Sponataneity Poetry

Blown glass words
Take shape from a blowers lips
speaking about what I heard about her.
but all is just rumors – verbal slips

Let’s talk about birds,
I mean, about how some girls…coo.
call it all sexy, absurd -
I’m just gonna call it that thing you do.

Makes me shiver
just a little bit.
Makes me quiver.
but I know you don’t think much of it.

Yeah, they all talk.
Yeah they all talk about you.
They stare. They gawk.
Since when was that new?

Girl, you stole sexy.
And nobody could take it the fuck back.
How would you like to sit next to me?
We can do anything – but relax.

It’s all just spontaneity.
I’m just preaching perverted poetry.
But you’ve been alone lately.
And I think I’ve got the remedy.

May I have this dance?

A Romantic Wad on the PAvement

Eye Candy Lover
Discoverer of the Krystal Nacht, cherry popped
Cradle rocked
fantasy man in a pile of white fright
manifest powder chanced louder and prouder
than the average scared mind; un-sublime mime
fulfilling crime’s prime, dropping dimes
on love’s seclusion for a polluted mascarade…
It’s all a parade
what I’m getting at is bubbly-blonde backstage betty
wants Ken for his car; white fifty-four chevy
dance in trance to artificial love’s lukewarm arabian melody
that everyone knows the rhythm to,
while missing out on lyrics from language
anguish
sex is hexed to bless tex-mex
next a reflex test, chest mest…
By the bullet of passion

the bars of the cage of man bore woman
the womb of a witch switched on the legacy of sin
which trickled the devil to level, embezzle
with tousle and trestle making sense of illusion
a global pollution
I write the allusions, you draw the conclusions
the fusion you and this man give up
to the pre-nup sup-
position. The politician separating kids through submission
subtraction, addition, addiction,
commission the soul to role, scroll and fold
under pressure or Cash like Johnny
lose chips to flips. Bloods crypts, poison sips
roofie slips, whips, hips jerk and work
to the rhythmic schematicism of the stand-up’s cynicism…
Control, extol, house-poll, re-roll, bowl
and the whole of life is lips,
tits, midriffs, and skoal…
A romantic wad on the pavement.
It’s all the same thing.

cocky-ass youngin’ wants to gradiate.

School is starting in a week, and I will be a Senior as soon as I set foot on that campus, and wander around the familiar halls and corridors, looking for my classes. The last thing left to do is to leave every person their with the knowledge that I achieved what nobody thought was achievable. To anybody whom I gave a bad first impression, be ready for a memorable final good-bye. I am going to leave that school with a marching band at my foot-fall and a Jazz ensemble in my hands. That is to say, I’m walkin’ out the door, trumpets blazin’, bugle callin’ trombone squealin’ drums a’bangin’. AP’s and SAT’s and college rec’s and anything else that sets in front of me is going to be surprised by what I make of it. I am one smart sunnuvabitch and Foothill Technology High School is going to know it. This is not to toot my own horn – well yes it is – but what will a young man succeed without any semblance of self-affirmation? Am I supposed to walk in through my first class and say “I sure hope I don’t fuck up”? No, I’m going to walk in with a smile on, and walk out with a diploma in one hand, and a damned impressive acceptance letter in the other. People are going to remember Stewart Lawrence Sinclair III as more than just some juggler. I am the name in the year-book you show to your friends when you say “I went to school with this guy”, and they’ll say “Damn.”
High School. College. University. Business. Pleasure. It’s all comin’ up on me and I’ve hardly put any of it behind me yet. And I’ll bet some of you aren’t even gonna read all the way through this. You’re gonna walk away screaming “what an ignorant asshole!” and all I have to say is, “Why aren’t you writing the same damn thing?” And than I will feed you the answe: because modesty forbids that you believe in yourself. Well modesty will not get you into college, because higher education is the business of selling yourself. Yeah, you’ve got good grades. Yeah, you’ve got extra currics, but who’s gonna know what they mean to you if you never say anything about them! Don’t be humble. Proclaim your talents and write out your accomplishments, because in time, no one will care except for the ones who know, and those who don’t know you, can’t help you.
I’ve screwed up a lot of schooling, but I’ve learned a lot more than so many valedictorians. We call them “hoop-jumpers”; keepers of the status-quo. Well hear comes a real out-of-the-box punk-ass to do with his education what the truly enlightened intended when they built their schools. I am learning the lessons of life through the guise of a dumb young kid trying to make it in the world, who knows nothing more than that gas prices are going up, and food stamps are harder to come by. This is the fodder for his desire of monetary success. STAY OFF THE STREETS AND KEEP MY BELLY FULL. This year’ll be my last in high school. After this, I fill my own belly. Who’s covering your ass? And what are you gonna do when they die?

