"tippers" poems
Fresh night air breezes past me,
Funneled down though parking garages,
Running over brick roadways past the backside of restaurants
And through the smoke of every kitchen employee
Burning on the back street.
The smell of fresh brewed trash hangs faintly in every moment,
But goes mostly unacknowledged by all.
Thus the wheel turns
Cook, clean, run, serve, smile
Toff tiny tippers are tools, trickling
Down scented cash while mine smells like sweat.
Tip for tiny tippers. Tip better.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
Intending to escape the world
Like a convict from a jailhouse
Only for the penny strippers and corner tippers,
Professionals of the arousal.
How soon we are to arrive,
That we would rather leave.
Grass of multi-colored pigments
Sway cemented in my mind.
Yet, I do not disagree.
Imagination take me.
Whispering dove of pity
Flies to a land that is free.
I step outside of myself
And see the stringed bow pull back,
Watch the arrow fly through foggy air,
And land on an island
In the middle of unnamed lake.
She calls to me then, crying for
Her lover has left again.
Timing tears with labor
As he sharpens his dull saber.
He watched her as tears streamed down her face,
Wondering if any of it was even worth it anymore.
The dog barked as he drew himself a glass of water,
Looking into the water as the sun reflected in its downward motion.
Outside of myself and out of my mind.
Leaving the world to its own self behind.
A hacking wish covered in spittle and blood,
Love for some is just not enough.
And now, when he sees his reflection, he sees her.
Cracks of his face remind him of chipped high-ball glasses.
Swollen eyes reel re-runs of wine stained teeth.
His shallow cheeks of late-night love making.
There was never meant to be perfection.
Life is really just one big accident.
Or a coincidence, a mistake, or a miracle.
There was never meant to be perfection, honest.
Do you think I would lie to you?
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 9:15 PM UTC
Bring me a lantern dear ,
Strike out the fire ,
for my bed awaits me at this late hour .
The curtain is drawn ,
my blanket lies o ,
I rest my weary head ,
and Oft to bed I go .
Awake me in a thousand years ,
Why don’t you ,
and watch over me as I sleep I pray ,
until I awake. .
For as long as I slept the earth froze ,
or cooked ,
or both !
and hell ( they called it that ) men died from its Icey breath ,
and even they cursed the day they were born .
Vermin rats mice scurried then froze to death as even they found no
relief from its polar vortex .
For babies were left out to die in its falling snow ,
Old men stumbled and fell near their homes ,
of which even they did not see again .
I turned and the earth burnt ,
It’s heat burnt forests and grass land as I slept ,
if the suns rays didn’t then man set woodland alight ,
for the thrill .
Men abandoned their pursuit of recreation and kept indoors ,
Until the heat from the sun had ran its course ,
and the earth found shade in the shadows of its night .
I turned again ,
Fly tippers left their unwanted garbage over farm land ,
at the end of the streets ,
In the country where ever they liked ,
for no one cared ,
Certainly not them .
Silt turned to mud and buried towns and fields ,
and man looked ever on lost in grief ,
or weighing their silver on scales of death .
Creatures of the deep of every kind lied dead from plastic bags and toys of every kind ,
Mattresses.,
Supermarket trolleys dumped .
Cans of fizzy drink were left discarded tossed on beaches .
Migrants sailed from their captive shores on dingy unfit for the sea .
they were swollowed whole by the great waters .
.
I turned again ,
Children wrote obscenity s on walls for their thrill ,
carried knives and stabbed each other ,
for their own gratification.
Then
A man who slept in a doorway awoke to freezing wind ,
a lady bent down with hot broth to warm his poor heart again .
Children with bags in hand picked up litter ,
And I awoke after a thousand years of wrong ,
the sun cranked the ice on rivers and lakes ,
and the man fell in love with the world again .
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 1:44 PM UTC
Beethoven played on birds and brooks
in a café called "The ContemPlate."
All organic, local foods,
but comfort foods - nothing I hate.
No kids allowed, but dogs are fine:
another clean and well-lit place.
Monastic silence or library rules,
one chair per table but lots of space.
The clientele all like to read;
they all look mild and kind and wise.
