1.
Nymphomaniac-addicts,
Overweight bisexual vegetarians
Climbing trees to stay fit
and eating 80’s fried chicken *******

2.
just imagine
Aquarians full of class valedictorians
Swimming on display for graduation ceremony…
reverse-symbolism of how Moolch drowned His *****

3.
Better yet, just imagine
Holy wars,
Beautiful words written to describe the burning pains
Of holocaust...the Kristallnacht nights
Under the mistletoe,
Watching Hall of fame ball hawks on pivot toes
Driving through hoes
After the whistle blows

4
College Literacy classes teaching basic:
Ideas that good questions leads to good answers,
Reading reminders
Free association conceptual constructions

5.
But *******’ professor:
free association **** shticks
misfires, false alarms
are all art, too,
Like sticking a dagger into an apple,
Not the edible, but the technology.

6.
Go head, deconstruct the philosophy
Of oral cute-tification,
according to the Tautology of Leviticus,
With the same three half truths, pogroms
against biological deviant... FLAGS!

7.
Cryptic gospels of a *******
Where three F.F.F’s
Stands for six six six
Like how 1mg of juxtaposition
And a dose of metamorphosis
is the repertoire of a king of curmudgeon
‘cause even the Holy Ghost
drinks from the cup of Christ’s blood.

8.
Reading,
Self-flagellation gospel-manual of Pope John Paul II,
At shrink sessions under the daze of heron Piper methysticum blunts
With sweet phat butts like lit lickerish that droop eyes
Like the psalm of Valeriana officinalis root extract.

these are the thoughts
of Clive,
the neighborhood curmudgeon...

how do i know this,
i am the imp that put them here....
in the garden, you folks
call a brain......


take this, sodding life
and it's meaningless struggle.
i set my face to this wall
and brick myself self in
to this useless stall.

the old man, Clive,
grumbled with a,
set and sour grin.

you...you're all pathetic,
thinking you can win.
death's the only victor...
over us, one
and sodding all.

and you can take,
your sodding...
flowers and cards
and sodding, casseroles too!!

there was,
one ray of sunshine
in my life
and now she is gone.

and she is not,
sodding around in another room,
or waiting for me up there.
she is not, in greener pastures
cause she was never..
an effin cow.

she is,
six footdown,
underground,
in a cheap wooden box,
making fodder,
for worms and beetles.
slowly, they are,
breakin her down.

and it will not be,
sodding fine
and time will not heal...
a heart smashed to smithereens.
a life torn asunder
**** me it's time,
for you pathetic
do-gooders...
to get ****** real....

no i am not,
a happy man,
and yes i am,
greiving the greatest loss.
and a ******, sausage
and bean casserole,
is not going to be,
making me believe,
that the world,
is a fair and just place...

don't you, worry about me.
i reckon i'll soon be,
leaving, my home
and my goods and chattels
and be recieving last rites,
farewells and a deep,dirt bed.

and that will be,
fine and dandy,
as long as it is,
close and handy,
to my beloved, Mandy.

what?
you're worried...
about my,
state of mind...

will ya, just *******,
haven't i
made myself clear,
i am way, too busy dying,
to pay you any attention...

this garden just going gangbuster
hey¡¡yah huzzah!!!

I am not reliably informed whether it were
hearsays or rumours, but it feels like an
apocalypse.
I neither relate to gauche nor belligerence
Connoisseur not cynical but I've been made an
adjective,described as a Curmudgeon.
See I have enemies, camouflage had to I, but
then it seems to cloud my judgement like an
eclipse.
These people are all schoolbags
because they said this behind my back.
Unbeknownst to me
I am a Curmudgeon.

Ever heard your voice take a trip mid sentence
And start scrambling eggs,
Ending sentences with verbs,
Mixing Soy sauce with Bacardi
And chasing the laughter down your throat with onions

Cuckolding in the middle of the afternoon
Where violet doesn’t recognize blue
As a hue worthy enough to frolic with the afternoon dew,
And then your brain smiles to your ******

And you choke on a giggle
And wiggle an index finger just a little
And remember black widows
Were once angels who bought into self fulfilling prophecies

Like wearing Armani suits barefoot
And breathing through your skin
Hoping life doesn’t die in your arms
And leave a beautiful corpse
With great stories suffocating inside

And make the subpar ambitions of an unborn child jealous.
Now ever heard a genius cry?
‘cause then you’ve heard an artist cry.
Ever ate pork fried rice on a Sunday afternoon?
‘cause if you have you’ve heard the words of Leviticus cry.

Ever read these written words?
‘cause if you have you’ve heard memories die
And pains scream in alphabets of pleasure—
The universal language of immaculate deception
That sweeps through every tongue in involuntary pneumonia

Like waltzing to the Amen’s of the devil
With oxygen choking your nostrils
And monoxide nodding your fingers to pull the trigger
Of death dancing on the tomb of your destiny

Like how a dose of metamorphosis
And a 1mg of juxtaposition
Is the repertoire of a king of curmudgeon.
But ever heard a musical note?  
Then you’ve heard the story of how joy lost the war of happiness to bitterness.

