Thursday, July 2, 2009


Oldie but a goodie...holleration!

Poetical pistols pop off poisonous penetrative projectiles
that propel profound proverbs and pronounce pledges and prose
all perfectly off my palette
feeding pumping, injecting and numbing
yo' mind with nutritional paraphernalia
like a potent pick of some pristine and powerful puff of purple haze piff
that with every hit makes you say

See, I'm a poet, a word connoisseur of sorts
a reporter and fragment contorter
And to write is my vice, plight, utter delight
and sure as hell
My words at times may or may not rhyme
they may or may not ring nor chime
And you ask yourself why?...
Because they're passionate like fists that want to kiss and reminisce
with your brain
to BUST knowledge into your domepiece like
with the force of a premie grasping onto the me m o r y...
of their mother's womb
or for most
grasping onto the fear of burying their mental tombs

Emotionally empaled by the vibrations of
prefix and suffix fix-ations
to fix
my ailments
from the attack of complacent non-stimulations
which bombard us on every
TV Station, Radio Station, Train Station to keep us all, well
as opposed to spawning prose
written in the mental codes of visionaries

But before I unleash the spoken word shank
and vernacular attack
on your fiending and yearning for stimuli crack
and expansionary learning
STOP and play back the track
rearrange the jazzy free flow over the hard boooom boooom boooom BAP!
and take a peak behind the mask
Cause I have a secret, you see,
my continual affair with a word, fragment or phrase
to my narcissistic dismay
is primarily need based
Since my psyche tends to get the best of me
and I've been neglecting her for a while now
So I'm being stalked and harassed by nervousbreak...downs
which has led me to prowl in theraputic sessioning
that results in no diagnosis and
only the verbal verdict of wordplay sentencing

And well,
I am merely parts of many
a life experience, cultivator, harvestor and pack rat
articulating the pack of traps that abruptly catch, pinch and grasp us
by our sensory follicles
resucitating our visions
by passionately spitten'pure liv-id liquids into the cesspool of third-eye imprisonments
through this audible monocle
Otherwise known as my therapeutic chronicle
But I'm sure you all understand
because for the most part you're here
listening to me, a poet
sit up here and spit
letting every saliva droplet to drop it on the ones and twos
and back to the one
solely to son you
with my verbal voodoo
and thank you for making a societal misfits
words fit
because to fit in with the rest of the world's life context
would be

- © 2008 by Jessica Freites

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