Life's worries are no
more than a whiskey drink
away from a
good night's sleep,
so make sure
not to forget your
cigarettes as you continue
to watch the white smoke
sail away with thoughts
that are sadly engraved
in your mind's
sullen eye and so
you search
through skies burning
in bright conversation
of what is to come
and what you will
accomplish when
you finally wake
to find a kitchen filled
with endless culinary possibilities.
When in the course
of human events it
becomes necessary to
stick to some common
incentive and break
down certain walls
standing as ivy covered
reminders of something
that slipped through
the figurative cracks
and grew not so gracefully
upward and outward
until it was
one big generic eyesore
that served one purpose
and one purpose alone:
a secluded place for public humiliation
and so therefore due
to some series of laws and by-laws
of a human's existence,
IT MUST BE DESTROYED!
post mid-day ramblings by johnnyslonggone, literature
Literature
post mid-day ramblings
sometimes when the clocks
imbedded in your mind
seem to leave for their lunch break
to head hastily for the coast
as fast as their little hands will go,
you will feel the need to sit down
and dream of simplifying life
of all of its unsatisfying
shit.
so you do.
Late Night Observations by johnnyslonggone, literature
Literature
Late Night Observations
People are painting their guns pink
waiting for someone to speak
of sorrows that have left through the door,
of truths that are silently understood
by all of you my friends,
sitting in a small house in the ghetto
playing rummy or conversing 'round
the coffee table covered in Cobra bottles
and playing cards.
We- well dressed in patched pants
smoking our discount cigarettes in
big drags,
exhale our strange ideas,
asking for that which lies
in the taste buds of the ghost
from last night's nightmare-
the same ghost that you
steamrolled with the rising
of the sun and the opening of your eyes.
So here we go again
with twice th
Sunday Morning Sunrise by johnnyslonggone, literature
Literature
Sunday Morning Sunrise
The sunday morning sun rises
and so I sleep
while soundly resting
in the sheets of Saturday night's
malt liquor dreams
about old acquaintances
that had disappeared
with time
and with every wave of each other's chosen fate-
only to reappear in dreams
of drunken disagreement
and reconciliation.
When I wake to place my beaten hat
on my head,
once more I'll drag the day's
depths for gold
and settle instead for a woman's smile,
wanting bright-eyed and full breasted
to make my name a remembered one.
At a truck stop
I saw my first
Tennessee sunset.
On a curb I stood:
hungry- but with no desire
to devour anything
other than my own soul
as it sat somewhere
in the sun-lit clouds,
trailed by the scent
of two days hard travel-
Because there stared the sun-
peeking its tiresome forehead
over the hay-bailed horizon
waiting for the starry swing shift
and the bright eyed moon
with clouds beaming
in one last good night gifted to the world,
whispering, "Farewell until the dawn."
An Insomniac's Dream by johnnyslonggone, literature
Literature
An Insomniac's Dream
When the moon
shines on time
lost and dying
in its bed of roses,
there comes a sound,
a whispering underground,
a contemplating crown
for a hallowed soul
entering sleeplessness
with a bottle of wine
and a handful of newports.
Call it What you Want by johnnyslonggone, literature
Literature
Call it What you Want
Some would call it a shame.
Some would call it an embarassment
to whatever benevolent gods
sit in the heavens
with their sweet wine
whenever a man
takes his fall from grace
and continues to dig a deeper grave.
Some would call it masochism
to take a chance at peace-
a fucking good night's sleep,
chug it like cheap whiskey,
and throw it back up
into the face of someone
once cared for
while drunkenly unaware
of how sad the joke really is.
Sometimes the kisses lost echo more profoundly
than the kisses gained.
Some would say that time heals everything.
Until then,
there will be no machine
to fill your empty glass.
That,
a bit of slam poetry by johnnyslonggone, literature
Literature
a bit of slam poetry
Sometimes you may scream
saying, "Please feed me-
I'm drunk and I can't stand up!"
And you luck's run out
so your search ends
with a tobacco-less butt.
Your rhyme scheme is shit
scattered on a page
because you are losing a battle
that you thought you'd won
years before
when life had more color
and you DREAMED
every night and day
remembering everything
before kissing yourself goodnight
and waking refreshed to see the sun again.
But guess what
you lazy, self absorbed bastards
with golden minds
and fingertips carved from stone:
I'M BACK!
Life's worries are no
more than a whiskey drink
away from a
good night's sleep,
so make sure
not to forget your
cigarettes as you continue
to watch the white smoke
sail away with thoughts
that are sadly engraved
in your mind's
sullen eye and so
you search
through skies burning
in bright conversation
of what is to come
and what you will
accomplish when
you finally wake
to find a kitchen filled
with endless culinary possibilities.
When in the course
of human events it
becomes necessary to
stick to some common
incentive and break
down certain walls
standing as ivy covered
reminders of something
that slipped through
the figurative cracks
and grew not so gracefully
upward and outward
until it was
one big generic eyesore
that served one purpose
and one purpose alone:
a secluded place for public humiliation
and so therefore due
to some series of laws and by-laws
of a human's existence,
IT MUST BE DESTROYED!
post mid-day ramblings by johnnyslonggone, literature
Literature
post mid-day ramblings
sometimes when the clocks
imbedded in your mind
seem to leave for their lunch break
to head hastily for the coast
as fast as their little hands will go,
you will feel the need to sit down
and dream of simplifying life
of all of its unsatisfying
shit.
so you do.
