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Smelly Scum Child. (Free verse) by Y2kSlamPoet [ It appears that this poem was lost in my travel pack. ]
[ Unfortunately I found it and just HAD to share it with y'all.]
I am prophet
disguised as a street urchin
deluded ex-yuppie poet
cruisin' back alleys & lurchin--
gone stupid & I know it
in Portland on heroin & apathetically searchin'.
The quintessential joke:
A raggedy bearded 'n soiled bum
begging for the holy smoke,
or at least some change for cheap rum--
Always straight fucking broke.
I am the stink
moochin off of your soul,
taking myself to the brink
& fillin up this hole
in my vein so I don't have to think--
backin it up with a stiff drink.
I am ScumChild,
running wild
& strange,
askin' you for more
change--
refusing to,
Always.
Up the ladder:
wishes
Down the ladder:
Digging A Grave
Votes: (green: user, blue: anonymous)
Arithmetic Mean: 6.571429
Posted: July 30, 2008 7:43 AM PDT; Last modified: July 30, 2008 8:27 AM PDTWeighted score: 5.422622 Overall Rank: 3056 Comments:
[n/a]
Y2kSlamPoet @ 76.254.27.93
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30-Jul-08/7:45 AM
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Reply
You know, I don't even fucking remember writing this shit... or anything else that happened that night. Well I guess that explains why I never did heroin again after that first time... fucking Portland that shithole.
It truly is unfortunate that you found this... It brings back memories of performing late night sodomy in the park... Truly a wonderful time... WIN.
Well your homosexuality and disturbing yearning for my butt-hole has indeed been quite openly expressed. I'm sure now that you really wish you had sodomized me in this fantasy park of yours. All that aside, you, you silly lil faggot, have NOT won, I am sorry (No, joyous) to say. Unless coming out of the closet and expressing your burning desire to be gay love partners with me was your aim, which then in that case, yes Oh scary queer boy, you have horridly succeeded.
Oh, and thanks for providing me with potent ammunition, it makes my job alot easier. Toodles you silly faggot!
It truly is unfortunate that you found this... It brings back memories of performing late night sodomy in the park... Truly a wonderful time... WIN.
Well your homosexuality and disturbing yearning for my butt-hole has indeed been quite openly expressed. I'm sure now that you really wish you had sodomized me in this fantasy park of yours. All that aside, you, you silly lil faggot, have NOT won, I am sorry (No, joyous) to say. Unless coming out of the closet and expressing your burning desire to be gay love partners with me was your aim, which then in that case, yes Oh scary queer boy, you have horridly succeeded. Oh, and thanks for providing me with potent ammunition, it makes my job alot easier. Toodles you silly faggot!
Finally, a poem that describes you correctly.
Er, actually no, it correctly described me at that point in time. I'm happy to say that that is no longer the case.
Thats right! I'm no longer homeless and I am, yes, surprisingly enough, employed. Also though not exactly completely comfortable financially, I am no longer straight broke. Sorry to have burst your happy little bubble there TJ. Toodles you queer dolt!
Oh and thank you for the tens... though since they come from you and your twin, their value is quite empty. But non-the-less it ups my over-all average!
No prophet, just a jerk, telling lies.
Lies about what? The fact that I spent three and a half years on the street?
If I wanted to lie, I'd write lil poems about being happy with some sex slave wife and a 200k a year job. Unfortunately I have this habit of writing with respect to my enviroment and emotional condition. Yes, I am an asshole. I am mean. I piss on pathetic wanna-be poet hacks. But my writing about being homeless is not a lie, and that will not cease being the facts simply because you are an upset little twat. PS: Go fuck yourself with a lead crucifix, bitch.
Illiterate slang always has an appeal to the junkie head.
Slang can not be illiterate. Slang is slang. It is normally used by illiterate people, perhaps. Except I'm not illiterate.
I can read extremely well, and I am quite capable of writing in a formidable fashion. Officially (not that it really means shit, but none-the-less I can't help but mention-) I possess a perfect score of 800 on the writing portion of my GED. The first part entailed editing grammar, spelling, punctuation, and contextual errors; the second part entailed writing a five paragraph essay on whatever subject they happen to give you for that test attempt. Illiterate people can't pull off such a simple feat. That aside, I am not a junkie. I tried heroin three times while bumming it in Portland, OR. I am the consummate pothead and full moon meth abuser. Lastly, appeal has absolutely nothing to do with anything you stupid twat. Slang is simply the life and language of the street. If you intend to write a poem about such experiences you damn sure don't write it in a prudish, pompous, and formal Queer Britain fashion. That's for narrating the deeper bow'l soul of tea parties hosted by The League of Tight Puckered Aristocrats. You foolish little woman... what oh what can breathe back the embers in your collapsed rectum?
Crazy as it may seem, there is actually a story in this horrid evening of a "high" I prefer the natural high, (air) but to each his own.
Infact, a real life story. !!!
Air is never any good without the spike-caress of ganja smoke. -shrug- Heroin wasn't anything special... the needle and the poking, the pukish morning after. The appeal was ultimately lacking. Three times and I decided it was simpler, more practical, and much more enjoyable to just smoke weed and top it off with a decent ball of opium from time to time. That and a generous supply of free liquor from charitable barflies helped me scrape by the last four months I spent in Portland. Shitty part is, I can't get my grubby hands on any opium here in California... but, then again, there's always the weed, which is all I really need. 199 view(s)
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