Poetry Thread

[AlienGirl]

Funeral

After she burned the last diary
she dug a hole
and sang him into the earth.

You think I'm talking breakup? No:
I mean birth--
The only one she buried
was herself.

[brainshrub]

1. Roses are red,

violets are blue.
Bananas are yellow,
and strawberries are also red.

[SOteric]

2. Carry Me

Carry me down into that liquid place again
where we meet without talking, even though
somtimes we're talking, where we laugh
without making a sound, the punchlines
floating off untethered and the corners
of your mouth tilting up like commas
around some beautiful phrase we don't
have to try to remember. Wedge your knee
between my thighs and slip your fingers
into me again. I'll kneel before the sunset
of your skin, it's pale tone beginning to blush,
every cell inspired to red, pushing toward
that ruddiness of purpose, that sigh.
My hands will wrap around the small tendons
of your wrists to hold you there, lowered
over me like clouds before a storm,
the enormous thunder and then the rain.

[BritishHuman]

19. That makes me feel

all warm and tingly.

[Iris]

3. Here's the one I typed up for the "poetry sucks thread"

I hope someone will read it. (It's not mine, but is still worth a look)

My heart rouses
thinking to bring you news
of something
that concerns you
and concerns many men. Look at
what passes for the new.
You will not find it there but in
despised poems.
It is difficult
to get the news from poems
yet men die miserably every day
for lack
of what is found there.
_______________________
I believe this was written by William Carlos Williams.
At any rate, can't you see how much is said in less than 100 words?

[bordersunion]

5. wha?

Suddenly Called Out

Song, black luna-moth, bottle, senseless megalopoli
not so cryptic or not so elusive,
we are exploding, dreamlike,
above a vein.

Not a barracks but a blue man
no skeleton destroying him
the mist in the mirror, the frightened
frame of true lunacy, regressing
with happiness over rescued ghettos.

18. here's another news poem

by Bob Kaufman

BELIEVE, BELIEVE

Believe in this. Young apple seeds,
In blue skies, radiating young breast,
Not in blue-suited insects,
Infesting society's garments.

Believe in the swinging sounds of jazz,
Tearing the night into intricate shreds,
Putting it back together again,
In cool logical patterns,
Not in the sick controllers,
Who created only the Bomb.

Let the voices of dead poets
Ring louder in your ears
Than the screechings mouthed
In mildewed editorials,
Listen to the music of centuries,
Rising above the mushroom time.

[Chuckup]

4. I' d rather

fart and have the shame
than not to fart
and have the pain

[bordersunion]

6. hmmm.......

Forget, Nomad....

Feminist she shuddered in the ether
and sat and vanished.
Prisoners - blame them, heterological
and drain'd, the stage-managed cicadas
on song circuits of red
exuberance,
so schizophrenic and soft
near brilliance with their circuits.

You blame a purified school,
and push some ideology, undulating
beneath a sign, neon, shadowy.

We become the bone.

[proud patriot]

7. POETIC EXTINCTION

POETIC EXTINCTION

desperate grasping , barely holding

unexplained convulsions of logic

Lashing out fierce screams of blame

thinking of survival Wailing Flailing

lying dealing death to surrvive

Screams , Pain , hate, agony , fear oh yes FEAR

Eating one's own, you know that kind of Fear

The fear of nightmares

Camouflage it , hide behind it , metamorph it

puffing plumage raising hackles loudly barking
changing colors

altering strategies smokescreens of stench

hungry predators, following the trail , searching

weakened hiding running Scared

hoping hoping predators circling

focussed dedicated hungry

backed into a corner

Cowering Sniveling Crying

The extinction of the republican party


by proud patriot

[Chuckup]

8. Tis here I sit

On my Throne
I here a ring
And it's the phone

[populistmom]

9. I once wrote a poem here

I was not good
Did not do what I should
My poem was confusing
Not at all amusing
Never again I would

(So I wrote a limerick instead)

[bordersunion]

10. Chattering Smokestack

Our cities have the devotion
of counterfeit factories
riding the fire's vanity
near a vector of mercy.

But they darken on top of their pillows
with political needles of bitterness
glistening underneath their synapses, imaginary.

It was jaded and panoptic
and radical and where you were
you don't stop.
It was plastic and corporate.
He would explode if not sanguine,
slipping above a tree.