Late Night Observations by johnnyslonggone, literature
Literature
Late Night Observations
People are painting their guns pink
waiting for someone to speak
of sorrows that have left through the door,
of truths that are silently understood
by all of you my friends,
sitting in a small house in the ghetto
playing rummy or conversing 'round
the coffee table covered in Cobra bottles
and playing cards.
We- well dressed in patched pants
smoking our discount cigarettes in
big drags,
exhale our strange ideas,
asking for that which lies
in the taste buds of the ghost
from last night's nightmare-
the same ghost that you
steamrolled with the rising
of the sun and the opening of your eyes.
So here we go again
with twice th
Sunday Morning Sunrise by johnnyslonggone, literature
Literature
Sunday Morning Sunrise
The sunday morning sun rises
and so I sleep
while soundly resting
in the sheets of Saturday night's
malt liquor dreams
about old acquaintances
that had disappeared
with time
and with every wave of each other's chosen fate-
only to reappear in dreams
of drunken disagreement
and reconciliation.
When I wake to place my beaten hat
on my head,
once more I'll drag the day's
depths for gold
and settle instead for a woman's smile,
wanting bright-eyed and full breasted
to make my name a remembered one.
At a truck stop
I saw my first
Tennessee sunset.
On a curb I stood:
hungry- but with no desire
to devour anything
other than my own soul
as it sat somewhere
in the sun-lit clouds,
trailed by the scent
of two days hard travel-
Because there stared the sun-
peeking its tiresome forehead
over the hay-bailed horizon
waiting for the starry swing shift
and the bright eyed moon
with clouds beaming
in one last good night gifted to the world,
whispering, "Farewell until the dawn."
An Insomniac's Dream by johnnyslonggone, literature
Literature
An Insomniac's Dream
When the moon
shines on time
lost and dying
in its bed of roses,
there comes a sound,
a whispering underground,
a contemplating crown
for a hallowed soul
entering sleeplessness
with a bottle of wine
and a handful of newports.
Call it What you Want by johnnyslonggone, literature
Literature
Call it What you Want
Some would call it a shame.
Some would call it an embarassment
to whatever benevolent gods
sit in the heavens
with their sweet wine
whenever a man
takes his fall from grace
and continues to dig a deeper grave.
Some would call it masochism
to take a chance at peace-
a fucking good night's sleep,
chug it like cheap whiskey,
and throw it back up
into the face of someone
once cared for
while drunkenly unaware
of how sad the joke really is.
Sometimes the kisses lost echo more profoundly
than the kisses gained.
Some would say that time heals everything.
Until then,
there will be no machine
to fill your empty glass.
That,
a bit of slam poetry by johnnyslonggone, literature
Literature
a bit of slam poetry
Sometimes you may scream
saying, "Please feed me-
I'm drunk and I can't stand up!"
And you luck's run out
so your search ends
with a tobacco-less butt.
Your rhyme scheme is shit
scattered on a page
because you are losing a battle
that you thought you'd won
years before
when life had more color
and you DREAMED
every night and day
remembering everything
before kissing yourself goodnight
and waking refreshed to see the sun again.
But guess what
you lazy, self absorbed bastards
with golden minds
and fingertips carved from stone:
I'M BACK!
observations from the ghetto by kingjamesisajunkie, literature
Literature
observations from the ghetto
Columbus and Hanover
A spliff Half Marijuana, half tobacco,
cold cups of instant coffee, Maxwell house.
Yesterday's news out dated, meaningless, unwanted.
This face partially bearded, worn,
This personality slightly jaded, swagger, attitude.
(work, work, work another institution)
Oppurunity a thought, a belief, the ability to will
wants and wears, confidence of young men
a dangerous power of super human proportion
(Maddness, madness, madness another delusion)
instead of miracles he swung beer bottles
idealizing a future beyond
text books and paychecks, food stamps and travel packs,
worn down houses, paint chipped f
Cloud Formations
We're all mad hatters,
singing in 10/6 time,
as if it were some lovely reference
to a softer place.
We're all of serpentine,
green with envious slurs,
with heads solid and smooth
and feet buried.
We're all just dreamers,
as innocent as they come,
but no one has really told us
who's dead yet.
We're all of a brighter blue,
where our thoughts match the sky,
where we all forget
that we are toxic.
We're all just a single spec,
with contrasting feelings and thoughts,
erasing ourselves
with bombs and laughter.
We're all of a God's comedy,
or were we the playwrights?
Just puppets attached at both ends
that con
After another long night painting the town with malt liquor, i've resolved to write more new material so as to kill this hangover with more booze and hedonism.
well, it appears that since my friend's lease is up on the house where my band practices, it looks like today will be our last practice for a little while. In the meantime, I am rewriting old poems and song lyrics in an attempt to spend my time procrastinating instead of writing an english paper.