Don't worry, I won't be another apathetic Messiah
I'm a pixelated superstar with long hair fanning out from cyberspace through your occipetal lobe
I hang here and make believe my counter-culture cynicism is an enlightening breeze
In the middle of a hurricane.
Is that called the eye?
I'm not sure, all I can do is grieve as you read my bad poetry.
Don't worry that my drawers are filled with silver spoons
And I sleep on drifting clouds with the sun shining on my back
You can plainly perceive from these scarring words that under these hooded eyes I see
Seas filled with pre-packaged individuality
Now let me tell you a lie and I'll be a real boy.
I saved your instant message.
I never called it talking.
I sampled your bass line.
My fingers ain't doing the walking.
My mistakes are there for all to see; perfection is impossible.
My nerve endings fail me.
And you lie.
I lie.
Liars.
Even a handful of rainbow happiness
Synthesized and wrapped in colourful casing
Can't ease the searing of the Morning Star
Downing the upper won't stop the burning
The empty bottles by the telephone
The lids strewn about the floor
The dirty laundry in a pile, steaming from the heat
A little girl is crying in the sunshine while
Sunshine slowly caves under the fist of her drunken husband
A handful of rainbow happiness and a fifth of Jack
Makes Sunshine ooze her life into every crack of the apartment
Every nook and cranny and corner where the Morning Star can't shine
Please tell the Rainbow to help me cope.
That was an official serve in our tennis match of word juggle.
Richard Dawson.
Three X's with an eeeeeeehhhhnnnnnnnnnnncccckkkkkk!
Hardcore pornography is the punishment for relinquishing control on the family feud.
I just thought of that today, flashing Triple Xâ??s.
It makes me want to ★■◆● when I see it.
Top five answers, 100 people polled: â??Name a food that that rhymes with Satan.â?
The sweet clutch of nihility.
The dark so bright... the vaccuous embrace of the empty.
To see my reflection in the pool, the ethereal skeleton of an ephemeral existance... a dream... delusion... illusion. This hollow phantasm is all that is real.
Clairvoyant, yet unseeing... no light. The mind's eye, the blind eye. Juxtaposed.
Congruent. Wake me from this horror.
But let me sleep.
This aberration, this apparition... This duality of nihility.
Let me rewrite your history book
Add this as a footnote:
"Four score and seven dead men ago
I had a dream of fear, and fear itself
Fell behind an iron curtain and was not a crook.
Read my lips, I did not inhale, nor have sexual relations with that woman.
How could I, when she was bearing my weapons of mass destruction?
No, instead I simply gave her my seed of democracy."
In this way, we can look back on our timelines
And decipher which good man needs to sink back into
Obscurity
And which good man needs to be exhonorated
Though we burned through his teachings like weeds
All our lives.
And which good man simply needs to die
So we can adorn our dark clouds with silver linings
And thirty pieces of silver for our pockets.
You betray us with a kiss?
Tangents.
Poetry slams are pretentious.
Itâ??s like a forum for people who canâ??t finish a thought.
I donâ??t care what happened to your cousin and the graffiti on your streets.
We are grains of sandâ?¦ quit trying to use your misery to guilt some farm girl into ★■◆●ing you.
Itâ??s misery poker again.
My mommy hated herself.
Your mommy beat you with an extension cord.
Blah blah blah
We are grains of sand.
We are a society of ants chasing a childs fallen lollipop.
He smashes us with his shoe.
Your fate doesnâ??t belong to you.
Some of these are pretty good. I wrote a poem once but got slammed for not making it rhyme by my so-called English "Professor" who get offs at Shakespear. You people should be ashamed of yourselves that you get to get away with it.
Don't look now but,
your existential is showing.
So go strive after your wind
Like Solomon said
It's all vanity anyway
Vanity? I'm not vain.
