"READY AND WAITING."
back to the typer,
under this mint green
light.
it's one of many but everything
more than the last whore I've
had.
I haven't been able to write in three
days and I've taken it out on most.
I remember the last whore I had,
she made it a point to let me know
the men in her life were never going
to be gone.
whores have no manners,
hungry for the ??ck attention.
my typers,
my faithful loves,
I know they hate when I'm away and
all I can do is hope they still love me...
oh but they do.
my machine right beside me,
fighting the demons on my back.
when I told my whore to gently lick
the ??lls,
she pissed and moaned and
demanded she be first.
I always told her she dove into
anything se?ual like a man,
she never agreed.
when I tell my typer to get the word
down,
she listens and the magic is greater
than the whore's episodic hysteria
and severe insecurity.
but now she's gone and my first love
has me again.
at this table,
with this typer,
under this roof within these walls,
under this mint green light,
a lady is present and she's looking
better than ever.
by: Chicano Eddie
6.27.19
Categories:
typer, true love, wisdom, woman,
Form: Free verse
"SHE TOLD ME WHAT SHE
WANTED WITHOUT THE HEAD GAME"
I poured myself a drink.
I lit my cigar and hit the machine.
after I finished with the poem,
I sent it over to Janine.
she read it and was direct:
“I feel like I should be in a lot
more of your poems.”
I pulled the last poem from the
typer and wrote about her.
she makes me think of all the
lovers I’ve had.
had they just told me what they
wanted, the bull-!@#$ would’ve been
less than it was.
it isn’t hard to figure out:
tell Eddie what you want and you’ll
get it.
leave that “guess the emotion,”
game for the immature.
to all the ladies of my past,
to all the women of my past,
to all the bitches of my past,
to all the whores of my past,
learn from Janine.
she accomplished what every whore
has failed at:
communication.
I would call up every female
from my past but would they
understand?
I think you know the answer.
By: Chicano Eddie
Categories:
typer, creation, loss, love hurts,
Form: Free verse
Trump Soon Became A Sniper
Trump searched and soon became sniper;
He was hard at it and then became hyper;
Wore frown;
Let people down,
And became world's worst at being a typer.
Jim Horn
Categories:
typer, allegory, analogy,
Form: Limerick
"UNTROUBLED ON THE COUCH"
the aftermath of morality
6 of the newest poetry to
come from the typer
all me
all you
all of it
a Chicano
listening to the sounds of
the birds and the cracking
of the leaves
the black robe approaches
mouth as sore as a virgin's
the years that have changed
my face get younger and
younger
every woman asks the same of
me but all fail to give
arguments
lies
the bending of truth to
satisfy her fear of being
caught
I've often said I won't make
it to thirty-five and if I
die now on this couch, the
crows would be torn to
pieces.
I'm turning 34 in a few
months
I guess I have a year left
numerous nights passed
where I wondered if I had
lost myself but as the wind
continues to drop dust in my
beer, they've all lost me
here's another piece of
poetry
another life set in stone
this'll be typed and then put
away
my audience hasn't been born
yet and for now I'm stored
away
you've been out for a while
collecting dust from the
filth
I've got my own dust and
someday someone will blow it
off
just like you did to me.
By: Chicano Eddie
9252017
Categories:
typer, age, analogy, december, identity,
Form: Free verse
Radiant people…walking down the
Road of
Recovery…in the
Recesses of my mind – let me try to make out a way to
Remind you to never leave behind your peace of mind…
Really strange – I can
Read your mind just by your expressions pasted on your face. I’m not trying to look for attention…I’m not trying to impress anyone, so
Race in your own track field…embrace the pride of your soon-to-be victory
Roses collide from the hands of lovers, interlocking hands lovingly with precious light absorbed in their eyes; their hearts shining bright like the sun during the summertime…I drove myself nuts over something so
Ridiculous…now, people think I’m strange, complaining about being a professional on being a good typer…get
Rid of this stress that’s building up inside of me…I crumble into sand…believe it or not, I was that
Robust
Rock
Categories:
typer, adventure, beauty, change, deep,
Form: Free verse
You require to pity our queue.
To you, it were quite quip.
Yet peer your true eye
Ere our quiet ripe turret.
Try to retry to
Pour your weep or woe or
Eerie I.Q out to
Outer property.
Europe?
You wore toupee...or trout?
I too utter pi. Or were it two?
Re-route your prow to port;
Put it to proper etiquette.
Pry our top tip
To your toe poetry.
We worry; you quit.
Poor you.
You, we pity.
I write to rye,
“Pour it,
I yet to try two.”
You type to I,
“Wipe it up.”
You write ore.
I type terry.
Yet I equip
to your wit;
You tie your
Top to rope,
rope to tree
To pop out.
Categories:
typer, corruption, creation, language, poetry,
Form: Free verse