Tell it to a hill.
Tell it to a robot.
He's about to touch a raindrop
-for you, for me.
They whisper.

[regnaD kciN]

11. Wow...

That's beautiful, Tucker.

[i have issues]

13. Here's something I wrote before the invasion

I may have posted it before, I don't remember....

My garden


As our stolen leadership breaks our hearts,
with a stroll through future graveyards.
We watch our friends cook their dinners,
and commercials, inducing guilt over
stuffing vs. potatoes.
My garden doesn't care about this place
I call home, these trees
surrounding me, seem unaware.
The kitten, white and springy, dreams of bugs and breeze,
tail twitching, sleeping deeply.

In a darkend room, small men play god, "there are always casualties."
Ideals bred through lack of glory.
Outsiders;
the truth of human beauty
is too distant.
A small boy belittled. An angry drunk.
Humiliated wife. "no matter."

My car is dirty today... Christ, the taxes are due.
There's laundry to do. And what's
this thing?... A thought.
Arabs ride camels'
don't they? Camels eat grass.

There is wild grass
in my garden...
Full of living things. Noises created, not by me,
nor him,
not talking to me, nor him, but amongst themselves.
Small men in shadow, plot my gardens demise.
My kittens fur forms a ridge down his belly.

Somewhere, later, a small cry sings out,
inside a grocery list, a gas receipt;
a tiny thing. A sense of unease.
I look closer at the supermarket bill,
that seems different somehow... My newspaper has a different heft,
lighter, yet more full of weight. Television drones on,
a noise that cancels itself out. And yet, by it's silence,
it speaks to me in stilted vocabulary.

The kitten leaps at a bee in my garden, then stops
and lays still, small face skyward.
Contrails crisscross
the blue, framed in green, a place that doesn't
include planes, miles up.
Only birds and breeze, and bugs
and earth. He cleans himself completely,
then sleeps. I smoke,
downwind (so as) not to disturb; and
listen to salsa on a strangers stereo.
A tranquility that
belies my unease...

The lights come up in a darkend office,
where deals are made, hands are
shaken. Pats on backs resound with Roman glory.
They'll sleep well tonight
in the bosom of history's misdeeds
Mistaken for honor,
Mistaken in peace.
The white kitten sleeps on.

[regnaD kciN]

14. That's great. too!

I don't remember seeing it before. I normally find poetry on political events rather artificial and forced -- something best left to 50s "beat" poets. But that one was so evocative of what I was feeling at the same time, it was almost like seeing a window into my own thoughts (except put better than I could do it).

[GAspnes]

12. an old one

The sky blinks its Eye
And God clears His throat
My curbside's a river
My lawn is a moat.

Clouds tatted from rain
Descend in a sheet
A Toyota is drowning
Out there in the street.

[Fight_n_back]

15. Neighborhood Girl

I see you on the corner
the brightness in your eyes has faded
where is the smile?

oh, a stranger approaches and out comes the mask
the smile is broad
the eyes glimmer for a moment
he passes as does the mask

your skin is now puffy
the clothes more revealing
your neediness more obvious
your stomach is pouched

mourning has broken
I desire you no more
dakrness has settled
on your heart and where you stand

I see you on the corner
but its not like before
the blue in your eyes has faded
the shoulders are slouched

I see you on the corner
but its not like before
your laugh is muted
and you can't be alone

The chance for love has passed
its only customers now
where are the boys?

[CShine]

16. Okay, since we're rolling on this thread..............

.......here's an original I composed a couple of years ago.


OPEN

When daybreak gave the flower light
that rose to meet this stranger's sight
your curving, slender stem it seems
brought you above the other dreams.
And what was time to do but wait
as my absurdly smiling fate
removed my mind from journey's gone
so as to see a flower's dawn?
A whispered breath, my hopeful sound
alighted as the dew came down
to sprinkle sun on open leaves.
An open door toward you leads.
My reaching hand, a longing call
for beauty's graceful, saving fall.
Through open windows new light streams
as I awaken from my dreams.




Charlie

[SOteric]

17. Kick for the poetrylovingdemigod.

:7

[ulysses]

20. The Man from Española Finally Gets His Burial

From a lectern someone is saying that all good poetry
is about loss. Wake up. Sit up straight.
What's that? I don't trust what I know of loss
at 27 - listen, I was born eleven months after Tet,
twelve years before John Lennon died,
Do you understand this?

