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Discussion => Philosophy, Economics and Justice => Topic started by: percoperfection on February 27, 2013, 10:07 pm

Title: Poetry
Post by: percoperfection on February 27, 2013, 10:07 pm
So, many people scoff or look at me strangely when I tell them who are my two favorite poets. The first is Edgar Allen Poe, who I believe captures the reality of human love, suffering, beauty, and sorrow so vividly and accurately. His prose is also fantastic. The second, and this is the one that gets the stranger looks, is Shel Silverstein. Few people know that Shel did not always write children's poetry; while his children's poetry is fantastic and I will read to my children endlessly, Shel actually got his early start in poetry by publishing adult oriented poetry, mainly through Playboy magazine. Shel and Hugh were incredibly close friends. A room in the mansion was almost always available for Shel, he was known as quite the heart-breaker of the bunnies with rumors always abounding about his conquests (many of which, as I understand it, are false and that he was quite the gentlemen).

Shel wrote a number of fantastic poems, perhaps one of his most famous adult pieces being wrongly attributed to Johnny Cash--A Boy Named Sue (he also wrote a followup poem written from the father's perspective--Father of a Boy Named Sue). While he wrote that poem and it has become an iconic song, he wrote numerous other poems the majority of those addressing the issues of drug use/abuse and addiction.

Below, I'm going to post some of my personal favorites; however, should any of you be interested in reading more of his works (WARNING: CLEAR WEB) http://crazcowboy.tripod.com/Silverstein/shelist.htm contains a nice collection of his adult works.

Oh, one last interesting fact: apparently Hugh Hefner enjoys playing board games, his favorite being Monopoly. When friends of his play frequently with him, he contracts with Parker Brothers (or some other company) to have personalized figurines made that resemble that person to be used as their token. So, in a case somewhere in the Playboy Mansion there is a figurine of Shel Silverstein.

Anyways, to the poems.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: percoperfection on February 27, 2013, 10:08 pm
THE FATHER OF THE BOY NAMED SUE

        [Silverstein's speaking voice:] ”Okay… now years ago, I wrote a song named “A Boy Named Sue”, and that was okay and everything, except then I started to think about it, and I thought, “It is unfair. I am looking at the whole thing from the poor kid’s point of view. And as I get more older and more fatherly, I begin to look at things from an old man’s point of view. So… I decided to give the old man equal time. Okay. Here we go.”

        Yeah, I lef’ home when the kid was three.
        It sure felt good to be fancy free
        Tho I knew it wasn’t quite the fatherly thing to do.
        But that kid kept screamin’ and throwin’ up
        And pissin’ in his pants til I had enough
        So just for revenge I went and named him Sue.

        It was Gatlinberg in mid July
        I was gettin' drunk but gettin' by
        Gettin' old and going from bad to worse
        When thru the door with an awful scream
        Comes the ugliest queen I’ve ever seen
        He says my name is Sue. How do you do?
        Then he hits me with his purse.

        Now this ain’t the way he tells the tale
        But he scratched my face with his fingernails
        And then he bit my thumb
        and kicked me with his high-heeled shoe.
        So I hit him in the nose, and he started to cry
        And he threw some perfume in my eye
        And it sure ain’t easy fightin with a boy named Sue.

        So I hit him in the head with a caned-back chair
        And he screamed, “Hey Dad, you mussed my hair!”
        And he hit me in the navel and knocked out a piece of my lint.
        He was spittin' blood. I was spittin teeth.
        And we crashed through the wall and out into the street
        A-kickin and gougin' in the mud and the blood and the crème de menth.

        Then out of his garter he pulls a gun.
        I’m about to get shot by my very own son.
        He’s screamin' about Sigmond Freud and lookin' grim.
        So I thought fast and I told him some stuff
        How I named him Sue just to make him tough.
        And I guess he bought it, cuz now I’m livin' with him.
        Yeah, he cooks and sews and cleans up the place.
        He cuts my hair and shaves my face.
        And irons my shirts better than a daughter could do.
        And on the nights that I can’t score,
        Well, I can’t tell you anymore.
        Sure is a joy to have a boy named Sue.
        Yeah, a son is fun,
        But it’s a joy to have a boy named Sue.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: percoperfection on February 27, 2013, 10:09 pm
THE PERFECT HIGH
      
