Death against life
powdered with reactionary battles
of truth versus the dark.
Muggers strike
lone wolfs bite on second sight.
Can't leave it to chance.
If pounced on before, what is to say
it won't be the same, the second dance?
Battered in the play.
Too far to turn back
and not have cracked at least a jaw
or two.
Scratched, kicked, sawed, spared and stabbed
with automaton's claws to win this fight:
constantly squirming in the realm of a defensless child's
screaming
dead of night.
And I can't ink it straight when so wrapped up in draining jokes...
So give this one (poem away)
leave it to chance (as to what they'll say)...
Or choke (on your bacardi and coke).
Mike O'Toole
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
"Fabric Logic (New Age Infamy)" - 9/6/'05
Another level
of encompassed perfection.
Crafted by way of a witch
which molds second mentality.
A razor blade romance leading to fatalities
revealing fraility of youth's invincible destructivness.
Oversexualized kids spit about "fuck"
but what of the locking of heads between preparation
and opportunity called "luck?"
Material logic is structured stiff to the point of overexhaustion.
So many split ends break the kids, bathed in sick trends.
Wrestle and defend identity too authentic to deny.
Opposition? Stabbed in the eye.
Like a car crash,
there's too much adrenilene in flight to generate concious thought.
When you go for the drive,
don't look at it in the light of chore.
Enlightenment fuels the need.
Gibberish; extreme.
Up yours.
Tricked out until the curves bend;
Poetry
tweaked out of your mind.
Don't hurt yourself.
Ink is a poisen.
Use head when you go tattoo it inside foreskin.
It all blead from my own fingertips.
On a perceptionist tip,
I analyze it like dyfunctional family tiffs between relative cunts and dicks,
relevent to the words and add-libs that are heavy enough
to stick to her metaphoric ribs.
*Oragasmic laugh*
Exhale
pure oxygen, derailed from correct track.
Life is like a car crash.
Honestly, I'm carefully addicted to Jane and blended whiplash.
Checkout the fresh scar from the slash in this spinally tapped, muscle-bound, hussle stressed, undressed, crowned back.
Word is born and aborted just the same.
That said, make a point to give verse a name
before you curse out the rules of this tagged up, twisted game and...
Misled into fame or a new age infamy?
Go Expand and extend out and up to wholly grasp the intangibles.
Red alert:
Street poets painting it up with a broad brush,
You aint seen nothing yet...
The brainchild of bucking circumstance matching against my fuckin' firm stance:
Natural expansion (of imagination.)
Ripped by way of the weight of the world.
Mike O'Toole
of encompassed perfection.
Crafted by way of a witch
which molds second mentality.
A razor blade romance leading to fatalities
revealing fraility of youth's invincible destructivness.
Oversexualized kids spit about "fuck"
but what of the locking of heads between preparation
and opportunity called "luck?"
Material logic is structured stiff to the point of overexhaustion.
So many split ends break the kids, bathed in sick trends.
Wrestle and defend identity too authentic to deny.
Opposition? Stabbed in the eye.
Like a car crash,
there's too much adrenilene in flight to generate concious thought.
When you go for the drive,
don't look at it in the light of chore.
Enlightenment fuels the need.
Gibberish; extreme.
Up yours.
Tricked out until the curves bend;
Poetry
tweaked out of your mind.
Don't hurt yourself.
Ink is a poisen.
Use head when you go tattoo it inside foreskin.
It all blead from my own fingertips.
On a perceptionist tip,
I analyze it like dyfunctional family tiffs between relative cunts and dicks,
relevent to the words and add-libs that are heavy enough
to stick to her metaphoric ribs.
*Oragasmic laugh*
Exhale
pure oxygen, derailed from correct track.
Life is like a car crash.
Honestly, I'm carefully addicted to Jane and blended whiplash.
Checkout the fresh scar from the slash in this spinally tapped, muscle-bound, hussle stressed, undressed, crowned back.
Word is born and aborted just the same.
That said, make a point to give verse a name
before you curse out the rules of this tagged up, twisted game and...
Misled into fame or a new age infamy?
Go Expand and extend out and up to wholly grasp the intangibles.
Red alert:
Street poets painting it up with a broad brush,
You aint seen nothing yet...
The brainchild of bucking circumstance matching against my fuckin' firm stance:
Natural expansion (of imagination.)
Ripped by way of the weight of the world.
Mike O'Toole
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