deepundergroundpoetry.com
i scream,you scream
somewhere down on my block
there is a rusty ice cream truck
that makes a killin in the spring
only a few real fiends cop here in the winter rain
not me
i'm that less typical type of one
that likes to keep things regular
that figures if he brushes his teeth,washes his hair,
and quits once a year
she might come home
she might see that i'm an anarchist and a murderer
but i'm cleaning up so well
no more burnin books down by the riverside
no more shoot from the hip
hired by the wayside
philosophies to live my life by
no more late night conversations
about the lack of common decency between earthworms
a lil more time in the backyard
a lil more time not locked up in that room
a few more yeah maybe the hospital can help mes
a few less making the doctor say oh my gods!
but no luck
no return of the overrated
female,physical manifestation
of my own insecurities
no more phone calls on birthdays
or obscene christmas cards detailing an animosity for the season
with a sepia stained photo of back in the day enclosed
we both kick rocks
and get tattoos that say
don't even think you're comin to my funeral
you are no longer invited to that party
i tie off a limb and swing from it
apologizin till i'm blue in the face
take that good ol long recommended pin cushion medicine
reminiscing re-figuring which one of those beautiful hateful names
you gave me is my fav
back to the tear
a week went by like a day this year
the grass is finally growin in at your grave
the delete button is halfway workin again
the problem was vascular
the air conditioner finally has some freon in it
i'm smokin whole cigarettes again
i jab,left hook,right cross
right across
358 days
listenin to all my old cassette tapes
with a punch drunk brain freeze
there is a rusty ice cream truck
that makes a killin in the spring
only a few real fiends cop here in the winter rain
not me
i'm that less typical type of one
that likes to keep things regular
that figures if he brushes his teeth,washes his hair,
and quits once a year
she might come home
she might see that i'm an anarchist and a murderer
but i'm cleaning up so well
no more burnin books down by the riverside
no more shoot from the hip
hired by the wayside
philosophies to live my life by
no more late night conversations
about the lack of common decency between earthworms
a lil more time in the backyard
a lil more time not locked up in that room
a few more yeah maybe the hospital can help mes
a few less making the doctor say oh my gods!
but no luck
no return of the overrated
female,physical manifestation
of my own insecurities
no more phone calls on birthdays
or obscene christmas cards detailing an animosity for the season
with a sepia stained photo of back in the day enclosed
we both kick rocks
and get tattoos that say
don't even think you're comin to my funeral
you are no longer invited to that party
i tie off a limb and swing from it
apologizin till i'm blue in the face
take that good ol long recommended pin cushion medicine
reminiscing re-figuring which one of those beautiful hateful names
you gave me is my fav
back to the tear
a week went by like a day this year
the grass is finally growin in at your grave
the delete button is halfway workin again
the problem was vascular
the air conditioner finally has some freon in it
i'm smokin whole cigarettes again
i jab,left hook,right cross
right across
358 days
listenin to all my old cassette tapes
with a punch drunk brain freeze
Published 16th Apr 2013
| Edited 19th Apr 2013
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 6
reading list entries 1
comments 10
reads 1040
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
16th Apr 2013 9:50pm
goddamned junkies and their goddamned poems.
some ill shit here JR...ill, good and ill, ill.
pretty spot on, (and it seems our moons are in sync). Some great lines, and hit particularly close to home....you know the game brotha, become Keith Richards, or chill.
I really like the specifics that only the knowing know (whole cigs, great f'n line!...im almost at a full square myself, cheers).
couple lines that I think could be lost, but digging the write
some ill shit here JR...ill, good and ill, ill.
pretty spot on, (and it seems our moons are in sync). Some great lines, and hit particularly close to home....you know the game brotha, become Keith Richards, or chill.
I really like the specifics that only the knowing know (whole cigs, great f'n line!...im almost at a full square myself, cheers).
couple lines that I think could be lost, but digging the write
thanx lb. always a roller coaster brotha.
yeh man the sick inside jokes of the culture become a mantra at times. i too see a bit of filler here. gonna try to grind that out....
thanx again man .....
yeh man the sick inside jokes of the culture become a mantra at times. i too see a bit of filler here. gonna try to grind that out....
thanx again man .....
16th Apr 2013 10:12pm
One aim, one goal and you executed it all the way through. No random images or full lyrical play. This is where it is. It's not blood from a wound, it's gnawing on your own bones.
16th Apr 2013 11:27pm
thanx mr A. appreciate the read man. i have been trying to stick to topic a bit more. glad it came through..........
17th Apr 2013 1:00am
The second stanza was my favorite, but always You pack a lot of heat within pain and smirk.
This was an excellent work, and I swear as odd as it seemed...I smelled burning pages as I finished reading it---odd that...it still lingers, this was a many read piece indeed!!!
