Long Funk Poems
Long Funk Poems. Below are the most popular long Funk by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Funk poems by poem length and keyword.
[Bass drop]
I saw the lights—red, blue, divine,
Thought the cops were DJs droppin’ beats in a line.
Sirens wailing like synths on fire,
My brain said “dance,” my legs said “fly, sir!”
I hit the field like a disco crusader,
Tripped on a skunk—funk’s personal invader.
He popped up slow, tail in the air,
Struck a pose like he just don’t care.
Now he’s moonwalking, tail all curled,
Smelling like heartbreak and end-of-the-world.
But he’s got rhythm, he’s got soul,
My backup dancer with a funk patrol.
We’re dodging sprinklers, leaping bins,
Grooving through trauma with manic grins.
Neighbors scream, “Boy, that ain’t no club!”
But we’re two funky fugitives, fresh from the hub.
[Beat builds]
Boston Marathon? That’s my cardio set,
Every siren’s a remix, every flash a threat.
But I run like I’m chasing a Grammy tonight,
Skunk on my six, tail lit up bright.
He spins, I slide, we break into splits,
Funk so strong it’s giving folks fits.
Ambulance lights? Just lasers to me,
Police flashers? That’s my LED.
So if you see those lights—don’t panic, don’t freeze,
Just yell, “Warn a brother!” and drop to your knees.
Let the funk possess you, let the madness flow,
We’re dancing through delusions with a technicolor glow.
[Final drop]
Reality’s cracked, but the beat is tight,
We’re the disco prophets of schizophrenic light.
Skunk and I, we own the night—
Smelling like funk, but feeling just right.
What‘s better than a biscuit?
Hard to debunk
Treasure trunk funk
Should you let
It get wetter
Would you dare risk it?
The trick a quick dunk
Or could flunk..flick..kerplunk..
Mushy chunk sunk..messy junk
Slushy slunk..in the tea you drunk
So at your leisure
Pleasure one’s self
Don’t regret your stealth
Forget your health
Wealth beset on the shelf
So feeling restive?
Yearn for a digestive?
Appealing…suggestive
No shock..dark choc
What else will cut the mustard
With a brew…for a few bob
Recurring theme..does seem
Will always dream
About a custard cream
Almost sob…as I Lob
A hob-nob in me gob
Ta pour more cha
In fine fettle
Be a slob
Turn on the kettle
Bickies in the jar
On the sofa settle
Sins within tins
Spurn concern
Ignore the racket
As
Hats do doff
Knew from the off
On a roll
The sole goal
Quaff another cuppa
Down your cake hole
Scoff the whole packet!
Many years ago, I was in a down-heartened funk, after deciding to get a little bit drunk.
Beer guzzling queens won’t tell you, but liquor tastes bad going down and coming back up is truly no joy.
Some will tell you how great drinking liquor makes them feel, happy, and wonderful. But they’re full of bunk
Being wasted, angry, crying, and a bit mean is no way to meet any kind of a man or dating boy
And if you are completely silly, to hug, or touch or god forbid fore take in a sloppy drunk kiss
I must tell you the story of a naïve woman who got herself in a real pickle in St. Croix
If you are already completely wasted, and angry, and mean, this warning you will probably dismiss
This sordid tale of a girl, a boy, a golden pony, a red flute that laughed, and a shiny green Shamrock
The way this tale was told to me, by my gram, it entered my ears totally unbiased and Faultless
There was a pipe, and a honey bee, and a well-intentioned, prettied up edible pink and plump Ham hock
I do remember someone laughing, and a foot being broken, and a yellow three cent postage stamp.
There was a nickel’s worth of lead, and an angry man, and a princess in a lavender and pink Frock
The men crowded around to watch Trixie Lou dance, for she was a well-known, conniving, trickster of a Vamp
In my inebriated state, I can recall but one bit of the story that has any bearing now.
