Daily Foot Stomping Rituals–Flarf

Red, yellow, and green fruit. Bacon, tomato, and ass.

Bringing people together to share their daily rituals.

Good old foot stomping rituals sending children downhill

Tellin’em I got blues to burn through my fingers.

Tellin’em I got blues dripping stump water from my still.

Tellin’em to come with their cups to get some good hay

For that red, yellow, and green BL—TnA.

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FLARF is a wild style of poetry that started as a joke. People noticed that no matter how bad your poems were Poetry.com would tell you that you had won their poetry prize. Then, they would try to scam you out of your money. So devious poets started sending the crappiest poetry they could write to Poetry.com. Even that would win the poetry prize. These poets began sending each other their crappy poems, and eventually it became a legitimate poetry style. If you want to read more about the FLARF or any of the other poetry terms, check out the glossary of poetic terms from the Poetry Foundation at: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms

Google painting is a type of collaging that primarily uses internet search results and Google’s search prediction capabilities to generate quasi-random phrases. The technique helps jumpstart creativity with strange juxtapositions, broken syntax, and internet speak.

The Internet Generation Blues

I went down to the crossroads, but the devil wouldn’t take my soul.

He said, “Hey brother, since you is here, let me give it to you straight.

I’m in the market for the best merchandise. What you got ain’t whole.

Ain’t no body in the misty darkness and the hour’s getting late.

But while you’re here if you could bend your ear, I’ll get somp’n off my plate.

.

“I been down to these crossroads every night near to about this time.

Used to be, it seems to me, many waiting underneath that moon.

Some could sing and some could play and some of them could spit a sick rhyme.

All they needed was a little boost, and the fame would seal their doom.

But you and your kind with all that internet time won’t be nothing soon.

.

“But you come down to this crossroads. The first one in near to a year.

I guess the best I could do is listen a few. Sell me on somp’n ‘bout you.

Not you per se but all y’all today. Y’all about the same, I fear.

Reality tv. You can blame that on me. The pickens far between and few.

So tell me friend. I’ll ask you again. Sell me on somp’n ‘bout you.”

.

So I’m down at the dark crossroads and I ain’t got no soul to sell.

I got a slick selfie stick and a phone with a healthy data stream.

I have heard tell you’re the master of hell and you’ve seen some shit. Well…

I’ve got a bet with a friend I could show you things you never seen.

Live stream reaction video. Just keep your eyes stuck to this screen.

.

I went down to the crossroads, but the devil wouldn’t take my soul.

On my old internet, I showed him shit he ain’t ever seen yet.

And brother after what he saw, I don’t think he came out right whole.

He was twitchin and retchin and all covered in clammy, cold sweat.

And before he ran off, I told him, “Wait, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

.

I went down to the crossroads, but the devil wouldn’t take my soul.

Now, I’m holding down the crossroads, brother. And I just changed the deal.

Now, I’m holding down the crossroads, brother. And I just changed the deal.

Preening Purple Peacock

They got that preening purple peacock

On the telephone pole.

They got that preening purple peacock

On the telephone pole.

Dispatch that preening purple peacock

Until my belly is full.

.

They got the waiters and the barbacks

Jumping around the floor.

They got the waiters and the barbacks

Jumping around the floor.

Dispatch the waiters and the barbacks

Until I ain’t thirsty no more.

.

They got the singers and the trumpets

Playing a sultry sound.

They got the singers and the trumpets

Playing a sultry sound.

Just keep the singers and the trumpets

Chase that guitarist from town.

.

Just play that preening purple peacock

Until my ears go deaf.

Just play that preening purple peacock

Until my ears go deaf.

Wail out that preening purple peacock

Until you is out of breath.

.

Wail out that preening purple peacock

Until that band is alone.

Until my mommy, my daddy,

My sisters, my brothers,

My cousins

Gone home.

The “Why I Can’t Write the Blues” Blues.

It takes a special kind of person to write the blues.

.

They can feel it when they wake up in the morning.

The bunions they will have from walking in their shoes.

They couldn’t sleep the night with their wife up snoring.

They are often times more than half hung over, too.

.

It takes a special kind of person to sing the blues.

.

Their job is on the line, and it has taken their health.

Their dog was killed last night like an old country song.

Their wife is on their mind, and she has taken their wealth.

Their sorrow’s burning bright, and you all sing along.

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It takes a special kind of person to play the blues.

.

Their fingers are curled from long days and guitar strings.

Their backs are broken from toting their own stage gear.

Their voices are gnarled from the wailing notes they sing.

They only earn a token playing their pain for beer.

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It takes a special kind of person to write the blues.

.

I’m always bright and bushy tailed in the morning.

I typically don’t need to walk a hole in my shoes.

My words almost always leave the people snoring.

And I seldom ever drink more than one or two.

.

If you’re still reading this, that’s why I can’t write the blues.

And if you’re still reading this, you can’t write the blues, too.

Black Coffee Blues

I’ll take my black coffee and I’m walking out the door.

I’ll take my black coffee while I’m walking out that door.

If you ain’t giving me no sugar, I ain’t coming back no more.

I take my coffee black just like I take my pain.

I take my coffee black and let it pour in my veins.

You ain’t drinking no more coffee and I ain’t playing no more games.

I brew my black coffee watch it drip down like the rain.

Black clouds brew their black coffee and let it drip down like the rain.

I’ll brew up my black coffee and watch my black mornings burn away.

I take my coffee black just like I take my pain.

I take my coffee black and let it pour in my veins.

You ain’t drinking no more coffee and I ain’t playing no more games.

I’ll take my black coffee and I’ll walk right out that door.

I’ll take my black coffee and I won’t bother you no more.

And you ain’t giving me no sugar, and I’m gon get some at the store.