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Nat Lipstadt May 2014
Been off stubbing repeatedly,
my toes,
on the raggedy twisted
sidewalks of a sinking city, not mine,
where here, my own metaphor,
is being hand delivered,
to me, for me, by me

too many cayenne creole paroles,
none of them getting me any freer
none, as of yet,
making me a free parolee

been off studying some
of what I cannot yet do,
parole in libertà,
a language cosmopolitan
of creation, via creative writing
remolding all of the dix senses

been drawn and french quartered,
drilled down, found no unknown
solace deep bedrock grown,
so doing a redistricting of the map personal,
exposing my gardens, my Doric columns,
to any passerby with the
audacity so sheer to look me
in the face direct and say
laissez le bon temps rouler!

looking to liberate my words,
looking for liberty in my words,
in a different melting *** where here
I am a semi-low semi-free
person of color called
Old Fashioned White,
looking for a seasonal hurricane
to move me along,
push me to write in a new style,
developing cayenne words
smothered in jazz à la mode

multi-flirting with multi-fluency,
searching for Experimental
mellifluous words
stolenlen from, and built upon
a thousand years of languages,
river wide delivering its mountain deep
cargo of silt, a city of words, upon it built,
just like the great Mississippi,
changing course every one
                                               thousand years

my mouth, a river opening wide,
catching both salty and fresh,
god's love delivering,
doing the best I can,
writing real fracking poetry for poetry's sake,
not text messages of asstags
kissing nobody's ads of sad dead #hashtags,
following nobody noticeably,
but thrusting your good stuff into my orifices,
most pleasurably deep
                

but never parrying,
                   

      I am a poet social only in this:

my devotion to my crew
                                   stronger every day
for and
                           of that particular poetry,

           I can write better than anyone,
              so big,
                                    sooooooooo easy,

and that's, Steve, Bala, y'all,
how and what I'm doing
and by the way,

Putain Zang Tumb Tumb

you could look it up
In Nor'leans, studying alternate forms of poetry and discarding half-started poems on the street, arrived as a mate on board a steamship, standing on my only good left foot....
Johnnie Rae Jun 2012
You are the ying, to my yang,
The zing to my zang,
The peanutbutter to my jelly,
The reason for these butterflies, I feel in my belly,
And believe me when I tell you,
All of this is true, because baby, we both know,
Im completely and unconditionally,
In love with you.
Just something cute I wrote, Things that were running through my mind.
****-zip-bang shenyang ang;
Mang mangue flang hang prang pang;
Pinang lalang unhang kang youth defang khang;
Marang schlang gang wolfgang ying-yang xuanzang.
Klang sea get wrang.

Sang tsang li-kang gangue langues.
Thang drang crang tang harangue sprang zhang shang siang whang strang hang verdinsgang chuang;
Brang lang nang bhang xiaogang mahuang durang huang.
Hange hsiang und;

Zang rang kuomintang ourang section gang hang.
Krang pahang boomerang fang guilt;
Spang gang;
Hangsang xinjiang tunkelang slang tangue nanchang clang chang bangue vang ziyangbaoguang hwang pang the tsiang alang dang ylang-ylang.

Tang liang.
Overhang langue pyongyang.
Cangue sangh mustang stang frang yang lange kukang farang **** care sturm t'ang;
Zamang drang chiang road a jang;
Dennis Willis Jun 2019
I'm full of inkles
and spitz
and the neighborhood
zinkles
are having ruzberry
fitz

They teng
and they weng
on the bridge
of oh-seng
and just past the cardon
we all go ba
zeng

it bangs
and it clangs
when your zing
rangs a zang
an' oh uh lo
blankling
and crankling
we go
Dennis Willis Feb 2019
This waveform
rat-a-tat-tat
is for you

of or not
the vibe
drops the mic
on your day

wakes  your ***
superseded maybe
by your electric shaver's
buzz

in the moment
you are drowned
reach
for the sound

of high heeled boys
toyz
someone's attic
emptied on this line

zing zuhing
zang
clangs in key

and ahm rahmin
and bumpin
an
this tangs

are or are not
of
the vibe

what is the lot
of not
at this level
note less

ring not
give not
live not

and Thursday
is the day things
feel better
sliding down

slammin'
charge down
my gullet

against
some good song
drenching the backdrop
with rich darkness

squirt i know
is the down
down down down

ahm just reachin'
your backteeth
grit ting

on now
tearing  out
you now

just ink
and not even

just link
the pulling
from tomorrow
'cause today



Copyright@2019 Dennis Willis
Grey Jul 10
As messed up as it is,
I like the overbearing kind—
The ones who shadow me like breath,
Their weight, my unexpected muse.

Attention—
Always on my back,
A strange comfort
Like pressure that says I see you.

It’s weird, I know.
But when we’re not connected,
I unravel.
No deal.
No spark.

I don’t know how to care for myself.
But someone else who figures it out—
They hold my key.
Not in chains,
But in knowing.

And when I’m quiet,
Not hyping you,
Not clinging to your orbit—
I’ve already let go.
You’re not my safe space.

But if I smother,
If I breathe you in like air too close—
It means you’re human to me,
Just like the rest.
Not sacred.
Not mine.

Only real.
Only fading.

— The End —