"teflon" poems
Oh you a gangsta now?
Let me guess cause you got those "hard" tattoos
Jordans as shoes
And blow more green in your in between time
Oh you a gangsta now?
Cause you fight a little bit
Stay on that corner and quick to pollute your nation
With the wicked ways of degredation
Oh you a gangster now?
Cause you roll with a clique
To weak to stand on your own
But there validation gives you the courage
To steal without hesitation
Peddle drugs with no reservation
Take life as quick as a minute passes...
Well I hope those tats come with teflon
Cause while you out here playing the don
There's plenty associates that'll aim at your head
For your place just to save face with a few so called good men
I hope that corner has insurance or at least comes with benefits
Cause as past gangstas before you predicts there are only two outcomes present
Lifetime in a 6x8
Or 6 feet under while your soul patiently waits the outcome of where it will spend eternity
I guess this is what our forefathers gave their lives for
For this ignorance of the so called gangasta
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 9:08 AM UTC
Yesterday was a rotten one
For Donald Trump. What a shame!
In desperation Trump has jumped
Out of the frying pan into the flame.
His friend and former campaign manager,
Paul Manafort, was convicted
On eight felony counts, although
More convictions had been predicted.
Then his lawyer, Michael Cohen,
Pleaded guilty on eight counts
And implicated the president
In a felony, as the tension mounts.
Trump is an unindicted co-
Conspirator in a federal crime,
According to Cohen--something that many
Have suspected all the time.
Also, an early supporter in Congress,
Hunter Duncan, was indicted
For the misuse of campaign funds.
Do all who touch Trump become blighted?
Meanwhile, Omarosa says
She has many more tapes to play.
It almost seems as though the president's
Teflon coating is wearing away.
As Trump's Republican defenders
In Congress flat out refuse to condemn
Trump's actions, people wonder,
"What does Putin have on THEM?"
"I always hire the best people,"
Donald Trump would frequently boast.
Stay away from Donald Trump
Or you, too, are going to be toast.
-by Bob B (8-22-18)
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 9:20 AM UTC
First I wrapped the Belkin cover on my 64GB iPad
tight shut with 3M shipping tape
then I glued one helium Happy Birthday teflon balloon
from CVS Pharmacy on each corner with SuperGlue
and took it down to the beach.
Kneeling at the tip of the tide
I beseeched the gods
accept this offering
heal my disbelief
make my body and soul whole. . .
I’ve stopped adding Abilify to my antidepressant
and I’m scared to feel the emptiness again.
I launched my little ship
on the next outgoing surge
as a Red Bull can bobbed beside
and I closed my eyes in supplication.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 6:33 AM UTC
See the Republican,
Hop, hop, hop.
Hack up the welfare laws
Chop, chop, chop.
See him getting wealthy,
Shop, shop, shop.
Watch all our forests go
Drop, drop, drop.
Teflon coated Republican,
Crook, crook, crook.
Put him in a prison cell,
Book, book, book.
Fine him for every dime he
Took, took, took.
Check out his finances,
Look, look, look.
Hear the Republican,
Lie, lie, lie.
Selling out constituents,
Sigh, sigh, sigh.
Writing up new voting laws,
Cry, cry, cry.
Cutting breaks for all the rich,
Why, why, why?
Smell the Republican,
Stink, stink, stink.
Defender and a patriot,
Wink, wink, wink.
Master of the magic trick,
Blink, blink, blink.
Hater of the common man,
Fink, fink, fink.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
Today, I'm going to **** them with kindness.
I'll walk the streets with a skip in my step,
corners of my mouth arched, skin tough.
I will be rubber. I will not be glue.
I will avoid sticks and stones.
I will be Teflon.
Yesterday, I killed someone, with kindness.
I created art, in many ways, I created Hell.
A page filled with gestures may seem ageless, however,
a spectacular self-awareness occurs.
There is closure. There is completion.
Unlike the manipulation of one's face.
There too is completion, but closure is not
always certain. Some leave with last words
that linger. Some lift their arms to The Lord,
Lord hear their prayer. And others find
themselves at peace, living on in the hearts
and minds of others, loved or not.
Is a legacy more important to an Atheist?
That's speculative, I suppose. But if what they
say is true, and most CEO's are psychopaths,
then I would assume that it is. Monetary value
will always triumph over theoretical morality.
