Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

i don't need to dredge
the sewers of holy house
to find filth on the lamb

nor do i need to rifle the lab
for scientific images of God
hidden in a secret syringe

we are like rats
in a maze mansion
running around sniffing
our way to the secret
with visions of Dante
and Bosh

Oh Gosh

we want the dirt
on the gypsies
and we want dish
on the alien
skitter, skitter
fritter, fritter
we shall have it all
and
we want pure dreck
with that stacked deck
what the heck, what
the hell, nothing
is too good or too bad
for us, too wrong
or too right
and we want it now
and not later
we want this sexy song
the more bad news
the greater
we want heads rolling
and we want bells tolling
and big balls bouncing
ufo's ufoing
voodoo's hoodooing
and beautiful mummies
in the nick of time
prophets forsoothing
reaping and sewing
gnashing and thrashing
we want the wonder bread
and the cheap circus clowns
and eat it too
we want cheese cake
and believe cake
and devil's food cake too
and effigies and skeletons
on a stick, on one side is death
and the other a tattooed stripper
and the other the lucky coin moon
we shall have parsley , sage
and rosemary's baby
and garnish of eyeballs
and twist of twisted
and a side of shmaltz on the plate
and when we get it
we pull the flipper
we can't wait, we want poets
poeting, and pooing, and truing
spitting out bad ass words
at the rabid mad crowd
we want saxophones
screeching, and preaching
jazz to the blues

we want tax to pay for the redone floor
of heaven's whorehouse of the rising sun

poets made a mess of the original one

This certainly has enough golden nuggets to keep it going. One of the hardest things with these anaphora creations is that the sheer inertia keeps the poem going longer than the reader want to keep reading. Still, you kept my interest throughout and I enjoyed the end.

Ginsberg would have been proud.

if i had a word
for every word
i did not have

i would never say it

if i had a bird
in every hand
i would not play it

if i lived in interesting
times, i would not choose it
i would use it

i would say too much
and or i would say too little
the road goes down the
middle

i take the high one
you take the low one
maybe you will meet
in Scotland

if i had wrote
that song, it wont take long
to sing it, let alone know
what it meant

there is a poet
and there is a poo-it
a poet says what he means
and means what he says
even if it don't mean shit

a poo-it says never what he means
and never means what he says
and he thinks it means something

poo-it... LOL!!!!

those eyes, those eyes
eyes those

where did i see them
before? in some dark
cafe, or some jeepers
creepers, where did
you get them peepers
losers keepers, pocket
full of posey

in Plato's cave, in the nave
of the babe, in marmalade
in a New Orleans jazz parade
poets marchin in with the saints
in a chamber maid, in lemon aid
no complaints, no return, no blame

be not afraid, this acid is only low grade
i saw em in a poem once when Helen's
body heat set them long boats on fire
and her long look opened the Odyssey

them eyes, them eyes, them eyes
rolling rolling rolling, makin the roses
growing growing, rising, lowering

Yeah man.
I totally love this poem.
H

I smell a qat

Where's Ironhands?

We need to shake this place up!

wow...!!!!! bravo revolutionrabbit!!!!!