This is a poem I posted on my other blog, if you want to call this one that, and I had the sense of wanting to post it from that version, rather than the final one that I’ve approached/arrived at with my book of poetry transcriptions from the many rap albums that I’ve made.
Anyway, like you might see with my Other writing, I tend to devolve into something that looks like the Founding Fathers wrote it. Or Donald Trump, I guess, lol. (“Sad.”)
Magic Soup
Yo,
I’m Paul Atriedes, callin’ navies bawlin’ babies,
y’all put salt in the water, I put spice in the gravy.
Spice in the bison, in the, Tyson, and graymeat.
Search the universe for it, I pour it like it’s ice
from the La-Z-Boy bucket, in the room down the hall.
Yo, your gloom’s down to stall, when I drag you up out of the
tomb, turn you around, and show you the moon’s
Mountain home. Sound the fall, of the summer sun.
Your numb is done, your skin burns,
but the stillsuit will keep you stout, with rainfall.
Swig a pore’s sweat, walk off four debts
in the desert, never fall, your credit’s calm.
Sit for twenty minutes on a smoking Himalaya
mountainside in a snowstorm, with me, and have a ball.
Wearing nothing, but the tatters on your back, while the wind blows,
and the sin chokes, from your neck to your shoulders
to your heart, release your pelvis, and blows out
like smoke from your ass, and flows into the grass
and decomposes, and Springs up as Roses, through the snow.
Open up your broken Home, and flood the Halls.
Open up your broken home, and flood the halls.
Flood the doctor’s call . . .
yo,
. . .
I’m James Bond, catching bullet breezes, catching winds
on my shoulders, as the silk tears. Rat milkshakes,
served in hotel bars, with shakes of Confidence.
Stumble past the liquor, into the Condiments.
Until sandwich bread is filled with barbecue sauce,
and walk around with black roses in my vest pocket.
Stack hearts and diamonds on childhood chest wounds.
And lung-shuffle in the back of a black Aston Martin
blastin’ Elliott Smith, black lullabies, and black suits,
and mushroom soup, and gasp at nurses wearing white.
Dapper Halloween parties, with candy in Coach bags,
and scratch your necks, when they stand before me.
Mr. Bond, we see your smile through an itchy, plaid
Christmas sweater headache. Names sewn, burst through soil
right-arm first, and come out of the grave, like a shot from a,
from a, from a . . . from a Deck of cards.
Karma misfires from boxes on a Hostage train.
My Stopwatch Melts engine room floors.
I slip into the tracks, on all fours.
And wait for throttling Manifest Destiny to shake clean.
And watch the machine, detonate in Flagstone without a flame
And walk into the wreckage like a man without a name.
. . .