Rantings at 11:30 from a worn out dumbass kid

Dear, you know who you are.

Dear “Love of my life”,

My name is Stewart Sinclair, and you are the only thing I care about. My friends and I have argued as to whether you even exist, but I truly believe that if this world has any semblance of a purpose, it lies holistically on you. It may seem like I have set the standard pretty high, Love, but you are so worth having that anything less would be selling myself, and you, short. So I am writing you this letter to let you know that I want to be there for you, as I have thought myself to be many times before, only to find out that it wasn’t you. Because, Love, you hide around every corner, and there’s so many substitutes in the world that I get lost and confused. This is my general plea for you to make yourself clear.
When I was a kid, you were always on my mind, and always so simple. You were any girl that smiled. I wish I could say that age has changed my perception, but that’s bull shit. Pardon my language, but eloquence is not so easy to come by under pressure. God, am I under pressure. But I am losing track of my point, and becoming lost in the sea of beauty that has masked my perception of what you really are.
Who are you, Love? Where did you come from, and why doesn’t that place have an address, or at least a P.O. box? Has your life been as hard as my search for you? I would like to think so, but I’d also like to think that I’ve had you, and that you’ve simply slipped through my fingers. At least then, I’d feel like I understand what love was. The only down side is that my life would never get any better if I’d already had my turn with you. Perhaps I do prefer it that way though. I think you do too. I think you are patient, and damned good at life’s game of hide-and seek. If I could express it realistically, than I would avoid speaking in metaphors, but I’m a writer, so I have to ask that you bare with me.
I’ve seen you in so many movies, and heard about you in so many songs, but you’ve never gotten an oscar or a grammy. In fact, more often than not, I find your good name being slenderized and diminished to gossip colony fodder. But I still worship you. I still love your music. I think the world underestimates your worth, and miscalculated what it is that makes you so valuable. You are Love; the essence of every decent act and the characteristic that sets all good things in motion. I hope your blushing, because I can’t think of a more fitting shade on the cheek of you, than that crimson of humility. But I think I’m getting to soppy.
What I really mean to tell you is that you have been looking for me as hard as I have been looking for you, but as little as I know about you, is the extent to which you know about me. So I am building the bridge to bring us together. Fuck everybody else, Love. It’s you and me against the world, and I honestly think we could take them A friend of mine says he has met you, and that he knows a guy who can give you this letter, and I sincerely hope so, but I do not necessarily see that happening.
Ouch, and just like that, I begin to lose my faith in you, and start writing more for myself; of my own loneliness and desires, and of how I will never find love in this world. I doubt more and more that you even exist, and I feel more and more about what satisfies me, and I pray that this gets to you before the next pretty woman comes my way, calling herself by your name, and beating me down again. You see, Love, I will treat every woman I meet as if they were you, but you will be the only one that will truly appreciate it. Until then, every kiss; every hand held; every whispered “I love you”, will press against dead lips, squeeze against stiff hands, and fall upon def ears.
If this gets to you, than it will only be by accident, but it will surely do what it is meant to do, and that is to say, in many more words than necessary, that I love you. I love you I love you I love you. And I’d really like to know your name.

Sincerely,
Stewart

Real mean Muh-fuckuh

This cat walked around,
khaki’s cuffed and creased,
shoes spit-shined and hair greased
back, walkin’ like he was going to start shit with a look.
Well he gave me a look, and I
gave him a smile. He
cut the Gucci suare’ front
and stepped to me
with less respect than I was used to.

So I stepped to him with more balls
than he had seen
he pulled a fist and I pulled
a fist, and cut his jaw. He
broke my nose, I
busted his gut.He
blacked my eye, I
blocked a fist was
cocked, ready to cold knock
me straight crooked.
That is to say,out
of my senses. But

like I said, I
caught his cocked fist, he
really got pissed, he
kicked and he missed, I
took up his wrist, broke
it twice,took his girl and
we kissed. She

wan’t no lady. I
Ain’t no man. We
both just brutes. He
oughta think twice
‘fore he step to a real mean muh-fucka..