And I say that morals and ethics can be theory
to a man certain of his faith, because in the end,
sin can be absolved. Faith in a higher being, in
something bigger than yourself, often leaves
thought of peers as dismissible. For they have
their own demons to overcome.
How do you accept indifference in a system
that is above natural law? Omnipotence should
never be exposed to have a grey area, especially
when it is considered to be set in stone. Oxygen
and gravity aren't, but tell that to a man who
is falling and trying to catch his last breath.
Lastly, consider art.
As the creator, the mastermind hidden in
the clouds to let his work speak volumes.
The divine grace that is told in brush strokes,
in notes placed to play, to be presented.
That's a beauty that is foresaken.
Another key representation of something
seen but not seen.
Even a deaf man delivered notes he could not
hear, rivaled ones able, and challenged normality.
The difference between an artist, and
a person producing art, is that an artist
will use blood, whereas the latter
searches for a comparable color.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 5:41 PM UTC
This is the circus
What are you made of
This is the circus of conformity
In the form of high wasted short
Shorts
In short form:
Eyes slide off me like I'm made of Teflon
Whatever it is you feel make manifest
no wrong
Raging circus of creative spirits
Meld into one sort of monster
Claws out so you fear it
Exploring the isles of freedom
In the confines of prescribed high fashion
Kissin and dashin
Smile and flash
Smile and flashin
This is the circus
And your a small note on the ledger line
Held hostage in the ******* of time
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 3:24 AM UTC
Seren-dip-me-pity, (she was self-accepting failure, bad luck wannabe, wears black and sniffles)
the ardent opposite
of Seren-dip-i-ty, (she was an accidental discovery, no recovery needed, awe, found objects, in the
moment)
they are part of the
seven sisters Seren,
wherein lies the rub
Saran-wrap, was third (caught up on herself, clean and air tight, fresh as the day, tough like teflon)
in line, (changed the spelling of the family name - to be sooner alphabetically)
Seren-ate, (she sings she dances, she eats, she sings some more, she waits for applause)
does not speak or gesticulate
unless she performs in song.
Seren-ade, used to sing well (jealous, performance orientated, sometime for love, lately for money)
as well but when the other came
along and did it better she got bitter
and moved in to retail sales (lemonADE, pomADE, calvacADE of arcADEs, you get it, everything became a parADE)
And as for the twins who
are always fighting Seren-ity (lacks calmness, lacks peace, wants a piece of you, uneven temper)
Seren-e (more easy to be obscene, like evening air with a heavy chill, not bright).
The seven sisters of Seren,
who were always preparing
for a fight to the right to
the next beau to knock
on the door, but soon they
all stopped calling,
they were
no longer falling,
over one another,
as the Seren-ities
were now old biddies,
no longer remained a
worth-while dowry, befitting
sitting silently as the seven
sisters of Seren squabbled
soiling the solitude of the soul.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC
by Kim Addonizio
I have been one acquainted with the spatula,
the slotted, scuffed, Teflon-coated spatula
that lifts a solitary hamburger from pan to plate,
acquainted with the ******** known as the Pocket Rocket
and the ***** that goes by Tex,
and I have gone out, a drunken *****
in order to ruin
what love I was given,
and also I have measured out
my life in little pills—Zoloft,
Restoril, Celexa,
Xanax.
I have. For I am a poet. And it is my job, my duty
to know wherein lies the beauty
of this degraded body,
or maybe
it's the degradation in the beautiful body,
the ugly me
groping back to my desk to ****
on perfection, to lay my kiss
of mortal confusion
upon the mouth of infinite wisdom.
My kiss says razors and pain, my kiss says
America is charged with the madness
of God. Sundays, too,
the soldiers get up early, and put on their fatigues in the blue-
black day. Black milk. Black gold. Texas tea.
Into the valley of Halliburton rides the infantry—
Why does one month have to be the cruelest,
can't they all be equally cruel? I have seen the best
gamers of your generation, joysticking their M1 tanks through
the sewage-filled streets. Whose
world this is I think I know.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
I am superman,
I don't have his strength,
or his courage,
I have his resistance to pain.
Harsh words bounce off me,
falling to the ground.
They don't hurt.
How could they?
I've heard all bad things that anyone could think.
It used to hurt me,
I used to let it get to me.
Now it doesn't hurt anymore.
I'm in my flak vest,
they can't get through to my heart.
Those are old wounds.
