Heavely influenced by Iggy Pop, Charles Bukowski, Jack Kerouac, Batman, William Buroughs, Miles Davis, George Carlin, and of course... suicidal tendencies more »
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matt fromm Poems
Blowing Bong Hits at the Moon
For all I know This could be the last show. But I'm too young to hang up the clown suit just yet. Re-running happily frightening images of wher I come from. Where I've been.
Marriage. Yes, The subject has come up, The old girls even dropped subtle hints. Christ.
Oh, he's so clever
I told the ol' boy I had no money Nothing, Nada,
In My Lawn Chair
I'm so hungry I can't eat. I'm so in love her abuse reminds me she's there. Now on sunset and Doheny where many a merlotnight was spent. I AM a hopeless romantic
Can't even name her.
Just give me a hand Just help me out And the moon is just a Big toenail right now
Is it really gone?
Fruit cakes in alleyways. Starving actors for pay. Mixed in the shuffle of the city. That is to say the billboardians. You walk down L.A. streets You feel the sweat on your hands and the cold on your neck.
Your Place In the Pages
When I'm searching for a midnight surprise I stop and wonder how you could ever be mine again. When I'm burning all the memories of you And I do so by taking giant lingering breathes
I still recal the sound of the 2 A.M. trains from your open bedroom window. Nestled between a hidden life and your bedspread choking on your flame colored hair.
Well, I took a shower for an hour and that was just the other day. I gotta look my swellest for the ball or premiere or what ever they're calling it these days.
I looked in the mirror this morning and an honest man shooting daggers back at me. i coughed in defense at the weak image i saw, after i inhaled some smarts. I ate the forbidden fruit when you told me not to.
Straight Jacket Waltz
Whistling at the bus stop and my book bag ways heavy. I Stagger and shuffle down the boulevard.
No more cristals
Waking up in the great oblivion. wanting everything and remembering more talking about taking hold of the world only taking hold of my balls
Poems Start With P
no one seems to get it. my fingers crawl across this thing I bleed on it spit on it sleep with it. its the only thing that matters.
Who will you screw?
I've been to 27 different bus stations I got a big old hickey on my left thigh. I ran you outta here while the gettin was good Tell me who will you screw?
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Blowing Bong Hits at the Moon
For all I know This could be the last show.
But I'm too young to hang up the clown suit just yet.
Re-running happily frightening images of wher I come from.
Where I've been.
Never imagining in a thousand hits
I would've ended up here.
Never fathoming it would be like this.
Carefull jottings of history...I suppose.
Both true and halucinated
while Coltrane and the gang tell me about their favorite things.
It all gets fuzzy these days when I try to think.
Before today speaking and not being heard
Being silent then being ridiculed and blamed.
All because I ...