Ever heard the sound of silence?
Then you’ve heard the face of evil and the thoughts of serenity
Joined at the hip of rock of Gibraltar,
Nodding heads at the gospels of Gothic prophets
Spewing sermons of a perfecter way to word the meaning of love.

Ever heard a Mockingjay sing?
Then you’ve heard the lullabies of suicide,
Like falling from grace from the eyes of your one true love
And landing on the plastic bag made of her silence
Only to wake from the land of death and catch your voice breaking at mid sentence
And mend it with the lies of sunshine that you call your life.

I don't know why--but **** tonight
And **** this town
And **** this guy that I'm becoming
And the steel ceilinged sky
     that never changes, night-to-night

And why, when streets all run together,
trickling off to asphalt seas,
     do nights out wandering get me nowhere?
Some elsewhere's
where I want to be.

I'll try to eat my plate of crow
and try to finish
though I'm full with midnight air
and half-cocked guesses
     and a frozen block of messes

Pull it off--that sky-steel-ceiling
Grinds a protest
Rusting clouds
     Might flake and rain an oxide winter
Flip the page up, one year down.

A dancing Bear grotesque and funny
Earned for his master heaps of money,
Gruff yet good-natured, fond of honey,
And cheerful if the day was sunny.
Past hedge and ditch, past pond and wood
He tramped, and on some common stood;
There, cottage children circling gaily,
He in their midmost footed daily.
Pandean pipes and drum and muzzle
Were quite enough his brain to puzzle:
But like a philosophic bear
He let alone extraneous care
And danced contented anywhere.

Still, year on year, and wear and tear,
Age even the gruffest, bluffest bear.
A day came when he scarce could prance,
And when his master looked askance
On dancing Bear who would not dance.

To looks succeeded blows; hard blows
Battered his ears and poor old nose.
From bluff and gruff he waxed curmudgeon;
He danced indeed, but danced in dudgeon,
Capered in fury fast and faster.
Ah, could he once but hug his master
And perish in one joint disaster!
But deafness, blindness, weakness growing,
Not fury's self could keep him going.
One dark day when the snow was snowing
His cup was brimmed to overflowing:
He tottered, toppled on one side,
Growled once, and shook his head, and died.
The master kicked and struck in vain,
The weary drudge had distanced pain
And never now would wince again.
The master growled; he might have howled
Or coaxed,--that slave's last growl was growled.
So gnawed by rancor and chagrin
One thing remained: he sold the skin.

What next the man did is not worth
Your notice or my setting forth,
But hearken what befell at last.
His idle working days gone past,
And not one friend and not one penny
Stored up (if ever he had any
Friends; but his coppers had been many),
All doors stood shut against him but
The workhouse door, which cannot shut.
There he droned on,--a grim old sinner,
Toothless, and grumbling for his dinner,
Unpitied quite, uncared for much
(The rate-payers not favoring such),
Hungry and gaunt, with time to spare;
Perhaps the hungry, gaunt old Bear
Danced back, a haunting memory.
Indeed, I hope so, for you see
If once the hard old heart relented,
The hard old man may have repented.

Cranky gramps next door’s not well

Unwilling to listen, to mow his grass

Rumination’s ruination’s curb appeal from hell

Miserly, unfriendly, cussing and crass

Unwavering, a prejudiced old goat, jack ***,

Doltish Scrooge with no family left

Graying graveside his home unkempt

Eaves and chimneys and curtains closed, yet

Openly racist with his dragon’s breath.

Needs a bit of love to soften such deaths.

A Bountiful Sky for Foolish Old Men

early up, haunted-stoked~woked by a multilingual sky,
an impish childish creation of an immature god,
inconsistently incapable, of making up his moody mind,
whiny then smiley, cloudless besotted, morphed
into crystalline blue of a well behaved in Sunday best,
warming the souls of the begotten and the misbegotten,
the hardened and the poetic souls, tho he laughs at
himself, for he too is both, curmudgeon and a mr. softee,
whiny child in rapid aging body, wearing of discovery
of new places for to ache, pains that don’t fit med scales
of 1~10, unless it is the Richter Earthquake formulation.

despite all, his eyeballs seethe, immaculate degeneration still
allows the seeing of broad brush paint strokes of the team of
angelic artistes that do the detailing of the palette above,
how!
they, love their big bold brushes that sky swipe atmospheric
residue into 31 Baskin Robbins flavors, with swirls of caramel
chocolate butterscotch that make the man’s complaints whisked
into who-cares-a-**** anyway ice creamery reverie and all
that other stuff disbarred from the aborning morning clarity of
“good morning ole man, where’s my coffee” diurnal tuning that
the women hums, reminding those in the earshot crowd of one,
that s’mores and chores, tasks and at lasts, dogs need walking, gardens watering, cushions  plumping, evening dishes moving from dishwasher onto wallpaper-covered shelves, geese-away-chasing, and loving poetry
by a poetoftheway scribbling…




8:01 AM Frieday, Jun 30