Words can't hurt me anymore,
I've heard it all.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
**Smokey rooms and idle banter,
across the fields of my mind still canter
girls in short skirts, January to December,
the embers flicker and flame as days remembered -D'ya remember?**
*Teflon tough guys with hardened looks
fast friends by nights end-foundations shook
I hook fast to the Past-MAN WE HAD A BLAST!
bait my line and cast as the time streams pass*
*some cry alas as the nights grow dim,
me I'll always have my Total Recall to dip in,
conversations reach out to snag my arm,
No alarm as I'm mugged in memory lane, just charm*
*we were charming rascals with roguish eyes,
no fools as the street schooled on us no flies!,
So we thought til life taught us harder lessons,
as the Mask beneath the Mask reveals transgressions*
faithless lovers and fair weather friends,
left their mark on our lives as they came to the end,
of their briefer tenure amongst REAL mates,
at your back in the corner as you faced your fate....
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 11:13 PM UTC
logical fallacy
caught in a malady
fighting his way out of a wet paper bag
you see cameron isnt a man of the people
no man is equal
hes the man you cant see through
opaque in a way the lucky few get to be
hiding behind their offshore identities
pulling the strings in a worldwide conspiracy
lurking in their murky puddle of deceit
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
I marry you in the playground.
This limitless concrete jungle, a place where wars break, houses are made and tea is served now hosts a grander event.
Spring blossoming hedgerows arch over head framing our glee, we stand together.
Resplendent in sweatshirt, Teflon and scuffed Clarks, your gingham has never looked so glorious, and I feel under-dressed and overwhelmed next to your face. The one that every mother could love.
Presided over by a select few and away from prying eyes, boisterous scuffles over footballs and teachers who just wouldn’t, couldn’t get our love.
Our diamonds and sapphires might be gelatine and e-numbers, but this commitment is delicious. As sweet and sticky as the hold you have over me.
I take your hand in mine and run for the boundaries.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 6:16 PM UTC
my little heavenward glow
my redeemer with bony knees
you were never alarmed when i'd go
or when the summer burned my feet
you sent me a million notes
gauging new york and it's many beams
and you came home to gloat
with black licorice and beating wings
oh! everyone swayed you, Bonnie
with Teflon coated strings
and everyone had you, Bonnie
the sniping smoke was my reprieve
when my ma asks of you, Bonnie
I see our tails lashing against the gleam
of this filthy ******* town.
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 1:53 AM UTC
The moon was a perfect
Pikelet
On the Teflon black
..
She floated on the
Butter-melted
Stars
..
I could taste the syrup
Maple-sweet
Upon my tongue
..
The beauty of afar
The loveliness
Of that you cannot hold
But
with your
Gaze
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC
If I was a droid,
life wouldn't feel the same.
I'd see the world through holograms,
kiss cold-lips, feel just a bit of heat in my LED.
My joints would be motorized-gears, not sinew.
But would I even have the emotion to want to kiss,
any desire to engage in such physical contact?
There would be no need for any of that.
Everything would be just useless-information.
There would be no warmth from the sun
on my Teflon skin, no sex-organ to act
on my lack of inhibitions,
smell would mean nothing.
So I guess,
if I were a droid,
I'd be bored to death &
not living, just existing
in a body containing
diodes & transistors,
hard drives & resistors.
I'd be integrated, solid-state,
driving a data-bus to nowhere,
doomed to misery,
a pathetic, an unfeeling state,
without a real date.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 2:30 PM UTC
With the Passion of Cassius smashin' the classless and the facist
With the vernacular of Malcolm and paired with such passion the outcome attacks with tact and impact because in it's very nature it is offensive
With the cosmic knowledge of Albert, but we do not speak in relativity,
Only what is exactly no biased or levity
With the strength of a million men, no, a million pens, because I'm told the word is mightier than the sword,
But I've seen a man bring a pen to a fight and swiftly his life was no longer his right but a privilege he had once taken for granted
And the man who brought a sword to fight with honor was honored to die from a distant spiraling bullet because even the art of war has evolved beyond civility
That's why I wear Teflon vests, but never a mask, to make sure they look me in the eyes to get rid of me...
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:22 PM UTC
Learned more from this pain than i ever did from a church.
Listening to your gut but make sure you detox it first.
**** be killin me softly, leave me in a Hearse,
Never a good thing when i hear from you first.
Be careful what you see,
even salt look like sugar,
Maturity is not throwing salt when you know you could've,
And not smackin ******* when you know you should've.
