The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Bad Part 2

From a recent slam at Loser’s Slam in NJ.

There is, incidentally, a tree of the knowledge of good and bad part 1. That one similarly plays with the line of the obscene and innocent. Or on the real, that one ACTUALLY does…while this is just sex as fun. That one….I don’t know if I’m gonna post that one…

My parent’s have computers. This is enough.

It is the trumph of Huxley

over Orwell every cinco

with our hot mexican vomit

breathing into the confused breaze.

The lust that really means

you are fat and full of hormones

and drinking little wayne sized

portions of nightquil at 8pm.

Its still a cold rain. 

Its a snort replacing your commas. This

blissful new season. Nature will

coo once again as it tries so hard to kill.

You will not excape:

Whether the dead puppy

flopping at the end of your fist

or this aqward sweaty skin on your shoulders

the jacket is coming.

You can’t excape the jacket 

that glares like your mom

from the messy side of a couch

with it’s pockets full of yellowing tissues

and useless plastic that use to hold

the meds they make meth from. 

The legs are growing ripe from 

colorful sundresses I’ve been told 

but I can’t tell with my eyes all

black and sandpapery. Goddamn

I wish I had an eyepatch

and the abillty to walk like I’m sober

or a throatful of vanilla ice cream

followed by a painless death.

Too many think only assholes oppress.

Nice people dismiss. Ignore is worst then hate.
A kind oppression is a slow, inevitable holocoast.

A poison that hollows generations wide.

The stare in a upenn office space that says, yes
I understand this joke
just let me live to payday.

The day I was convenced
evolution spoke perfect english
was so happy. I got up ready
to shine the next morning.

I like racists.

They welcome the relief of a good shit.
They remember when Broken was worst then death.
When shame use to mean a thing.

My question is this:
How much oppresion is there in a 10 mile radius of your house?

In joke space: Would you rather kill a dog or Little Wayne?

No, you can not pick the breed of dog.
No, we are not discussing Iran.

I’m talking about a one city block of
crackhouse and family
when speaking of the slow sick disbowelment
we are calling: “unempowered.”

I am speaking of the weight
and cliche of
loving the black.

nevver:

Day Jobs of the Poets

(via fuckyeahslampoems)

timeshaiku:

A haiku from the article: Rossellini’s ‘Voyage to Italy,’ With Ingrid Bergman

mightycontender:

I was
young and dreadfully
inconsistent.
Frightened easily
of new things, change, 
and the deep seated ache
located in my chest.

I am 
still so painfully young
but there is a harshness
to my youth, 
an innate resilience,
frightening and whole
in the bones of my spine. 

pnom:

thegoddamazon:

shoeinthegrave:

applepiesfromscratch:

Fight The Power!

Happy National Masturbation Month

Catalogable NSFW

CRYING

WAS NOT EXPECTING THAT

AHAHAHAAHAHA

YOOOO!!!!! LMAO!!!!!!

(via blackgod)

(via staff)

Tentacle of yarn feels
fine given time.

I woke up to a polyblend
anemone massage

and bits of old receipt where
there was once wood this morning

and made tea in a box with
no windows.

Somewhere in fairmount
the dinosaur machines

paw at the last remaining
crack house.

Plywood approaches the shape
of a place.

Stuccoed pastel like a cupcake,
they wait with scripted signs

across the street from Mr. Frank,
who sways in loose pajamas. Says

“We gonna die forever
big warren. We ain’t shit.”

poetryeater:

Please do not misunderstand.
That woman who carries winter
inside her, dizzied by snowfall

that won’t level off—I would say
I love her, but I is too strong a word
and love not strong enough.