While I'm writing this, someone is trying to figure
how to get an airliner from the muck of a swamp;
a cargo ship carrying war refugees wants to land
its dying, human weight on an overcrowded shore;
the sun burns closer to nothingness. A poet I admire
says that poetry is the light through which
mountains sing to each other at dusk, but the last time
I was in Española all I heard
was the sound of hands throwing santuario walls
erect again after rain. Anyway, Orlando,
we lit candles after you cocked a .357 to your head
so maybe the analogy of light still works but the man on stage
won't shut up for even a second to let me
find my way to the door.

[SOteric]

22. Oh. My.

John, that's amazing.

[BritishHuman]

21. I'm tired, so forgive me

Along the strand the shadows dance
From promenade to haunted manse
A foolish man might seek to try
Their patience with a "Who?" or "Why?"
We wiser seek no argument
With what the dead gave up for Lent.

The shadows' sightless staring eyes
Have no regard for whos or whys
And though they have but little mass
The watchers part to let them pass
We wiser know the sad intent
of what the dead gave up for Lent.

[listenup]

23. Walking into an invisible yesterday

that I don't know if it truly existed
gives me at least some time
to walk and think
of you
Tomorrow doesn't remember yesterday
for most
don't try to make life rhyme
don't drink
too
Tomorrow doesn't remember today
almost
Walking from yesterday
To?

edit: added two nonessential words

[Leftist78]

24. Poem

I call myself a writer,
but do I dare submit my soul for judgment by the DUers
I think not
the poems are all for me.

[Tom Yossarian Joad]

25. 'Twas the Night Before Christmas '89 in Panama

'Twas the Night Before Christmas '89 in Panama

Twas five days before Christmas
when all through the land,
fingers were itchy, and called for a stand.
The C-41's were loaded with care,
In hopes Noriega would be blind to this dare.

"A surgical strike would work fine and be quick."
said an advisor who briefly felt sick.
"Delta force could be in and out in a blink!"
Said another advisor as he mixed a drink.
"But the economy sucks, and we need a war!"
Cried Danny with glee as he entered the door.
"And with abortion out, there's too many folks,
so let's have a war, where are the Cokes?"
So George waved his hands in a mystical fashion,
and looked up from his desk with unusual passion,
"Peace doesn't work for corporate powers,
there's no profit in having Lockheed grow flowers.
Hughes stock has been dropping like a lead ball,
Let Manuel know we're coming,
Now dash away all!"

Panamanian Children
were snug in their beds,
Feliz Navidad played in their heads.
When up in the sky there arose such a clatter,
Children leapt from their beds,
when windows started to shatter.
Up to the mountains Manuel flew like a flash,
While the U.S. forces turned his HQ into trash.

The flash of the flares on the newfallen dead,
gave the luster of midday to pools of new red.
When what to wondering eyes did appear,
20,000 young troops armed with God and fresh fear
With a leader who slept, miles from the push,
a point of light by the name of George Bush.

More Rapid than eagles his Hugheys they came,
soundly thrashing the bad guys, playing their game.
While back in a hotel where civilians did stay,
protection was naught, ignored in this fray,
to protect Americans was the reason it's said,
but hundreds were wounded, nineteen were dead.

Manuel thumbed his nose at a great world power
he outsmarted George Bush in his finest hour.
So George figured out he couldn't catch this man
and put a price on his head, maybe someone else can.

So while people here still live in the street,
George spent our money with a lively beat
for nothing more than an unsuccessful fight
as he was heard to exclaim:
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

Why did George hunt this rat with a gun?
I know that a trap would not be as much fun,
or quite as fast, or show off his toys,
but what about those nineteen young boys?
Did they have time to question other available ways,
that would not have them missing their last Christmas by days.

Please don't tell him that there are drug dealers in Atlanta.
I live here, and don't want to be invaded.


Copyright 1989, by me

[listenup]

26. Dark shadows

and quick glances may get my attention
usually, I have no impression
who knows the frustration
of those turning away

Walking down the sidewalk with a sidelong glance and trying to talk when too many others have so much to say gives me reason to believe the thoughts I don't say but we keep on walking without thought, it seems, but that's not true, 'cause I'm living my dreams, and I guess you are too or your words would stop. Pop. Continuing on to the antique shop with oohs and aahhs and I don't know what. Man, can this go on forever, please, I don't want it to stop. Pop. I like what I see - another bunch of tin pictures from yesterday that say "Dr. Pepper" - but I'm looking for coke. do you smoke? A sidelong glance says it all.

dark shadows.