They mostly mind their own business,
but eye contact will bring a smile.
A shaded space outdoors for chess
and conversations over beers.
Casual and comfortable,
and no one's smoked for many years.
Good tippers all: a happy staff
gives prompt service, makes few mistakes.
The prices fair: the co-op farmers
all eat there - they own a stake.
And I have lots of time to spare,
relax and write a poem or two.
The only thing that's missing from
this little paradise is you.
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
the types of tippers, tipping for different reasons
for the social, for some sort of status, for exaggerated surplus, for crusty dollar bills that are meaningless in one wallet but then meaningful in another
of a street performer, to place a dollar in his case, cause his taste is somewhat reflective of the atmosphere in the street, and she has a pretty smile on her face
to tip, because you don't know what tomorrow will bring, because the money you have will be meaningless on your death bed
to tip to be closer to One, to be closer to I, closer to Christ, to Allah, to be closer to right
to tip, to give with the hope of one day being able to take with understanding, belief in karma can be relaxing
to tip, because of the moment, to keep things moving, you saw someone at the end of the bar and its in your best interest to invest
to tip, to tip for kind service, to tip for pleasantries, for smiles and anecdote, relatability, a small investment for lea sure, and still that is soft
to tip? or not to tip, because belief is a *****
to not tip on principle, and to feel better that way, pay more for the donut, to start the day
to tip out of judgement, out of taste, one service was better than another, a standard, and a tip is an extra, a cherry for balance, a system in which you believe in
to tip the man who parks your car because out of fear that he will take it joyously far
to tip, to take, to put penny in jar, for charity, for good company. to tip
fascinates me
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 4:42 PM UTC
Enter: night
Bring on the night----
Where those dear play,
And where freaks come out anyway
Go ahead, bring on the night.
Bring on the night---
Where travel is often and much go,
Where the travelers are on the go,
So bring on the night.
Bring on the night---
The creature of the night reign,
As they come out like stars with flames,
Yes, bring on the night!
Bring on the night---
Of every drug dealer and dope head
The hookers walking like the dead
Yes, bring on the hight.
Bring on the night---
Every baby's mama hanging tough
Late night creepers who think they're rough,
Just bring on the night!
Late night watchers watching so,
Bring on the night!
Creepy crawlers crawling you know,
Bring on the night!
Day turned trippers,
Bring on the night!
Coffee drinking tippers,
Bring on the night!
That's right bring it on,
Bring on the night!
Bring it on!
Bring it on and on and on...
(C) 2002
Dec 26, 2017
Dec 26, 2017 at 4:45 PM UTC
On London Bridge to harrowing sound ,
Of. Ambulances sirens all around ,
and terror strikes at Londons cosmapoliton night .
Another day break ,
another dawn ,
another ****** morn .
I awoke .
The R S P C A shop left outside bags with rags and books ,
and children's toys for girls and boys ,
Open to wind and rain soon strewn accross the pavement .
Left against a wall ,
And those that leave them drive away unable to read .
To blind to see in the name of charity ,
at the end of my road ,
Fly tippers leave bags tables and chairs .
Or those who smoke outside coffee shops with espresso
and cigarette buts and chat for hours on Sunday morning streets .
Or Alex who sold the Big Issue last week ,
Who returned home as his nephew had died ,
Who won't be back soon .
And to those who pass by and don't bother to buy .
Or stay for chat ,
Or bother to ask
How are you?
Outside the coop supermarket .
Near by
And what once stood proud ,
Now pigeon finds its nest and once where table and chair
To learned children would sit stands **** and birds nest .
Then vandals came and bid it to shame to disrepair
They left it .
Ashfords history left to rot .
Mad politicians the bulldozers came ,
a crazy plan left to ruin .
What The Luftwaffer failed ,
The council with Bulldozer nailed ,
Brought crashing down in ruin .
Around the corner. The church was packed with freedom songs
Inside .
To God be the Glory .
Last night the ends of the earth came to London Bridge , to Borough market evil came .
When we should go to the ends of the earth to save the Godless from hell , and
As darkness fell and young hearts beat so full of love ,
One last time
One love.
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 6:27 PM UTC