Grandpa’s dream girl was a devious witch of a woman according to Big Ma, a hard-hearted Tramp
Told by Big Ma, Trixie was a flaunter, a floozy, a conniver, a flute-playing nasty old cow,
She had pink cheeks, sky blue eyes, and she wore her red curls pinned with green shamrocks; she was all kinds of pretty.
This information was slipped to me in whispers by Grandpa, who considered Trixie a giant wow.
(Yo Bone hits the Mic, lights dim) soulful Urban Funk/ Ain't no genre/ it's a feeling/ Downtempo Swing beats lovers in tight/
Lo-Fi whispers through the city's roar, Urban Pop shimmers, not for ghetto listeners, that’s for sure/
Soulful Hip-Hop, on a hot summer day, Breaks in the beat, gotta have it your way/ Sliced audio loops/ fragments of dreams, Mo' funk and groove please/ The groove Dr. Samples up Hip Hop, Soul Jazz soooo sweet/ Ready to be chopped/ a sonic treat/
Sliced, stretched, and pitched/ a kaleidoscope sound/ Dig it, baby,/ shake her booty round/ Man, it's a funky swingin' affair/ you feel it in your soul/ From Harlem rooftops to a downtown pop-up nite club/. Hey rhythm people, let me hear you shout! Culture clash, no room for doubt!/
The Hip Hop sound of New York Jazz City/you may ask, is the world safe for the groove child? Pity, anyone who can't feel the funky bass, hitting your chest make you funkin’ in the streets a hydrant spray not in your way/ Wah Wah guitar crying in this urban space/
Horns blaze bright/ a Milky Way of sexy vocals ignites a deep desire/ My girlfriend gets freaky nasty, she can't deny, the sexy club sounds reaching for the sky/
Funky acid fresh latin disco/
Oh yeah, baby! Smokin' a joint fresh out of the gig/
Da funk is high, Yo, nuff said, it's understood, this music voyage, forever good is not over …understood?
It began with a hit
Problems were solved
Then you couldn't get lit
And addiction evolved
Your body craved more
The smoke couldn't handle
Now covered in sores
Too common a scandal
You recall the time
Needles were bad
But now, every nine
They soften your sad
Mascara smothers
droopy eyes
Whispers from others
Ignite your cries
Wrapping your sleeves
Around your hands
Joining thieves
For what your body demands
You have nothing to trade
But the flesh you wear
Others get laid
To take you there
Your home is a dump
Filled with useless junk
You're in a funk
So you get your fix
Ready for kicks
A different mix
You see the light
Your body relaxed
But then lose sight
A bad batch
A drop of blood
Joined with a tear
The addicts crud
Your end is here
But what you don't see
Or perhaps never saw
Friends and family
Anticipated your fall
Sleepless nights
Anxious days
Agonizing fright
Throughout your phase
Now they find you
A lifeless shell
You may be through
But their in hell
Which beers my dears bring you to tears
Beardy weirdy freaks hipster peaks & nadirs
Slatted bar with glam flutes or bizarre jam jar
Cheers to toots & hoots hirsute tatted peers
Sham craze for cloudy ales or clear yesteryear pales
Old school IPA mule or cool daze ways holds sway
Some fools viral spools spiral amaze as they drool
Not a phase always had haze it's the cardinal rule
Or a silly quip & blip has a nip of a chilli dip in it
Knows zip flip let rip Indian trip phrase you twit
Gawking and balking because they're talking s**t
All about malty pout haughty clout of a naughty stout
Cooed am a lamb to the slaughter for rip snorter porter
Wooed by stock of stellar Bock or cellar brewed Keller
Wheat poo pooed too funkily sweet for this crude fella
Rude taking the mick trick to pick a drop in perfect nick
Chaps won't cower to the lure of cocktails at happy hour
Ruddy cheeked fuddy duddy who is perhaps too dour
Appears fake dreams it seems of a career as a critic
Slating grating ratings mapped trapped on untappd
Skeptic fears musty skunk & fusty funk that is lambic
Brett regret bristles don't fret won't let whet my whistle
Sneers debunk the rusty gunk flower glower of sour
Jeers but bet the ripple of Tripel is still the top tipple
For any cynic or pundit in their Merchant Ivory tower
Hail tale of quirky murky or another stale lager saga
Heaven forbid get rid of sweet & sickly treat for a kid
Snooty about the booty of rank dank stank too fruity
For fecks sake must forsake that milkshake mistake
If tasked or someone asked what's my perfect beer?