This was an excellent work, and I swear as odd as it seemed...I smelled burning pages as I finished reading it---odd that...it still lingers, this was a many read piece indeed!!!
17th Apr 2013 1:42am
thanx sd....this actually started in my head with the 2nd but was tryin to keep the mood consistent.
thanx man....
thanx man....
Anonymous
17th Apr 2013 1:04am
classic write and feelings here jr
strider
strider
17th Apr 2013 1:43am
17th Apr 2013 6:56am
Rhythmic teasing is a good place to spark your spree and park your steeze.
The lines start to linger off, and then come back stronger. It's push-pull linguistics. George Carlin's a natural at that. Springsteen as well. Which your material feels a lot more like.
Feels like Gatsby, Dr. Evil's Horrible Sing-Along Blog (Specifically, Brand New Day), like Tennesee Williams, with some oooold Wu Tang punch to the rhythm, esp. where it gets ambiguous.
Pin cushion therapy. Voodoo dolls and disposable needles of all kind. Hack off a piece of a branch. Flog yourself with it. Or hang from it. "Apologize until I'm blue in the face." Fuck it, Comrade. Fuck apologizing. Self-flagellation as a statement of a nation died without pride in Rome.
Oh, and I'm of a totally differing view on what others deem filler.
To me there's no such thing as filler. Stall-out material? Sure. That's natural. Not everyone can be Cyrano de Bergerac. Your berserker? Knows where it's at. Heard the track. Got disturbed and said let's get set to swerve on this tune in time and have fun under it. Hit curves and zoom like a moonshine runner, laughing back at cops who blunder fast and drop over a bridge. Filler? Nah, Comrade. That shit is where your mind is chilling at.
I try to meditate everyday for half as much time as I spent blazed. This is physically impossible though, if I am to still get shit done. So instead I meditate at every pause point. Red lights, slow conversations, waiting for my kids to get shit ready, whatever. The mind isn't always clear. Thoughts ebb and flow. It's like a cork in a stream. If you push that cork down it'll just pop right back up. If you just let it float, it'll never be fully above the water unless it bounces and never stay more than half below the water. Your flow is the same way. The places where shit stalls out? That's just down-shifting from fiery 6th down to 1st or 2nd.
That's the good shit man. That's the alley way between two hooks. That's the comfort zone that lovers stay in when they're warming up. That's the most honest, natural stuff that exists. But for the sake of hypnotic hooks?
Stall-out zone filler is nothing more than the sparkly splashes of water that fly off of the cork when it bounces in the stream because your mind will neither stop nor reach perfection. In other words, it's ambiguous.
David Bowie. Captain Jack Sparrow. Joan Jett. Pat Benatar. Nuclear Ro Sham Bo with some pudgy cake-face in North Korea? All captivating on ambiguity.
there is a rusty ice cream truck
that makes a killin in the spring
Right away my mind went to the Oliver Stone place with this. Sepia lighting, maple trees on a block, miserable 1950's looking conformist kids running down the street with ice cream cones, truck rolls away, and a little pink ribbon gets unstuck from the window seam in the back where the cardboard is taped. Ribbon floats away.
and quits once a year
she might come home
she might see that i'm an anarchist and a murderer
but i'm cleaning up so well
no more burnin books down by the riverside
Close enough to the heart to pass as a deliberate gut-punch instead. This part for me is Gatsby's penance, to earn back manly status and re-prove. This shit starts off with the "Yeah, I've examined myself and these shaky hands since my loss and I'm ready to iron butterfly it and get surgeon-steady and polish this game again." It starts off that way.
It stays introspective. It stays honest. But none of that "Well I'm on the right side of things and I read thorny literature from drunken Irish guys so give me more cred." Fuck that. The rest of the emotional ride of this is honest and real and gains its cred from feeling like Cactus, from feeling like No. 13 Baby, or any of the real love songs from Doolittle.
From Fitzgerald to Pixies, Comrade. That's ambiguity in emotion timed to increasing pace with give-and-take rhythm in the verses. That shit's cool.
a lil more time not locked up in that room
a few more yeah maybe the hospital can help mes
a few less making the doctor say oh my gods!
You wanna' be free? You sound like Leonard of Quirm, from Discworld. The Tower isn't a prison, man. That room sounds like Luke's Dark Side Cave, like Kal El's Fortress of Solitude. That's where real shit happens. Don't disrespect your temple just because it's morose and dark. The world is broken. If your inner core feels grim? It's alot like being tailed. It usually means YOU'RE ON THE RIGHT TRACK!
Shocking a Doctor though, is a fine brushstroke. One line to suggest a thousand episodes. Ambiguity used as an icepick. That's surgery. Fine work, friend.
The lines start to linger off, and then come back stronger. It's push-pull linguistics. George Carlin's a natural at that. Springsteen as well. Which your material feels a lot more like.