People Be like "oh i miss you"
**** i miss me too.
Had to use these teflon tissues to get me thru,
You not alone, **** i wanna be with me too,
Deadass On some days , smiles were too good to be true.
I be business minded when i be minding my business.
And ****** be ******* and ******* be on some ***** ****
Overcame this novocain,
Recasted the impression of depression,
Ring around the rosary,
Never relying on religion.
Im from a home of funny bones
And My elbows been ashy,
I knew It would take more than macaroni art to kraft me,
And i been itching for this platform
If you ask me,
I used to wonder if i was a real person.
I used to wonder like what's my real purpose?
When i was young ,I taught my shadow to stick to my toes,
When lifes a battle, I fought to stick to mottos.
As a poet i never looked at it this way,
I never booked myself for this reading.
I was overbooked.
I bookmarked my favorite moments ,
I been forever overlooked.
And never understood what "more" ment,
I been overcooked.
The preheating of this season left me bleeding.
This farenheit left me heavy breathin
No fear of heights but Excuse me while I fall from
- grace -
me with your presence and
These broken promises,
Never been transparent to this degree,
Had to leave that monster house.
That was my American horror story.
I used to be couped up,
Had to tell double d to get outta my laboratory,
See mfs want my jazz but not my blues,
They Wanna be in my class but aint payed they dues,
Yall be Morally incorrect,
....More or less...
Lately i been Moralless,
Need to get saved no church bells ,
Put me on the zach Morris list,
These rhymes be like my confessions,
Front row seat to my ascension,
Carry out this life to which we've been sentenced,
Delivery me from evil - with even more incentives,
I dream in MLA format.
Double spaced a letter to my younger self,
Just some **** I wish i told the older me
A ***** laundry list of things I thought ought to be owed to me,
My OCD be blowin me,
Need all my ducks in a row,
My prolonged silence been leading this Crescendo,
Im not playing NO GAMES, fuxk you and your Nintendo.
Mar 10, 2021
Mar 10, 2021 at 10:00 PM UTC
He passes through the room like a bubble in champagne, unattached, teflon coated, and somehow freer than the rest of us. “Jordie’s here,” Leong says in an excited whisper.
“Yeah,” I sigh, adjusting my mask, “saw him.” She smiles like a cat behind hers. Leong knows I’m crushing on Jordie and she finds it delicious information which she waves at me like a flag whenever he’s around.
We’re processing in, distancing and passing table to table. Leong can be with me because, as roommates, we’ll be quarantining together. Lisa joins us, she’s back from the restroom. “Jordie’s here,” she says, bouncing up on her toes to better scan the room.
I don’t look at him but he fills my horizon like a thunderhead. He’s all I can see, even when I’m not looking at him. We reach the end of a row of tables and bam, there he is, six feet away. He says hi, I say hi - I’m very professional as we exchange looping, harmless euphemisms for settling in for spring semester - then he’s called to the next station.
“If only we weren’t so busy,” I say, holding this fiction in front of me like a shield. “Yeah,” Leong and Lisa say, practically together, and smiling like thieves.
Jan 15, 2022
Jan 15, 2022 at 8:34 AM UTC
In the bowels of a prison, in a tomb of concrete, for twenty three hours a day-
The “Teflon Don” was alone all that time, free only to scream, curse, or pray.
To seek refuge in madness most men would resort, but that was not John Gotti’s way.
He was chained when he showered; by the guards he called cowards,
he saw the Sun seldom these days.
His mind oft would drift back to better days at the Bergin hunt and fish-
Playing cards with friends and cronies who indulged his every wish..
He recalled how he rose to be Don; it was a blood drenched throne,
but, unlike his predecessor, he would die slowly and alone
Cancer took his lower jaw; he gummed what food he ate.
Four grey walls surrounded him, the door an iron gate.
His tumor soon metastasized; that death was imminent was plain.
Although John Gotti was in agony he took nothing for the pain.
He would not chance a mental lapse, a confession overheard.
He would not give the ******** that; he would not say a word.
He died choking on his own blood, his corpse lay still and cold.
It was then, and only then, the Feds released their hold
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 8:25 AM UTC
"Universal health care is too expensive,"
explains the fully insured bureaucrat
while his constituents fight to make ends meet
"here, have some more money,"
offers the slick, teflon-coated lobbyist,
best friend of the health-care industry
Obviously the twain have met
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 6:24 PM UTC
I’ll never forget.