Not the new frontier..bask in cask ...holy grail of ale
Suggest zest from noble not global hops treasure chest
Attest not treason manifest reason better than the rest
Beer to pleasure every season that stalled then schooled
What is after all the true quest & have you got a clue test
Which is why I contest you go with the one called "Best"
Steppin’ Out
by Odin Roark
Enjoin your instrument
Lift from enclosure dark
Your Moonlight Sonata
Needs some street funk
Travel
Atop leather soles
From four walled safety
Yeah
Let your dog walk you
That’s okay
Out into the unknown
Ears perked
Feel the walk
Listen…
Jack hammer percussion
Taxi horns the accent
The subway beneath
The lulling adagio
Step out
Tires over steel covers
Bump
Tang
Ummph
Your dog quiet
Other dogs barking
Yeah
Synergy
Windows bleed chaos
Fights
Celebration
Music
Rock
Mozart
Yes
The coming together
Open
Love it
It’s you
Let Fido guide
He knows
Nothing gonna harm you
Absorb
Back to the four walls
Some water for Fido
Some bourbon for you
The keyboard
The recall
Harmonic layers
Captured by earsight
Ah
That smile
Nothing like this blindness
Imbibing all the inspiration
Such sublime release
One day I'll drive there.
On the way
I'll tell my wife about the Modoc woman,
who lived outside the city,
above a sea lion rookery.
She taught me a Klamath-Modoc prayer:
“I want you animals to know, open your eyes,
a hungry man has killed one of you.
One day we will find out
what happened to its spirit
then we will go meet with it,
for it was my brother.”
She rowed a boat on the spume
of the wild cove waves.
I knew her, she had the way of truth in her.
When I get to the Redwoods,
I'll visit her clapboard home.
Look for her twelve year old Ford truck,
her briny patch of hand-reared garden,
her small surf-riding boat.
The sheriff reported her, `missing in transit.'
Maybe she went off
with that son-of-a- jailbird
who had twice tried to kill her.
I'll take the back roads, getting lost
until we reach the ocean.
When we get to Crescent City,
we'll sit by the harbor and watch the sea lions
savoring their deep throated funk.
I'll tell my wife I love her,
and she will taste the salt of my words.
I’m really scared this time Not sure if I’ll make it
Will my wife and the kids Be able to take it
Am I ready to go And meet my Maker?
Or will I go instead And meet the Undertaker?
Did I sin too far? Did I run a ground?
Will I be innocent? Or guilty found?
Questions unanswered Did I truly repent?
Did I fake the funk? Was this life well spent?
Where is my faith? Where is my rock?
Are my cries answered? Are they being blocked?
Am I like David? With a covetous heart?
Am I like Abraham? A liar from the start?
Can I be forgiven? Can I be freed?
Can I live this life? Crucified and in need?
I am not strong No I am so weak
But it is you Lord The one that I seek.
This one last time And this one final prayer
Please forgive my wrongs And don't leave me there
That place set aside For those who forgot
That place full of torment And where worms eat the rot
Breathe life back in me In the bones you have crushed
Hurry to my help Quickly! Do it in a rush!
