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

Tag: poetry (Page 8 of 9)

One Last Cup Of Coffee

The people on my phone
are having so much fun.
They were just in Miami;
They are going to Los Angeles;
And their asparagus is angled just so.

My God, the asses.

There is a place in my phone
called Bali;
I don’t know where it is.
Maybe some sit-ups,
and crowd-fund new teeth.
Better teeth.
The right kind of teeth.
And I’ll find Bali.

The kitchen smells like coffee
still
from this morning;
the light was supposed to go on.
I told the light to go on.
The light didn’t go on.
I taught it a lesson.

Against the sink
and the wall
and then the sink again.
They’re sharp on the inside,
coffee machines.
I didn’t notice until later

This sort of thing doesn’t happen in Miami,
or Los Angeles,
or Bali,
wherever that is.

What’s In Store

Just shine me up;
A little bit of bronzo,
Some elbow grease
and a scour
for the rough patches
that are in between the sharp bits
that surround the part that got lost
in the last move.

I would look good in the window
in the light
facing the coffee shop
with the pretty waitresses
and the terrible eggs.

Steve came in the other day.
Remember Steve?
Hadn’t been by in years.
Out of town.

“Place looks exactly the same,”
and he meant it as a compliment.

I’m sure that’s what he meant.

More Found Poetry From The Spam Folder

That helps
to crystallize the strategy
and thinking.

Since you might be basically starting which has a clean sheet of paper
you can find many decisions to get made,
and you acquire.

It’s a lot more dynamic and uncertain
than
running a far more mature business,
but
it is additionally very exciting.

Do you know where I could find the story of my life
in braille?

Hence The Name

Do you know my split times?
I’ll tell you my split times.
We’re running for awareness at ten bucks a mile.

Have you seen my device?
It’s going to work just like the animation.
Let’s kick-start the future together.

The tests are in.
Not good.
Come fund me.

Used to have to look a man
in the eye
and hold his gaze
so he wouldn’t notice where your hands were.

You needed confidence.

Found Poetry From The Spam Folder

Museum of the History of Science.
Find out what position
you want
or are capable of attaining.

New York City
is filled
with some of the best people you will ever meet,
however
it is a large city
with more than its share
of con artists
and scams.
Extremely few are legitimate.

This is a lot of fun
and
you’ll find that everyone really
gets into it
as long as the questions are all positive
(unless this is family we are talking about and no holds barred!)

Some example questions:
What was the best job you ever had?
What was the worst job you ever had?
What is your fondest elementary school memory?
Name a time when you learned a particularly new respect for one of your parents.

Wholesale NFL Jerseys

For The Dead

The world loves making dead soldiers.
In highlands,
Or fields,
And beaches,
And valleys,
And passes,
And forests,
And jungles,
And mountains,
And deserts,
And numbered, nicknamed hills.

The world made dead soldiers atop a glacier once;
people said it couldn’t be done.

The world won’t stop making dead soldiers,
But no one does anything about it.
Someone should.

We must consider the military option.

Poetry Is A French Science, Anyway

You all right there, Wordsworth?

I thought Wadsworth was the poet.

No clue. What’s up?

I have a poet’s heart.

You have a poet’s bank account.

They’re connected.

Yeah, sure. Please stop poeting. You’re complete shit, mate. Utter rubbish. Pack it in.

Why are you British?

All criticism should be delivered in a British accent. Makes it more painful.

You’re just jealous because you’re not a published poet.

Published?

I hit the publish button, yeah.

Nicely played. Please stop inflicting your poetry on people. Poeting at people when they’re not expecting it is the literary equivalent of an unsolicited dick pic. Knock it off, mopey.

What about haiku?

A: haiku is a subset of poetry, and therefore no; and B: you did haiku once and you’re even worse at it than however in hell you were mangling the language today.

Acrostic?

Acrostic about the Dead?

Sure.

No. You’re not running for seventh grade class treasurer.

Palindrome?

Too much work.

Palimpsest?

You’re not using that word right.

But you must admit that to a dyslexic, “palindrome” and “palimpsest” would be easily confused.

kuh-CHACK

shhhh-SHWOP

tumbletumbletumbletumble

“Vive la France! Cackle cackle knit knit!”

Did you just stick your head into a guillotine voluntarily and then your head rolled down the steps?

Yes.

Where it was picked up–

Madam LaFarge.

–by Madam LFarge? Wow.

That one was weird, yeah.

The Wrath Of Job

IMG_3825

Larger is better, larger than life.
Operatic.
Dramatic.
There’s far more staff.

Do you need a bottle of water?
Let me get you a bottle of water.
This is Julie;
She’ll be getting you a bottle of water.

The van is here to take you to
the plane is here to take you to
the hotel is here to take you to
the show is here to take you to
your home is here to take you to
the van,
which is here.

There are bottles of water in the van.

When the schedule slishes under
the door
in the morning, you’ll know where you are.
Until then,
you’re just in a hotel room.

The schedule says:

“Do the thing again;
You know the thing.
That thing you do.”

The per diem
comes with the schedule.
They are not greeted with equal interest.

Ashes To Ashes

Pain in the ass, you were;
Hesitant traveler;
Sacred, the Ganges,
In holiest India.

Spirituality;
Gnostic mortality:
Sacred, the Ganges,
In holiest India.

There are no gods, not here;
You deserve more, my dear;
Sacred, the Ganges,
In holiest India.

Ghats are on fire for you;
Ticket for one, not two;
Sacred, the Ganges,
In holiest India.

Carry-on, overhead;
God’s got an elephant head;
Sacred, the Ganges,
In holiest India.

Prayers you wouldn’t understand;
No road crew and no band;
Sacred, the Ganges,
In holiest India.

It’s no Mississippi:
What’s one more dead hippie?
Sacred, the Ganges,
In holiest India.

Tragic, But Not So Divine

Jerry Garcia In NYC

Everybody needs a place
To hide and tend their sores.
All God’s failures need some space

Afternoons, the threes and fours,
They chomp and nip your heel.
And then the limbs and then the cores.

Armor’s fine, but it’s just steel,
And it will turn to rust.
Then you’ll be naked on the wheel.

Life and all, a total bust,
Goddamned bills and half-darned sock.
Never figured who to trust.

A sloppy mind and droopy cock,
Imagination’s victim.
Door’s still got a healthy lock.

 

« Older posts Newer posts »