A Slam/Beat poem; one of many that I have written
I'm in a hazy, lazy daze.
Some sort of wild craze Enacted by my inactive synapses
And resulting in lapses of judgement.
The remote can't possibly float further from my grasp.
Penetrating the forest Of Used magazines And Lame doritos.
Or are they cheetos?
I can't tell anymore.
My boy's over there snorin'.
And I'm sitting here,
Sifting through clouds Of cigar smoke.
I might just choke On my own lack of initiative.
Through Rubber Bands And Strands Of Hair?!
A rotten pear.
My God the air in here Is So Dense.
Dense due to the Ever-growing oxygen to junk ratio.
Where is the damn remote?!
I Think It's Afloat In This moat of chocolate sauce and sprinkles.
I oughta toss it in a bowl of ice cream
At this point
And make a Sundae.
It's about as dirty
As the interior my black Hyundai.
This is turning out to be a shitty Sunday.
Or Is It Monday?
The lazy days
Are propelling me forward Into a complex maze of junk
I'm slowly sinking into the couch!
My ass is glued here for eternity!
It's like some sort Of perpetual maternity leave,
Except my inflated gut will not yield Another human life. What strife! Changing the channel shouldn't Be this hard! All that wasted time is really coming back To haunt me. It's all too daunting! My living room has become a desert Of artificial cheese dust. I Must Stand Up And Leave. But it seems that the junk-filled desert is All-consuming. I'm out in the boondocks Shepherding flocks of licorice whips And doing things just for kicks. I Feel Sick! My green visage could very well serve as camouflage If I were to lay in my overgrown grass. My phone's ringing off the hook. It's probably my dad calling to tell Me what a sad life I lead. "Get a damn job!" "You're makin' your mom sob and my pulse throb!" "Hold on, Dad. My weed-dealer Bob is on the other line. I'll just take this call and get back to you in no time."