You know my mind And my thoughts are clear
I can fake others But it's you that I fear
In my soul this moment Anxious and afflicted
Will I make it this time Or in dust be convicted
Forgive me Lord against You I have sinned
Forgive me Lord I’m at my wits end
All I can think with my Head between my legs
And ask for your pardon God please hear me beg
Please remember your Patience and love
Please remove my guilt And finish what you begun
Help me God in my Great distress
Give me another chance God I'll keep my promise
I'll be good this time This time's for real
I will repent of My sin Ill will have more zeal
The Iceman the Bronx/Tony Adamo
I DIG THAT THE ICEMAN’S BACK, HITTING THE SPOKEN WORD STAGES IN THE BRONX AND THE OTHER BOROUGHS IN NEW YORK/AFTER ALL HE IS BORN AND BREAD IN DE BRONX/WORD SPITTER/ JAZZ SCATTER/GOT THE CITY TURNED ON IT’S LITERARY HEAD/AS THE ICEMAN WOULD SAY/ GOT TO REDUCE THE OTHER SPOKEN WORD ARTIST’S TO ASH BEFORE I DIE/ MR. B, THE BRONX BOMBER/THE BRO WHO EVERY ONE KNOWS/YOU CAN DIG THE CONGO STREET BEAT IN YOUR EARS THROUGH HIS WORDS/POPIN’ STORY TELLIN’ BREAK DANCIN’ JAZZY TURNTABLE BREAK DOWN OF WORD PLAY/MAN DIG THIS CAT’S FUSION OF JAZZ MUSIC PUT TO SPOKEN WORD POETRY/ HE LISTENS AND SAMPLES INTO HIS MIND HEAD/ THE GREAT JAZZ HORN PLAYERS SOLO’S TO BE TURNED INTO A SOUND SYNERGY OF JAZZY WORDS/ MAN ,I CAN DIG IT, THAT FLOW THE ICEMAN HAS/ FOR THE RHYTHMIC FEEL OF IMPROVISATION IN AND INBETWEEN WORDS/IS PURE WORD ART, CAN YOU DIG IT?/ ON SOME GIG’S/ICEMAN’S SPOKEN WORD JAZZ COMES OUT LIKE COLTRANE’S SOLO ON GIANT STEPS/ HIS GRAFFITI LACED VOICE INFLECTON ON CULTURE AND SOCIAL ISSUES/ WILL HAVE YOU COLLIDIN’ AND TURNIN’ YOUR THOUGHTS INTO GIANT STEPS/ ICEMAN ON THE DECK OF FREE THINKING JAZZ WORDS/A DJ WORD HIPSTER/ THE SPOKEN WORD KING OF THE BRONX/HE’S GOT THAT LYRICAL CONTROL AND NO CONTROL/ MAN, THAT’S WAY OUT/SYNCOPATED RHYTHMS DROP LIKE PAINTED WORDS SPRAYDED ON THE LEX AVE EXPRESS SUBWAY TRAIN/ HE’S NOT FAR FROM THE BEAT WORLD OF KEROUAC,GENSBERG, AND PHIL LAMANTIA/ BEAT POETS OF THE COUNTERCULTURAL MOVEMENTS OF THE 1960s/ MAYBE THE ICEMAN IS A SPOKEN WORD PLAYRIGHT OR A ABSTRACT PAINTER OF WORDS/ SO DIG THIS/HE’S NOT VINTAGE OR INDIE/ BUT WAY INTO TODAY AND TOMORROW AND GONE/DEEP IN THE CATACOMBS OF NEW YORK CITY’S SOUNDTRACK OF BLOOD ,SWEET, AND TEARS/YOU CAN CATCH HIS VIBE/ AIN’T NO WAY TO HOLD HIM BACK NOW/HIS SPOKEN WORD MUSIC DELIVERY JUMPS ON THE ELEMENTS AND COMBINES JAZZ, FUNK AND SOUL WORD TUNES/ TO LAY THE LISTENER OUT WITH HIS DISTINCTIVE WORD SPEAK, SPOKEN JUMPIN’ WORD/ HIS STORYTELLIN’ POETRY WILL BEND YOUR MIND/ THE ICEMAN BREATHS LIFE INTO THE SOUL OF THE SPOKEN WORD WORLD OF JAZZ SPEAK