Feels like Gatsby, Dr. Evil's Horrible Sing-Along Blog (Specifically, Brand New Day), like Tennesee Williams, with some oooold Wu Tang punch to the rhythm, esp. where it gets ambiguous.
Pin cushion therapy. Voodoo dolls and disposable needles of all kind. Hack off a piece of a branch. Flog yourself with it. Or hang from it. "Apologize until I'm blue in the face." Fuck it, Comrade. Fuck apologizing. Self-flagellation as a statement of a nation died without pride in Rome.
Oh, and I'm of a totally differing view on what others deem filler.
To me there's no such thing as filler. Stall-out material? Sure. That's natural. Not everyone can be Cyrano de Bergerac. Your berserker? Knows where it's at. Heard the track. Got disturbed and said let's get set to swerve on this tune in time and have fun under it. Hit curves and zoom like a moonshine runner, laughing back at cops who blunder fast and drop over a bridge. Filler? Nah, Comrade. That shit is where your mind is chilling at.
I try to meditate everyday for half as much time as I spent blazed. This is physically impossible though, if I am to still get shit done. So instead I meditate at every pause point. Red lights, slow conversations, waiting for my kids to get shit ready, whatever. The mind isn't always clear. Thoughts ebb and flow. It's like a cork in a stream. If you push that cork down it'll just pop right back up. If you just let it float, it'll never be fully above the water unless it bounces and never stay more than half below the water. Your flow is the same way. The places where shit stalls out? That's just down-shifting from fiery 6th down to 1st or 2nd.
That's the good shit man. That's the alley way between two hooks. That's the comfort zone that lovers stay in when they're warming up. That's the most honest, natural stuff that exists. But for the sake of hypnotic hooks?
Stall-out zone filler is nothing more than the sparkly splashes of water that fly off of the cork when it bounces in the stream because your mind will neither stop nor reach perfection. In other words, it's ambiguous.
David Bowie. Captain Jack Sparrow. Joan Jett. Pat Benatar. Nuclear Ro Sham Bo with some pudgy cake-face in North Korea? All captivating on ambiguity.
there is a rusty ice cream truck
that makes a killin in the spring
Right away my mind went to the Oliver Stone place with this. Sepia lighting, maple trees on a block, miserable 1950's looking conformist kids running down the street with ice cream cones, truck rolls away, and a little pink ribbon gets unstuck from the window seam in the back where the cardboard is taped. Ribbon floats away.
and quits once a year
she might come home
she might see that i'm an anarchist and a murderer
but i'm cleaning up so well
no more burnin books down by the riverside
Close enough to the heart to pass as a deliberate gut-punch instead. This part for me is Gatsby's penance, to earn back manly status and re-prove. This shit starts off with the "Yeah, I've examined myself and these shaky hands since my loss and I'm ready to iron butterfly it and get surgeon-steady and polish this game again." It starts off that way.
It stays introspective. It stays honest. But none of that "Well I'm on the right side of things and I read thorny literature from drunken Irish guys so give me more cred." Fuck that. The rest of the emotional ride of this is honest and real and gains its cred from feeling like Cactus, from feeling like No. 13 Baby, or any of the real love songs from Doolittle.
From Fitzgerald to Pixies, Comrade. That's ambiguity in emotion timed to increasing pace with give-and-take rhythm in the verses. That shit's cool.
a lil more time not locked up in that room
a few more yeah maybe the hospital can help mes
a few less making the doctor say oh my gods!
You wanna' be free? You sound like Leonard of Quirm, from Discworld. The Tower isn't a prison, man. That room sounds like Luke's Dark Side Cave, like Kal El's Fortress of Solitude. That's where real shit happens. Don't disrespect your temple just because it's morose and dark. The world is broken. If your inner core feels grim? It's alot like being tailed. It usually means YOU'RE ON THE RIGHT TRACK!
Shocking a Doctor though, is a fine brushstroke. One line to suggest a thousand episodes. Ambiguity used as an icepick. That's surgery. Fine work, friend.
18th Apr 2013 8:47pm
review for review.....
i'm of the opinion that personally everything lokiliterati has said. good one. except for that comrade bullshit that was pretty much going to be my review, in not so many words. you should hire him as your publicist. Look how fffn enthusiastic...... but we must differ on the tying off of limbs because i heard the here we go again in that one. the blue in the face gag is just the last-laugh kind of funny i expect from you.
i'm of the opinion that personally everything lokiliterati has said. good one. except for that comrade bullshit that was pretty much going to be my review, in not so many words. you should hire him as your publicist. Look how fffn enthusiastic...... but we must differ on the tying off of limbs because i heard the here we go again in that one. the blue in the face gag is just the last-laugh kind of funny i expect from you.