[i have issues]

27. Here's something Iv'e been working on for a while.

Context... As a kid in the early 70's I lived in an all white trailer park in Irving, Texas. Down the road on the other side of the "crick" was an all black shanty town. all the kids, black and white, played together, we went to integrated schools,... and lived completely separate lives.This is my attempt to turn my memories into a memoir, in a way that is not strictly prose, nor neccesarily formal poetry. It seems to be the way my thoughts flow. Again, my use of forbidden words are not meant to inflame, it was simply the way we talked... the way it was. In a nutshell, it is my way of exporing my past, dealing with what was blatant racism among my friends and how that affected me. This is the first time anyone has seen this, other than my wife; but I trust and admire the people on this board. Peace.


1. TEXAS
The sun broils
thought. Grins waver though frog song,
  and the wail of cicadas. Your
friend, dark haired and shiny,
  walks through the brush in front;
whacking at trees.  His branch
  mirrors those above,
only dead.
He turns to give a peep in
shadow. He's not your friend.
His back allows an emblem, of a
a bowling club supported by
a garage.

  I feel the sun above, in oak, and a rill
of sweat starting it's way down my neck.
  Your friend Micheal swings away, kicking
up leaves and leavings,
  and small things that don't care.
He leads, pontificating on the values
 of our team, of whites over

(our fear)

the sorry Niggras below. I carry
 the precious pig skin. The path winds down,

Into a gully, strewn with the bones
  of mesquite. There's water here sometimes. But
today, all is dust. Over the ridge across, tin
  rooves appear,  in their
crowning of sparkling walls
  below. A black Caddy or Lincoln or
New Yorker sleeps
  in  the shaded berth below
corrugated eaves.  Overextended savings
  and adjectives
sit pridefull, as we walk.

  He smirks as he sees the splendor,
a chrome fire.
 "Ah see it all,  poor fucks"..."Ai'nt need no Caddy,
daddy
  says".   I'm breathing
slowly,  not really listening. Leon
  is swinging in the tire of
a truck. Sunday best,
  dark black inside, around,
a grey doughnut . Michael tears
  off ahead looking
back shouting,
 "Long bomb"!
 
I toss, feeble and
   wobly , wishing he wasn't here,  In tedious
slow motion, (I imagine;
  not fearful.)
 I  call Leon my
friend...
He cuts back to make the show
  and try the catch.
A flood of ice cold failure,
  Leon sizing me up? A
flashing smile passed instantly ,
  saying,
what?                              
   
   Leon sings the call. "Crackers done come down
fo' the game"! There have been
   three behind
all the way. Distant snorts following,
  ...ignored, forgotten, I see J's shanty down
off east, his
   sister, May, dashing between posts,  foreshortened. In
pink. A flash, her white socks spotting
  shadows over the plank porch.  "Ai'nt no white
folk gonna see her on no Sunday".
Call's from inside.

Bub, behind, fat and greasy, murmers something
  along the line
of "lt's so fuckng (breathing) hot. Niggas got it
  made". Wondering what that
means, I turn recieving nothing
but
  blankness. The quiet breeze, electric insects
and puffed up boys. The shantys
and the cars
  are not interested. Dogs lay under
porches, tongues out.  Eyes
  closed. Leon has dissappeared into the
house and miraculosly
  re-appeared as his father.

Mr. Leon's father, dressed exactly
  as his boy, peers out at us. Gigantic, three feet
up. He looks us over, grim coal face, stern ,with
  beautiful green eyes. "You little
heathens
done finished
  with yo' Sunday  schoolin'?"  A basso thunder
rolls over,around, through. "I don't see no lilly
  white souls been saved amongst ya'll!"
Jimmy (Michael's  younger)
  and Bub shift from foot to foot
and glance at the monster.

A true voice
  of authority
was speaking!
 No fathers drunken ramlbings,
no softened sobs and mumbled promises,
  late at night. This man Knew nothing
but the Word. Small vaguaries and broken
  promises. Wiped away.

Unsettling...  As the heavy brow
  softens, downward at the sides, a gapped
smile appears, as does Leon.
 In Sears 'Toughskins' washed
so clean they shimmer. His shoulder
  goes down and in,
passing his father. Defensive left wing?
  Or just defense?