- or - The Quest of Gimmesome Roy

        There once was a boy named Gimmesome Roy. He was nothing like me or you.
        'Cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do.
        As a kid, he sat in the cellar, sniffing airplane glue.
        And then he smoked bananas -- which was then the thing to do.
        He tried aspirin in Coca-Cola, breathed helium on the sly,
        And his life was just one endless search to find that perfect high.
        But grass just made him want to lay back and eat chocolate-chip pizza all night,
        And the great things he wrote while he was stoned looked like shit in the morning light.
        And speed just made him rap all day, reds just laid him back,
        And Cocaine Rose was sweet to his nose, but the price nearly broke his back.
        He tried PCP and THC, but they didn't quite do the trick,
        And poppers nearly blew his heart and mushrooms made him sick.
        Acid made him see the light, but he couldn't remember it long.
        And hashish was just a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong,
        And Quaaludes made him stumble, and booze just made him cry,
        Till he heard of a cat named Baba Fats who knew of the perfect high.

        babafats.jpg (27048 bytes)

        Now, Baba Fats was a hermit cat who lived up in Nepal,
        High on a craggy mountaintop, up a sheer and icy wall.
        "But hell," says Roy, "I'm a healthy boy, and I'll crawl or climb or fly,
        But I'll find that guru who'll give me the clue as to what's the perfect high."
        So out and off goes Gimmesome Roy to the land that knows no time,
        Up a trail no man could conquer to a cliff no man could climb.
        For fourteen years he tries that cliff, then back down again he slides
        Then sits -- and cries -- and climbs again, pursuing the perfect high.
        He's grinding his teeth, he's coughing blood, he's aching and shaking and weak,
        As starving and sore and bleeding and tore, he reaches the mountain peak.
        And his eyes blink red like a snow-blind wolf, and he snarls the snarl of a rat,
        As there in perfect repose and wearing no clothes -- sits the godlike Baba Fats.

        "What's happening, Fats?" says Roy with joy, "I've come to state my biz.
        I hear you're hip to the perfect trip. Please tell me what it is.
        For you can see," says Roy to he, "that I'm about to die,
        So for my last ride, Fats, how can I achieve the perfect high?"
        "Well, dog my cats!" says Baba Fats. "here's one more burnt-out soul,
        Who's looking for some alchemist to turn his trip to gold.
        But you won't find it in no dealer's stash, or on no druggist's shelf.
        Son, if you would seek the perfect high -- find it in yourself."

        "Why, you jive motherfucker!" screamed Gimmesome Roy, "I've climbed through rain and sleet,
        I've lost three fingers off my hands and four toes off my feet!
        I've braved the lair of the polar bear and tasted the maggot's kiss.
        Now, you tell me the high is in myself. What kind of shit is this?
        My ears 'fore they froze off," says Roy, "had heard all kind of crap,
        But I didn't climb for fourteen years to listen to that sophomore rap.
        And I didn't crawl up here to hear that the high is on the natch,
        So you tell me where the real stuff is or I'll kill your guru ass!"

        "Ok, OK," says Baba Fats, "you're forcing it out of me.
        There is a land beyond the sun that's known as Zaboli.
        A wretched land of stone and sand where snakes and buzzards scream,
        And in this devil's garden blooms the mystic Tzu-Tzu tree.
        And every ten years it blooms one flower as white as the Key West sky,
        And he who eats of the Tzu-Tzu flower will know the perfect high.
        For the rush comes on like a tidal wave and it hits like the blazing sun.
        And the high, it lasts a lifetime and the down don't ever come.
        But the Zaboli land is ruled by a giant who stands twelve cubits high.
        With eyes of red in his hundred heads, he waits for the passers-by.
        And you must slay the red-eyed giant, and swim the River of Slime,
        Where the mucous beasts, they wait to feast on those who journey by.
        And if you survive the giant and the beasts and swim that slimy sea,
        There's a blood-drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards that Tzu-Tzu tree."
        "To hell with your witches and giants," laughs Roy. "To hell with the beasts of the sea.
        As long as the Tzu-Tzu flower blooms, some hope still blooms for me."
        And with tears of joy in his snow-blind eye, Roy hands the guru a five,
        Then back down the icy mountain he crawls, pursuing that perfect high.

