Your Poetry Dot Com - Tribe Maynard

Bins, salted bins.
Pins, crafty pins.
You all know, you have no, no idea what I’m on about,
As usual, 2 x virile, silos, missiles, bathroom tiles, bedroom trials,
Tribulations, mistakes and danger, containers, full of clever worms,
In turn, taking turns, to buy stocks and create some turn over.
Gregorian, all of you, if you can’t figure out what I’m talking about,
Then float, and read between the lines,
Still no luck? Then jump and sword fight with your spines.

Red, over and over red.
Head, wood crafted varnished head.
Walk around the round about, drunk, for months,
Four months, dead ends, dead pens, stickers that don’t stick,
Candles; no wicks, so give in and light the wax, increase in back pack tax.
Inverted horse ride, no saddle or reins, direct, go pony, straight up a cliff,
Hang on for your life, at times like this,
Sorry, I was sleeping asleep… so what did I miss?

Crazy, insanely, a pain maze, sparks fly in this bleach soaked brain,
Dan once told me “no more bleach in the brain, NO MORE DAMON!”
Sorry man, it’s too late again, a tilt of the head, and a each ear pour in,
Yep a non-watered down pour in of the good stuff, ‘white king’.
Me and my Tyler Durden will start a fight up in the club,
All the ladybugs we’ll the wrong way rub, enough.
Shiny gold suitcase, first moose in space, cell scrape or scrapings,
Really dull paintings, that sell for a mint and adorn the dining rooms,
Of people made out of lint, red tulips, an after dinner hint.

Moon, moonbeams come through, boom!
Soon, bats hum with me a timely tune.
Little Miss Muffet, sat drugged up, yelled at the tuffet,
Smoked dried spider today, hallucinations only, to frighten away,
Then she tripped out and made, Picasso like art from curds and whey.
Demons that yell out a carrot ballad, debonair facade,
McDonalds thick shakes/lard, a difference? Hardly.
Man…my plain toast is sickly, you can try to trick me, trip me,
But you can’t do it, bad luck, and back luck that’s unlucky.

Vines, vines that cling,
Yams, yams that sing,
Singe me with a freezing needle,
Paint me with a genetic weasel…comatose, toads;
Damon, shut up, shut it, shove it, baby, a skate 180, I love it.
Keep it up, the whole ‘game de golf’ in the rough,
The roughest, toughest, dancingest nothings,
You can’t see those lines, ah ha, here’s a roll for your troubles.
Open sesame…seeds, the best of me, blasphemy.

Douse, make pizzas that shout,
Bounce, who’s coming to camp out?
Where we can go and dance around, colossal log fires,
That are out, you know what out is right? Like un-alight,
Not burning, cool delight; snaps froze for the nighty night,
Cold marshmallow ice, albino white, at least for tonight.
Tents up for the hosts, not real ghosts, people under sheets,
Everyone, eat sugary treats, threats and all feel alive.
Come along…welcome to my “Tribe”.

This poem is Copyright ยฉ Damon_Maynard