Michael, with ball in armpit, is
 dragging a tire for the left hand goal post.
Jimmy has shot off right to
  snag  a milk crate.
So much work for such a small return. Your friends
  dive into action, retrieving the sad detriuous of
familiar,
strangers lives
so we (a bunch of nine year olds) can play
  football.

J's sister May, has re-appeard in sweats,
   with a straw jammed ino a Coke bottle, pigtails
 attatched to  the top of her head.
  a comfortable sight, yet
so far removed,
  a stranger I see daily.
I have taken
  Leon's spot in the swing.
The toes of my beloved
  green Makhaha sneakers tracing cirlces
in the dirt. The creaking branch above,
Sings the unease of the situation.
This tire,
 
 From which I swing was not
brought in as a prop.
  It was seventy or eighty dollars
used in good faith
  and service and
in it's twilight made
  into a toy for children. I knew Michael's
dad bought his boys
  their toys, and old tires...
were garbage.

Poor white folk living in trailers and
  double wides. Driving (mostly) Chevy''s and trying
to not appear poor.
  Poor black folk living in tin shacks driving Cadillacs
who were poorer, but not poor at all.


2.

J emerges finally and sits
solid, defiant, cleats in hand; shaking them in our direction.
May sways on the porch, to unheard music,
yet matching the creak of my supportive branch.
Michael swings flabby arms in windmills
to rally is troops(?) for meeting.
Battle plans to be laid. Small boys playing,
small men. J's cleats vibrate, cleanliness and care.

Glancing again upwards, through the trees, Ifollow
a vinyl rope
up towards blindness, and truth.
The face of the sun.
Wishes of burning my conscience free of conflict,
weaving now,
unwished for,
the tendrils of awakening.
With reality, I must rise...Reality, my temple
crushing companion,
rises also.

Michael strolls and somehow
skipping, arrives in the shadow of J.
Gesticulations abound.
The pinkish
(five headed) Hydras that are Mike's
point makers, are
undermined, overshadowed. underwhelmed;
by the silence
of the small tree that is J. A smirk
towards May, now on his left, speaks
my dread.

Little white boys.

To hopefully be continued...

[Interrobang]

28. Facetime

Facetime

Foregrounded process
Engenders the look, the touch
The iris clicking
Flashing warning lights
Speechless communication
Binary conjunction
Opposition
Panting breath
Wires glinting in the dark.

Interface
Smooth connection
Protocols, open mouths
Standards
Legs parting, entwining
The animal brain takes over.

Thrusting heat
Passion-sweat dripping
Overclocked processors
Blinking warning lights
Dials moving into the red
Counter grips and grasping
Delicious savoured movement
With neural fire punctuation
Of overheated connections.
Ozone on mingled breath
Cables tangling
Self-writing code unwritten
Old instructions push back new.

Clenching muscles
The hot involuntary spurt
Wisp of smoke
Glides through clouded perception
Connection is always imperfect
Circuits opposing flesh
Cries of pain, or pleasure?
Sensors take no readings
The body cannot comment.

They will not touch again until
An errant smell --
A lock of curling hair --
Moonlight on gold leads --
Begins the process anew.



Back story and Notes On Process: I wrote this about a dream I had about myself and someone else. He's actually the only person I've ever slept with whom I can imagine as an android. I wanted to convey (I hope) the idea of pleasure as pain, especially for those of us for whom it is.

[SOteric]

29. Terror

The devastation numb within us
trapped in the heart, tumbling
in the brain like pebbles. The feeling
resembles lumps of raw dough

weighing down a child's stomach on baking day.
Or Rilke said, "My heart...
Could I say of it, it overflows
with bitterness...but no, as though


its contents were simply balled into
formless lumps, thus
do I carry it about."


We have breathed the grit of it into our lives,
our lungs are pocked with it,
the mucous membrane of our dreams
coated with it, the imagination
filmed over with the gray filth of it:


the knowledge that human kind,


delicate Man, whose flesh
responds to a caress, whose eyes
are flowers that perceive the stars,


whose music excels the music of birds,
whose laughter matches the laughter of dogs,
whose understanding manifests designs
fairer than the spider's most intricate web,
turns without surprise to the scheduled breaking open
of the entrails of still-alive children
transforms witnessing eyes to pulp-fragments.


