Oh no, The Beats are coming through the wall again; or, this was going to be a serious attempt at a poem, but then we decided to do something else.

No clap allowed
Chorus:
No clap aloud!
[silent clapping ensues]

Yo! Keep yo’ clap t’yourself
Nobody wants the clap in this room
Take the clap and put it outta here, Bubba.

When I first saw that microphone,
The white against the black, you know,
I thought it was bloody joan baez again,
In silhouette.
And I think to myself
What a wonderful would it would be to not have to ever hear fucking joan fucking baez ever a-fuckin’-gain – that’s tmesis.
And then when you see him walk over you get the perspective – what was a woman is actually a stick with an ear ontop.
I ain’t lookin’ to compete with you, beat, or cheat, or mystery at you.
Don’t look back out
Takes part
Notice: Audio or picture can suddenly disappear - not my doing; this is afterall an outtake.

You might like this one, that is, I’ll play it for you next time.

You muslim, cow, ink-swat you kneed - Your thin quill lasts,
Butter-tether is the key to your butter-grape breakfast.
He understands a pauper wi’is strict gum,
Espying white messíah in the slum.
Whip out!
the sinks are cunning!
true!
A pig saws all the cows, baby shrew.


[signage:] “For hire: shades of bumblers”
[diatribe:] “experimental science
Fakes what you have gathered from cow-incidence -
The empty danglings clatter from their spleens
Is drowning. crabby platters on their means!
Maybe you could plan a survey, tooooooooooooo?
O! Scientific method can’t make true.”

[solo, ad libitum]

[interjection during solo:] How many verses are there?

And when with success, sails err, they don’t mobiles own
All your rain, dear armies, are all going home.
The plover who has just walked out your door
Has blanket-bombed his (s)trumpets through the whore.
The carpet-spindle’s looming under you
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.

Leave your stepping stones behind, something calls for you.
Forget the dead you've left, they will not follow you.
The vagabond who's rapping at your door
Is standing in the clothes that you once wore.
Strike another match, go start anew
And it's all Nova-now, Baby Blue.

The Everyplagiarist
An allegorical figure -
Not so much a person as a role
Like fight club, Spartacus, Zorro, or the Scarlet Pimpernel,
This is about the only poem I’ve ever written
One reason too long
He didn’t tap into my masochism
He just hurt my feelings
Wood girds
Bratt Pidd
She’s his boyfriend
I’m fucking matt damon
NO! I’m Spartacus
On the bed – on the floor (on a towel by the door),
In the tub in the coar (up against the miniboar).
I’m fucking obama
Inside their head,
on the floor when we talk about the war in the dark,
in every single election that we’ve had so far.
Celestial quires will be singing (when she’s fucking obama)
And the world will be perfect, Uppity-Black-Man-David.
(it ends on a darkie note)