbally rifled me
said mean security detail
demanding I undress
impossible mission to escape
upon being nabbed,
held me arms tight,
cuz yours truly
ain't no Artful Dodger  
thus aye didst detest

foolish kid ploy, and
(prematurely nipping
in the bud) messed
up potential life of crime
with first and only
shoplifting heist jest
for getting caught no a pest
key yoyo, mama would
(IF ever mama
or papa FOUND OUT)

they would axe me no quest
chin, but whack me itty bitty
teensy weensy derriere lest
quickly putting to rest
any Robin Hood
fantasy life of riding crest
to get rich quick scheme
high stakes crime pressed,
and squeezed out the noggin
with apropos punishment addressed

thankfully, neither parent
got wind, nor ever guessed
their beautiful darling
little boy did flunk
electric kool aid acid test
petty theft, never
matured nor ever again did zest
proliferate to ****** unpaid for goods
into a profitable "yoyo
string Ponzi like

scheme," thus ballsiest
dare devilish and bitterest,
and laughably noblest
act yours truly ever attempted
immediately ceased to shelve bravest
sleight of hand find
delve during broad
daylight, I immediately
didst abandon, when clumsiest
initial foray into

the world wide web
tubby come cleverest
lad, as iterated above this side of
Lansdale, Pennsylvania
many damnedest
yesterdays ago, never
took another earnest
tempting gamble since security
detail nearly wrest
head possible zapped feeblest Ames?

grilled, interrogated, lambasted me
immediately squelched
further misdemeanors
to pilfer from other
Department stores if pressed
for money no matter,
I might miss an enforced
hated ballet class,
with abs salute zest
worse fate than juvenile detention!

A long overdue belated thank you
to the intimidating man in blue
keeping yours truly on path
lawfully being straight and true.

Among the desolate crowd we felt that welling of times long held back. The cloud had come. Release, pouring down. Over. Washing away what all had been left discarded. Disinterested. Pouring down the cliffs of a world we can't fully come to terms with while the rest was nothing more than grease stains sliding streetwise to cracks, corners, stagnant pools that left them short of those drains put in place to siphon them off to somewhere.
    Somewhere.
    New?
    Lost?
    Forgotten?
    Why. Why would they work so hard to take all of it away just to let it sit. Lie (lay, I mean, but **** it) in the streets causing those perfect souls passing by to deal with the failed drainage systems put in place. They promised, again, to fix the streets, why did they do all that work to have people feel their failings in the posting rain as their boots soaked through.
    What was the thought?
    Money? Gold? Ambivalence or hatred could be candidates if there weren't such a stranglehold on the decision makers. The streets, department or otherwise, knew how to address it, why don't they?
     And the drains clear. With them, concern. The puddles, disappeared. All that is left is the penumbra of promise, silhouettes of stagnant process producing not but the petrichor reminisced for. But it's always a memory left, maybe tomorrow problem. Matters not when the gatherers gather once 'gain. The sun still shines it's oppressive rays and once again these cloudy eyes start to well.