MiniStop, Intramuros.
2016?
I had long graduated, the mortarboard
now a naked head of hair. The gown
now dilapidated jeans, and an overfitting
shirt. The fancy shoes now knockoffs
caked with mud and grime.
The little store was hot. Small.
On walls: baby cockroaches took chances.
Trash bags dog-eared below snack concessions.
A brown goop spun, the tungsten overhead
made no noise. Was there music? Was there
some commentary about love or crudeness on the radio?
Always self-conscious, I retreat to
the inner racks. Magazines lay there vacuumed, unpurchased.
Outside the picture window, an afternoon beamed its sun kiss.
I think I didn’t end up buying anything, because before I could,
some college boys entered. At the instant, I turned to them
and felt curiously incensed. This odd duality of envy and sympathy.
I was you, I’m me now. I want you, I’m not you now.
To look that young yet mature, to have a schedule.
To saunter inside the store before, during, after class. The
choice to enter, to parade, to be so vital.
The college boys, their plackets, collars,
their image. These hot-blooded men finer than me, stronger
than me. All handsome, winsome, reckless and brimmed with
swagger. Me? I stood examining the force, the association.
We’re all merely similar men, and I’m at a similar age, and I can
be a similar form factor. Mimic their teflon skin; shed my stucco,
leatherbound flesh.
And as soon as I attempted to undermine their specificity,
I lost my own place. I found that there’s no connection at all.
Other than I know nothing about the boys,
and the boys know nothing of me.
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 12:23 AM UTC
Stuck in society,stuff the sobriety,let the Pope have his piety and I'll have a beer,but as I peer into the glass,I see things come to pass,like the storming of walls,I see governments fall in the wastelands of Islands where soldier ***** hold hands and climb up the stairways,sideways,
are they drunk?
I have sunk all my wealth into gin and bad health,what is there left for me?but the beer,fuck society,
I need to drink to forget,to wet the baby's head before I sleep and wake up half dead,but a half life is some life and some life is better than no life I think,
so I think I shall sink ever deeper in drink until I stop thinking.
Drinking's a curse but it could be much worse,
I could be
a poet.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 8:32 PM UTC
NaPoWriMo Day 7: write about something you value. This poem is from my Cherished series http://lillianthehomepoet.wordpress.com
The Table
She found the table at Marshall Fields
in nineteen forty-nine, and pictured
her family at exactly half-past six each night
four plates, four forks, knives and spoons.
White oak, the Illinois state tree
with tight growth rings
durable, resilient, and
carved with artisan's care.
Emotions buffed artfully into lustrous patina
over years marred by scratches, chips and burns
tuna-noodle-pea casseroles set forgetfully upon the wood
and forks slammed down in anger.
Keeping up with Rita, Gwen, and Claire
teflon pans and a formica table-topper
emotions erupt with modernity as leftovers
disappear in a single swipe of the hand.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
On Sunday mornings, I want to wake up to the smell of bacon sizzling over the Teflon pan. Its fragrance wakes me up and as I follow the trail of its scent, it leads me to you in your morning hair, groggy eyes, plain white shirt, and your favourite apron tied around your waist. I want to eat breakfast with you as if time isn’t running, as if the world is in a standstill and the only thing that matters is you, your sloppily fried bacon that I will eat anyway, and my cup of coffee that creates a mirage through your side of the table.
I want to sit next to you and read the morning paper, talk about what’s on the news but most likely what’s not on the news because we both like to believe that what they don’t tell is what we need to know. We turn the pages over until we reach the crossword puzzle; you tell me that anagram goes downwards and Van Gogh goes across as I slowly write every letter, careful not to tick the empty the boxes that we are yet to fill.
I want to feel the warmth of your hands on my waist as I clean the dishes with your humming matching every clink-clonk of the delicate and overpriced mugs we got from a theme park abroad. Your hum fades into a song and you sing it to my ears as your chin rests on my neck, I feel your cheeks grazing over mine and I whisper those three words I have wanted to say since the beginning of time.
But, hey, these are the few things that I want and I hope you want them too, at least before the bacon’s burnt or your favourite apron is all worn out and ***** I hope this is also what you want before we finish breakfast, before I finish my coffee, before we figure out all the right words in the puzzle. I hope this doesn’t die until our mugs have dried, until you finish the song your singing, until your cheeks become wrinkly, until I hear you say those three words I’ve been waiting for all this time.
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 9:25 AM UTC