Two spoken word poems by Willie Smith

Two spoken word poems
by Willie Smith

Editor's note: Click on the titles for the You Tube videos to these spoken word poems by Willie Smith.

Taboo Boots

I drink a little ale. I stay up late. I smoke a little boo. I
wait for you to get into them taboo boots.

I don't know what I'm gonna do, if you don't get into them taboo boots.

You know they say if you don't stay away from that type footgear
365 days a year, that your soul will walk away. But I don't know what
I'm gonna do, if you don't get into them taboo boots.

You know I like love to go boom. I dig a boudoir cannon ball. I
take my bacon on the side. I never stop at fakin' bad.

So I strip these lines right off my hide. Where I just can't
hide. Here on a shithouse welcome mat. Ah – I don't know what I'm
gonna do, if you don't get into them taboo boots.

You know I want a piece a yew, wanna taste that graveyard tree. I
want a piece a ewe, my precious lamb brisket. Want a piece a U-turn,
wanna feel that bottom curve. Need a gal to make me heel. I don't know
what I'm gonna do, if you don't get into them taboo boots.

I rock in a chair, I brood all night. I wanna make the world
heal. Wanna make matter mind. What's in your mind don't matter. Eye
matter can be rinsed. But your feet and their tattoo must live in them
taboo boots.

You know I might be the devil. Oh, I just can't say. But out on
the floor, when a boogie begins, I will say this: I don't know what
I'm gonna do, if you don't get into them taboo boots.

I see your whip up high. I see stars stud the sky. I see a
rainbow pain will transcend. I see the end of the beg. I see Churchill
and a cigar. I see steak on the Lord's mouse. I see a peasant's
vengeance from the ditch. I got an itch on my sole, till I hear that
cracker crack…

Oh – I don't know what I'm gonna do, if you don't get into them
taboo boots.

++++++++++++++++++

How the Cops Fixed my Ass

I was bung outta dung.

I was bunged in.

I didn't know where to crap I was

gonna get any more dung.

I checked inside my wallet and

nope, not a turd, not so much

as a drop of piss.

I was bung outta dung,

I was bunged in.


I knew there was a lotta dung downtown.

I could smell it. All that dung rolled inside

paper assholes, crammed inside cash registers,

bung up in the banks,

bunged sky high to the lid of the First National Bank Tower.

I tried bunging my way onto a bus,

but nope, no soap,

the driver slammed the door in my nose

because I didn't have so much as a drop of piss.


So I hitchhiked and it rained

and I got downtown a little later than I had hoped,

but Lord! the stench of dung was overpowering!

Bunged-out winos crumpled to the sidewalk

like men made of turd. Businessmen shiny as piss

walked by and

grinned at themselves in shop windows across the street.

I was sickened… there was nothing else to do:


I entered a bank and shot the teller and stuffed my jeans

with clean green dung.

Easy as pie. One, two, three. I

ran out filthy with dung, and almost made it

to the new car I was about to buy,

when Bung! Bung! Bung!

the cops shot my ass off.


Author bio:

Willie Smith is deeply ashamed of being human. His work celebrates this horror. His novel OEDIPUS CADET is available at amazon.com.