Poetry

The fuck poem


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Fuck
yeah I said it
Fuck
Like
F as in
fighting for freedom against the ugliness of censorship
yeah i want to kill it
as in fuck you what the fuck fuck that and oh yes
i like to fuck
and what are you going to do
what are you going to do
what are you going to do about it
cuz i’m fucking crazy
i’m fucking this world up
i’m fucking everybody
and i love every minute of it
as an adjective or a noun or an action so profound that all you can do is say
fuck
i like the word
i like to scream it at the top of my lungs
when i’m pissed off excited when i’m sad or in pain
F U C K
such a word
fuck
o my word fuck
and we are all fucking
we are all fucking
we are all fucking ourselves over
by giving in to the unnatural desires of corporate scandals and the political handles
of the fucking parties
and by signing our souls over to the devil in his red white and fucking blue
claiming all that we know to be true to hisself
fuck that
cuz i want the freedom to say what i want to say
and if he doesn’t like it that way
i’ll wave my big fuck you flag in his face
and take back my fucking place
i’ll say it and i’ll scream it over and over again
until i
until i
until i win
because he may have won some battles
but i’ll win this war
i’m not your everyday cliche capitalist whore
i’m leading the revolution towards freedom of speech
and the word fuck will be the first thing we teach
i’m leading the revolution toward freedom of thought
cuz fuck me if i’m wrong
but weren’t we all taught
that liberty and free speech are undeniable
but our liberties and freedoms are too unreliable
so fuck this government
and fuck these laws
and fuck you too if you support their cause
fuck yeah i said it
such a marvelous word
don’t turn away or ignore it
you know what you heard
embrace its importance and give it a chance
cuz it could be our last hope to take back what we had
listen
o fuck
do you hear what i hear
it’s the sounds of a fucking revolution drawing near

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Poetry

A Halloween Story for Loleta

On Cannibal Island Road,
they’ll never find your bones.
They’ll use your skin,
to keep warm, and then,
they eat ice cream from your skull.

Out where the cannibals roam,
you’re welcome in their homes.
But please don’t be rude,
when they pass you the food,
and tell you it’s Uncle Jerome.

The dancer was a real treat,
she twirled and laughed so sweet.
They had so much fun,
when she tried to run,
the best part was the feet.

Don’t judge when they pass the spaghetti,
and you notice it looks like confetti.
The meat tastes real lean,
and the noodles unclean,
it was made out of stringy aunt Betty.

On Cannibal Island Road,
the farms are not up to code.
You won’t find any hogs,
nor cows, sheep, or dogs,
just rows and rows of tombstones.

If you’re traveling down this way,
you’re more than welcome to stay.
Of course, you can’t leave,
and you’d better believe,
you’ll make some great crudités.

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Poetry

Untitled

Occupying the space between spaces

thresholds of connecting doorways to other worlds

straddling lines

one foot in

one on the other side

there’s comfort in knowing you can always turn back.

Things are queer here

bright, and loud, and colorful

I’m on the outside looking in

or the inside looking out

depending on the direction of my perspective.

So many things to distract.

The space my body occupies is liminal and transient.

You and I ride different, occasionally intersecting wavelengths

this was never ours to begin with

we mere observers

navigating lengths of closed doors and borders

down corridors and tunnels

into an empty, lonely unknown.

We live on hope

that one day these barriers will recede

but until then

we guard our doors so carefully.

And even though yours is soft and transparent

coveted by most

crossed by many

trampled by a few

hinges creaking from overuse

I’ll wait for my invitation inside

lean on my frame

and watch the colors float by.

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Poetry

prayer for Syria

I weep for you.

For your hospitals, markets, and schools

For your children and everything we’ve ever done to you

For your Muslims, Christians, Atheists, Jews

For bombed-out streets and blood-soaked shoes

For your faith in a world that’s turned its back on you

For your Pearl of the East and your innocent, too

For those who impose their will upon you

For the history lost as the chaos ensues

For the cries in the distance under the crush of a boom

For dreams replaced by impending doom

For those who fight because it is what you must do

For the trials ahead that you will go through

Syria, I weep for you.


Recording.

 

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Poetry

“You’re making those boots look good girl!”

Note: The following poem was written after an encounter at a gas station. I was reminded of it when the title of this blog post was screeched at me by a guy on a bike in a parking lot. Thanks for the inspiration, random douchenozzle!

It contains language that you or someone you know may find offensive. Listener discretion is advised.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/0BwbEryfK_UOwcHc2MUp6bE4yV3M/view?usp=drivesdk

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