I just know the right buttons to push
The right words to set in line and place
In the end all my well-put art drifts into the stars
So I might as well put my mask on
and make them giggle
I know the right buttons to push
To make them believe this pillar of salt
Is really more than just a sand castle
And though its not the wind I strive after
In the end, it's not all about how much pretentious bull★■◆● you can write and rhyme to make women sleep with you.
So put away your bongos, you existential anti-Christ
Undim the lights.
We've heard it all before.
Uh oh, was that poetic?
The machine told me I had unresolved issues,
and directed me to the help desk.
I asked the lady there,
if any books here could help.
She responded kindly,
"yes, we have books to help
with all kinds of issues,
Only, you can't take any of them...
I came out backwards today.
The feet that I eat were regurgitated.
I told the bitter man who delivers mail that political assassinations are reality.
I told him they turn us against each other.
Little people don't make the rules; we make paintings, 3-point shots, and songs that whine.
They throw us a bone once in a while.
But we only control our orgasms.
I was a good little communist for a minute there.
It was 83 and humid.
I went to smoke my cancer in my bright white shirt.
They look at me like Iâ??m a rich man.
I am not a rich man.
I smoke it and walk off; their judgment was concrete.
Look who is eating feet?
You're burning your wick at both ends, they said.
"Damn, beaten on the river card again"
The taxed out middle man blows his brains out
Over a seven of spades
But that's what happens when they force you all in
And not every chip and sidepot can cover what is owed
But in this game, the house doesn't always win.
In fact, in this game, nobody wins
Because the chips are phony and the decks are stacked
The kings are all suicidal
The queens are on Zoloft
The aces have gone to seed
And the numbers simply fall into line, accepting their domineering fate.
But what about the jacks?
Well I'm afraid we all failed to see
The poor middleman's fate.
We are the jacks.
Boy, they make em strong.
Iâ??m no longer welcomed thereâ?¦ but I tip well so they shut it.
Jennifer and I used to live in that place.
Itâ??s not the same without her.
Nothing like having a gal pal you can drink with.
Laugh with.
And no sexual tension.
But things did change.
The jukebox is the same.
The walls are the same.
But things did change.
Maybe it was that night when we got in that fight?
A war of private information amplified.
But I tip well; Communists like money.
It's funny how we keep on this desert road
Sand leaping out and cutting dirty grins through
A barren wasteland
This single narrow path that leads
Directly to a dust-laden grave, already filled
With a dead end.
It's cute how the babies cut teeth
On shards of shattered glass
And despite their battered bleeding smiles,
Or upside-down frowns,
It's cute to see their imaginations run wild
Like pools of blood on a Persian rug.
It's cute how we keep going
And this stupid dirty cloud keeps hovering
While we keep wondering why our Gods have yet to show
They're already here - upon this pedestal
Upon your mantle, upon the TV, upon a cross
Down in the dirty desert graveyard
Down in the dirty crowded Earth
Down in your filthy putrid lies
Down in your lint-infested pockets
They smile with bloody teeth and mouths slashed
Like babies eating glass.
It is what I call love....
If you dream about her every waking moment
and every sleeping moment.
If you don't worry that she loves you
because you know she does.
If you hear her voice speaking to you
even when she's not around.
If your heart flutters with happiness
whenever you hear her name.
If your world has been turned inside out
since you met her.
If you can't stand to be away from home
because you miss her.
If everything seems right in the world
when she's holding your hand.
If you find when staring into her eyes
you could spend the rest of your life with her.
This is what I call love.
Oh drunkenness.
I just need to be sober for my little niece.
She is walking now and I must be a witness.
I cannot walkâ?¦ I can barely type this.
Poetry is lies.
Dripping caulk.
Eat my moment.
Doesnâ??t make good writing.
Big words, for no reason makes Jack a snob.
Iâ??m trying to be in the clique.
I want to take advantage of being married in our culture.
You know the one, the one where you are supposed to be free.
The humane society worker rewards you if you take the proper path.
Meow.
I got my shots.
I have a place in heaven.
We have a Saab.
We let our hair down and get taco bell.
We do â??Weâ?
