Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: poetry (Page 7 of 9)

A Terrible Poem About Naked Pole Guy

What a specific rando you were that day,
Naked Pole Guy.

No pants.
Pole dance.
Fame has been earned with far less coin.

Were you with friends?
Did you go it alone?
An isolated incident,
Or were you known for nudity?
(Every group has one.)

Did you get a splinter in your dick?

The guy
With the umbrella in Dealey Plaza,
Kissing the nurse in Times Square,
Who never said his name was D.B. Cooper,
And you.

There are levels to mitzvah–
(Jews enjoy lists)
–the highest form leaves no signature.

To forfeit the naming rights,
Naked Pole Guy:
That is the highest form of mitzvah, and
Naked Pole Guy,
On that day your form was the highest.

I heard you were still in Oregon;
You owned a borax mine,
And many head of cattle.
The internet says you’re abroad:
Ibiza,
Goa,
Warsaw.
Scuttlebutt has you in Florida;
That sounds right.

May the sun only stroke you,
And gravity not bother.
May your dick not get splintered,
And don’t ever come down.

Last Poem, I Promise

Do you recall
A guitarist,
–Garcia–
He had a big beard,
And he played far too loud?

Garcia?

I think so,
Tho I’ve heard
Mendoza.
The records were lost
When we moved to the moon.

Guitarist?
So, rock?

Well, more of
A choogle
Or  lope,
Limping skip,
Or a bomb-dee-bomp pace.

And he had
A band.
With a name like
Led Zeppelin.
The Somethings or Bigfoot:
Some dumb shit like that.

Earthborn?

Of course.

That’s a long time ago.

When the skies were not scorched,
And the rivers could flow.

Here is your problem:
You live in the past.
When there was a future,
And things built to last.
Where villains got punished,
And justice prevailed.
And poems ended nicely,
But they just don’t fucking do that anymore, do they?

I still recall
A guitarist,
–Garcia–
He had a big beard,
And he played far too loud.

A Truly Dire Poem

The Wolf
Is at the door,
A man said.

It’s so cold out,
And snowing.
It’s always snowing somewhere.
And fur only does so much.

The Wolf
Is at the window,
Breathing hard, and
Fogging up your view.
Fucking your shit right up.

Lies.

The Wolf
Is in the house.
In your bed.
At your table and using your favorite fork.

Shithead,
You’re the Wolf.
The call is coming from inside the house.
You’re the one with the teeth.

No one outside but the chickens
And the poets
And something you meant to do,
And someone you meant to be.

You’re the Wolf.
Did you not know that?

Everyone’s A Critic

stupid poem

Lemme guess. You have–

I got a problem with this bullshit.

a problem with…yeah, that’s what I thought.

It’s not speakers and headphones. That’s dumb. It’s an either/or.

The sentiment is lovely.

And it doesn’t fucking rhyme. “Deep” does NOT FUCKING RHYME with “feet.” Stephen Sondheim’s ghost is spinning in his grave.

Sondheim’s not dead.

He is to me.

Can we stop having this conversation?

As long as everyone knows my opinion on this important matter.

They do now.

And the meter sucks.

Oh, shut up.

Found Poetry From The Spam Folder Goes Worldwide

My friend
Summer is coming

You are welcome
At my house
Anytime you like
To see the mess vaccines left of my child’s life.

The Europeans are done for the day,
And heading home
For their tea,
Baguettes,
And sauerkraut.

In other news India is busy drawing plans.

If
500 people voting yes
On one proposition
Isn’t a good enough sign that there is
Indeed
Something wrong with Greek life,
I don’t know what is.

Thoughts On The Rest Of Season Two Of Deadwood

You throw the dice, but the table sets the point,
And the day will choose how it turns out,
And death is waiting,
Patiently,
Or checking his watch.

And all will mourn,
And none will notice your absence,
And God is not mocked.
And God is not mocked.
And the stage comes and goes,
And the sun tells us when to work,
And the bottle tells us the rest,
And everyone knows Colorado seeds won’t flower
So far from home.

How did you get so far from home?

And your kindness will be
Recompensed by
Wild-eyed horses, and
Child-sized corpses, and
A sudden need for a Preacher.

Do you need the Preacher?
Should I run for the Preacher?
I’ll go fetch up the Preacher.
And get word to the Doc.

And the winter will be here
Soon, and the future will not be
Negotiated, and the dice are in the
Hand of the shooter, and the point is the
Table’s responsibility.

There is music tonight
On the thoroughfare
Which is an avenue of shit
And God will not be mocked.
But there is music tonight,
On the thoroughfare,
Which is not far from home.

The Spam Folder Is Getting Dark

The best painters are often
The most humble,
Aren’t they?

Anderson Cooper is secretly embarrassed.

We’ve got great hopes for that
Omniprocessor.
It permits us to cut the expense of collecting
Sludge
From needy homes.

Too bad Michael is not her actual biological father.

Don’t worry,
Where CNN shows anomalous behavior,
Our resident trolls
And
Poli-bashers will fill in by using misdirection,
Etc.

Anyone remember Hitler’s browncoats?

American Doggerel

cadillac_ranch_by_e7diablo

O, America,
You’re not big on choices,
But every option is available.

They told me you were in a flag,
Or a park.
Some asshole says you’re out on the highway.
Definitely not in LA.
You’re not in the Middle East, America:
We looked.

I couldn’t find you in the supermarket,
Or the coin slot
Of the pay phone.
(I checked them all until there were none to check.)

Did you go inside to ice your knee?
Did you light out for the territories in an Uber?
There’s gotta be a frontier somewhere.
Check Amazon.

Are you just a legal fiction, America?
Like a corporation,
Or a marriage?
And this is all a snipe hunt.
Were you ever here at all?

Get on your knees.
Put your ear to the ground.
Buffalo.
Railroad.
Chevy.
That’s progress you’re hearing, motherfucker.

O, America,
you’re not there at all, are you?
You aimed for my heart, but missed the left turn
In Albuquerque
And got stuck in my head.

Another Edition Of Spam Folder Found Poetry

The way these people
are living are
terrible.
Something needs to be done.

Pretentious Beer Glass is a great name for a business.
Will the pub be the Pretentious Brewery?

Your assumption that those
local commits
have no value is wrong.

It sounds like someone has never bothered to try.

It seems orthodoxy has its own version of women love bangles.

Before we close,
do you’ve some other thoughts
or words
of wisdom
you would want to share with your readers?

While this may be the case, you can certainly ask.

« Older posts Newer posts »