#punk poetry

[pixiemeat]

☆jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine☆

Patti Smith photographed by Frank Stefanko!

[legendarytragedynacho]

Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe

Tumblr censored

[bitter69uk]

“Facebook Memories” reminded me that on this day fourteen years ago … I attended punk poetess Patti Smith’s book-signing at Foyle's at The Southbank in Waterloo. (She was promoting Just Kids, her then-new memoirs about her relationship with Robert Mapplethorpe and their early years in New York). I would say she's one of my punk heroes, but Patti Smith is one of everyone's punk heroes! Before the signing started, she sang a few songs accompanying herself on guitar and read a bit from the book. I couldn't actually see her performance as the queue was so long and she was just standing at the front of the store, not elevated on a stage or anything but she was in lacerating voice. As you can see, she agreed to let me take her photo. It was a fleeting encounter, but she exuded charisma and warmth.

[raggedyfink]

I would piss on Johnny Ramones’s statue at Hollywood forever to make the white boomers and conservatives cry

Like

Roses are Red

Violets are Blue

I pissed on Johnny’s statue

To make you cry boo hoo

[egharcourt]

Jeanne d'Arc

Art: Joan of Arc by John Everett Millais

Read it on my substack

Happy New Year y’all! I wrote this poem on Dec 31st and I just finished editing it. I just felt like writing about Joan of Arc granted she’s been one of my favorite historical figures for a long long time, and I’ve always wanted to reflect the punk influences in my creative journey. Kicking 2024 off with some punk poetry here we gooooo

[iamdangerace]

The common man doesn't suffer pain like this Only the soul that has never been kissed Let us adore our beautiful son He's ridin' on the River of Babylon Bootin' up, shootin' up, bring on the brightness See the son of God is comin' up and I see a likeness Internalize the lunacy of the misery is showin' When you're brought up you're caught up in a system that's goin'

No one answers no one takes that call from you Junkie Man tell me what your story is

Water, water, water I desire Some parents house is on fire Slowly the house gonna burn to the ground The neighborhood will watch, bridge out of town Will someone be a witness Please tell me that he's crazy, but he's not, and they know that And they can't get him cause he's not crazy Beat him, lock him, knock him, take him away his authority, hit 'em, Ship 'em, club 'em submitted conformity

No one answers no one takes that call from you Junkie Man tell me what your story is

My hand went blind Clairvoyant My hand went blind I make love to my trance sister My trance sister went on and my trance parents see from the balcony I looked out on the big field The big field, it opens like the cover of an old bible And out come the wolves!

Out come the wolves Their paws trampling the snow, the alphabet I stand on my head and watch it all go away

Bootin' up, shootin' up bring on the brightness See the son of God is comin' up and there's a likeness Internalize the lunacy the misery is showin' When your brought up and caught up in a system that is goin'

No one answers no one takes that call from you Junkie Man tell me what your story is

[postmodernismruinedme]

"I no longer wish to be called resilient. Call me reckless, impatient, and emotional. Even Indigenous. Call me anything other than survivor. I am so many more things than brave."

- Sasha taqʷšəblu LaPointe, Red Paint: The Ancestral Autobiography of a Coast Salish Punk

[poettrista]

Lakeside Lamentation

This is a sneak peek of something I'm working on for my second upcoming collection. Naturally, I am not about to post the whole thing here.

Situated in a quiet little town, not far from the shore Lived a mother so weary, her children she adored She packed up their bags, and their car they did load For a family vacation, down a winding road But little did she know, that her children, oh how mischievous Had stirred up trouble, something sinister and grievous By the lake they played, and chanted words unknown Summoning an eldritch deity, from the depths it had grown The mother sipped her coffee, so unaware of the danger As her children whispered to a being, so strange and much stranger She called them to the car, ready to hit the road But the kids were drawn back to the lake, under a mysterious code

As she drove away, a darkness descended The sky turned black, the winds howled and wended She felt a chill creep up her spine As she left her children and the lake behind The coffee her only solace, a comfort in her fear She tried to push away the dread, the horror drawing near But deep down she knew, something was amiss As she sped along the road, something was remiss When she reached their destination, a cabin in the woods She thought she had escaped, the evil understood But the darkness followed, shadows in the night

[spilladabalia]

John Cooper Clarke reads his poem, Smooth Operetta

[lesbiany2kvampiregirls]

(The Fire Chant

Burning Burning Burning Pain

Blisters in my flesh

As smoke fills my chest

They are burning the weeds again.

Many, many errors

Not enough rightness

Who are the winners

Of this madness

I hear a baby's cry from under the rubble.

Then

it stops,

And I don't know which is worse,

If the wails of the children

Or the silence of the noble.

The children are crying,

the children are dead.

And everyone's fighting

Each other instead.)

[legendarytragedynacho]

Patti Smith

[bitter69uk]

“Rumpled, tattered, unkempt, hirsute, Smith defies the rules of femininity. Soulful, haggard and emaciated yet raffish, swaggering and seductive, she is mad saint, ephebe, dandy and troubadour, a complex woman alone and outward bound for culture war.” Camille Paglia on Patti Smith.

Born on this day: fierce high priestess of punk poetry, beatnik earth mother, shamanistic visionary, musician, playwright, role model, personification of jolie laide androgyny and the woman Salvador Dali once likened to “a gothic crow” – Patti Smith (Patricia Lee Smith, 30 December 1946). No one asked, but my favourite Patti Smith song is "Pissing in a River” (followed by “Dancing Barefoot”). Pictured: portrait by Lynn Goldsmith.

[raggedyfink]

I think “punk wasn’t political at first” is erasure of women, particularly women of color and queers who created and spearheaded the movement to go against their daily discrimination upfront and without apology and only for their contributions to the scene and their distinct leftist, feminist, anti racist and anti capitalist viewpoints to be erased and rewritten by yt posers who favored bands that had their apolitical or conservative viewpoints that still gets to some degree accepted by other yt punks in discourse to be pretty insulting.

[soniccollagehouse]

from the notes entry no. 5

a punk fairy poem

by founder @dreathevibedealer

#blkpunkstothafront #blackartbrut #conjurecraft #diypunk #blackpunk #blackart #lofiart #blackzinemakers #blackcollagists #blackfoundedarthouse #punkarthouse #punkpoetry #blackpoets #artbrut #soniccollagehouse

[punkieagainsttheworld]

Patti Smith

[skratchvevo]

I’m controversial to those who never liked me to begin with. I’m provocative to those who never understood. I’m challenging to the easily challenged. And I’m disturbing to the easily disturbed. My friends don’t fear me. They love me for who I am. They treat me with respect like a normal human being. They accept me, when people go out of their ways not to.