We are the humans whose language imagines mercy,
lovingkindness; we have believed one another
mirrored forms of a God we felt as good-


who do these acts, who convince ourselves
it is necessary; these acts are done
to our own flesh; burned human flesh.


Yes, this is the knowledge that jostles for space
in our bodies along with all we
go on knowing of joy, of love;


our nerve filaments twitch with its presence
day and night,
nothing we say has not the husky phlegm of it in the saying,
nothing we do has the quickness, the sureness,
the deep intelligence living at peace would have.

9/14/2001

[guitar man]

30. I didn't write this one.........

But it is my favorite.It's by the cowboy poet Wally Mcrae.


REINCARNATION


"What does Reincarnation mean?"
A cowpoke asked his friend.
His pal replied, "It happens when
Yer life has reached its end.
They comb yer hair, and warsh yer neck,
And clean yer fingernails,
And lay you in a padded box
Away from life's travails."

"The box and you goes in a hole,
That's been dug into the ground.
Reincarnation starts in when
Yore planted 'neath a mound.
Them clods melt down, just like yer box,
And you who is inside.
And then yore just beginnin' on
Yer transformation ride."

"In a while, the grass'll grow
Upon yer rendered mound.
Till some day on yer moldered grave
A lonely flower is found.
And say a hoss should wander by
And graze upon this flower
That once wuz you, but now's become
Yer vegetative bower."

"The posy that the hoss done ate
Up, with his other feed,
Makes bone, and fat, and muscle
Essential to the steed,
But some is left that he can't use
And so it passes through,
And finally lays upon the ground
This thing, that once wuz you."

"Then say, by chance, I wanders by
And sees this upon the ground,
And I ponders, and I wonders at,
This object that I found.
I thinks of reincarnation,
Of life and death, and such,
And come away concludin': 'Slim,
You ain't changed, all that much.'"

[Fight_n_back]

31. kick

:cry:

[ACK]

32. Just another Southern dream of escape

A lowcountry boil sits
in the pot and the smell
of the crawfish and
the seasonings burn
your nose and the
cornbread rises
in endless ovens
across the reach of
your mind and the biscuits
call for the buttermilk
and the BBQ sauce has
the tang of vinegar
and broken dreams
of sharecropper hopes
out here on the edge
of the collard greens
and sweet corn with
the hog's head still bobbing
in the brunswick stew
here in the pine tree
wastelands and the
lovely pastel Charleston
streets houses float
out there like the
delusions made as the
rain tinkles down endless
on top of the tin roofs of
Mississippi Mud Pie dreams
Where is my shotgun shack gone?
Where are the bluegrass delta-blues
elation of getting out of the
dreamy hell of the oppresive
heat of the pit of the place
that I left so long ago.

[ACK]

33. Young angry couple in Love or something

I saw a young couple walking
down a long hall holding hands
and the boy saw me stare and barked,
“What are you lookin’ at?”
so I said,
I’m looking into the
stark face of young love
full of passion loins burning
taste in your mouth
that won’t go away
looking into each other’s
eyes for a heaven that
isn’t fuckin’ there
I’m looking into youth
thankfully wasted doing
things, minor little, that
will carry you through the
lonely years beyond what
you can even conceive of now
I’m looking at flesh
thighs of wonderful mischief
holding hands like I did
Like we all have
Like we all should
So there...
That’ s what I am looking at.

[ACK]

34. The Crash

Racing,
Running
Streaking by
Like a Flash
of brilliant speed
mucked and jumbled
at the speed of light
streaming through the cathode tubes
as I manipulate my reality
with a rodent in my hand
dreaming in overdrive
at over a hundred megahertz
files upon piles
I can't get it all
I can't get enough
And like a speed freak
when it goes down
the world stops
everything
goes black
cursing
into nothingness
as I just sit
here
thinking
SHIT!

[Fight_n_back]

35. Marketing

Homeless diasabled Veteran need help please
one leg
not many more teeth
no one is moved

Im so despirit to feed my kids I am begging
such sad eyes
Desperate spelled so ironically
few are moved

Anything will help even a smile
young, black man
mismatched shoes are hip now
most give smiles

Need people food and dog food
what color is his hair?
sits cradling a terrier
one feeds the dog

Not gonna lie I want a beer
eyes are swirling
his life is in the bag on his back
one gives a beer!

Will vote Republican for food
looks vagueley like John Lennon
his beard has a crust
getting more ones than a stripper in front of shriners