        "Well, that is that," says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone,
        Facing another thousand years of talking to God alone.
        "It seems, Lord", says Fats, "it's always the same, old men or bright-eyed youth,
        It's always easier to sell them some shit than it is to give them the truth."
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: percoperfection on February 27, 2013, 10:10 pm
The Smoke Off

    In the laid back California town of sunny San Raphael
    Lived a girl named Pearly Sweetcake, you prob’ly knew her well.
    She’d been stoned fifteen of her eighteen years and the story was widely told
    That she could smoke 'em faster than anyone could roll.
    Her legend finally reached New York, that Grove Street walk-up flat
    Where dwelt The Calistoga Kid, a beatnik from the past
    With long browned lightnin’ fingers he takes a cultured toke
    And says, “Hell, I can roll ‘em faster, Jim, than any chick can smoke!”

    So a note gets sent to San Raphael, “For the Championship of the World
    The Kid demands a smoke off!” "Well, bring him on!" says Pearl,
    "I'll grind his fingers off his hands, he'll roll until he drops!"
    Says Calistog, "I'll smoke that twist till she blows up and pops!”
    So they rent out Yankee Stadium and the word is quickly spread
    "Come one, come all, who walk or crawl, price – just two lids a head
    And from every town and hamlet, over land and sea they speed
    The world's greatest dopers, with the Worlds greatest weed
    Hashishers from Morocco, hemp smokers from Peru
    And the Shamnicks from Bagun who puff the deadly Pugaroo
    And those who call it Light of Life and those that call it boo.

    See the dealers and their ladies wearing turquoise, lace, and leather
    See the narcos and the closet smokers puffin’ all together
    From the teenies who smoke legal to the ones who've done some time
    To the old man who smoked “reefer” back before it was a crime
    And the grand old house that Ruth built is filled with the smoke and cries
    Of fifty thousand screaming heads all stoned out of their minds.
    And they play the national anthem and the crowd lets out a roar
    As the spotlight hits The Kid and Pearl, ready for their smokin' war
    At a table piled up high with grass, as high as a mountain peak
    Just tops and buds of the rarest flowers, not one stem, branch or seed.

    Maui Wowie, Panama Red and Acapulco Gold.
    Kif from East Afghanistan and rare Alaskan Cold.
    Sticks from Thailand, Ganja from the Islands, and Bangkok's Bloomin' Best.
    And some of that wet imported shit that capsized off Key West.
    Oaxacan tops and Kenya Bhang and Riviera Fleurs.
    And that rare Manhatten Silver that grows down in the New York sewers.
    And there's bubblin’ ice cold lemonade and sweet grapes by the bunches.
    And there's Hershey’s bars, and Oreos, ‘case anybody gets the munchies.
    And the Calistoga Kid, he sneers, and Pearley, she just grins.
    And the drums roll low and the crowd yells “GO!” and the world’s first Smoke Off begins.

    Kid flicks his magic fingers once and ZAP! that first joint’s rolled.
    Pearl takes one drag with her mighty lungs and WOOSH! that roach is cold.
    Then The Kid he rolls his Super Bomb that’d paralyze a moose.
    And Pearley takes one super hit and SLURP! that bomb’ defused.
    Then he rolls three in just ten seconds and she smokes 'em up in nine,
    And everybody sits back and says, "This just might take some time."
    See the blur of flyin’ fingers, see the red coal burnin’ bright
    As the night turns into mornin’ and the mornin’ fades to night
    And the autumn turns to summer and a whole damn year is gone
    But the two still sit on that roach-filled stage, smokin' and rollin' on
    With tremblin’ hands he rolls his jays with fingers blue and stiff
    She coughs and stares with bloodshot gaze, and puffs through blistered lips.
    And as she reaches out her hand for another stick of gold
    The Kid he gasps, "Goddamn it, bitch, there's nothin' left to roll!"
    "Nothin’ left to roll?", screams Pearl, "Is this some twisted joke?”
    “I didn't come here to fuck around, man, I come here to SMOKE!"
    And she reaches 'cross the table And grabs his bony sleeves
    And she crumbles his body between her hands like dried and brittle leaves
    Flickin' out his teeth and bones like useless stems and seeds
    And then she rolls him in a Zig Zag and lights him like a roach.
    And the fastest man with the fastest hands goes up in a puff of smoke.

    In the laid-back California town of sunny San Raphael
    Lives a girl named Pearly Sweetcake, you prob’ly know her well.
    She’s been stoned twenty-one of her twenty-four years, and the story’s widely told.
    How she still can smoke them faster than anyone can roll
    While off in New York City on a street that has no name.
    There's the hands of the Calistoga Kid in the Viper Hall of Fame
    And underneath his fingers there's a little golden scroll
    That says, Beware of Bein’ the Roller When There's Nothin’ Left to Roll.