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Julian Jun 2018
The ******* of embezzled glory staunchly defend their counterfeit stature by defalcating the public trust of industrious societies governed internally by compunction and sabotaged externally by the tempests of acerbic fate met with inclement aleatory convergence. To supply a society with ingenuity without being complaisant or officious with unctuous pleas to the overlords we must fashion a new vogue that taps the bustle of giants and aggrandizes the margins to oversee their own creative destinies with scaffolded arrangements of titanic promise and justifiable fluidity to conquer the blinkered dogmatism of a dissolute chastity to inveterate apocryphal tenets of factitious but unmerited perspectives. Democracy crumbles when the convenience of sensationalism supplants the resolve of those that fossick hidden wealth and promulgate validity instead of undergirding pomp with precarious prevarications of duplicitous omission guarded gingerly by the gatekeepers of a ****** sanity that whitewashes the discussion with invented hobgoblins and purblind catharsis. To defeat simplicity and enshrine byzantine elegance as the paragon for voguish commentary rather than abide by a bowdlerized decorum for appeasing simpletons with divisive balkanization through identity politics we can overcome the impediments to human progress that are engineered to persist because of the inertia of the listless and the stubbornness of doctrinaire politicization and invent vivacity and festivity anew. We need to divorce ourselves from pedestrian quibbles of hero-worship that endanger the vitality of the common discourse because of fastidious pedantic disempowerment that ravages us with debased dreams by underscoring nuisances and tolerable nightmares that emasculate the virulence of the liberated individual and subvert his ambitions to contend with a picaresque world of limitless promise and self-motivated internal wealth.
      The bane of modernity is how chary the world becomes because of fractured histories intersecting with controversial destinies and the antidote to that poisonous self-defeating self-censorship is the audacity of brazen challenges to expurgation through assiduous resourcefulness and delicate diplomacy in wrangling controversies with outspoken courage rather than whispered resentment. Temerity waged in inclement circumstance is justified and curiosity stoked by lambent flames of fulgurant individualism should be fortified to the extent necessary to conquer the feckless spoilsports of unctuous puritanism and institutional obedience. The quacksalvers that blather about inconsequence strand the imagination in a desiccated desert that is ostracized from the palettes of the artistic whim to wield efflorescence rather than squander life in pursuit of perfunctory lucre or tenuous solidarity around banal idealism promised by social justice warriors that forget the biggest war being waged on humanity is on the ingenuity of the common discourse and the liberty to opine about real issues rather than saccharine conventions of emasculation through linguistic imprisonment and epicurean slavery to fashimites who relish the buzzword but never the enlightened audience that scoffs at feeble attempts at cultural commentary like Childish Gambino’s “This is America” music video. This particular artifact is a demonstration of how childishly fickle the plebeian mentality really is, stitching together a bricolage of violence to engineer controversy and serenading it with the most banal music imaginable and exhorting people to herald it as a high artform while inundating the world with unimaginative comic book movies and Star Wars rip-offs because of the lucrative business of formulaic replication. “This is America” should be regarded as a parody of itself because of how hackneyed its design is and how cacophonous it sounds and mocks its audience with lowbrow tactics of adding tinsel to trash and marketing it as the glory of tatterdemalions rather than the refinement of true cinematic achievements that have been relegated because Warhol’s Campbells-Soup-consumerism trumps true belletrist in the public view.
        Cultural watersheds punctuate our history with salient achievements in experimentation, but the formulaic profiteering of buzzword sensationalism and yellow journalism and the ostentatious glorification of promiscuous boasting and fancy cars tantalize the mice to continue playing slot machines rather than penning a novel or doing something promethean. The world scoffs at Trump but ignores the bigger institutional caveats that endanger us much more than a pragmatic albeit unconventional pontificator who is complicit in constructing a false narrative to enslave mindless people to fret about eminence rather than delight themselves in the consequential nuances of established refinement that used to serenade the world with flourish and spectacle. The world kowtows to the crusade against flavor-of-the-week enemies of the liberal-conservative syncretism because it has been conditioned to believe that synthesis is the only logical solution for the polarized worldviews of churlish people that become parvenus not on their merits but on their marketable pitfalls and their public foibles. Peccadillos are more important to people than virtues and this makes society morally bankrupt if we loiter around Astroturf causes that have been infiltrated by corporatism and venal debauchery and acquiesce as disempowered gossip hounds that hunt in packs to find jest in aberration rather than achievement in self-created narratives that defy the stupid purblind boorishness of the mainstream media and its haughty liberalism or the persnickety condemnation of priggish conservative moralities that had an expiration date 50 years ago. Who the **** cares about transgender-touting-gender-fluidity quidnuncs and the snooty obsession with lurid personal endeavors of reputable people that made minor ****** transgressions in a world policed by wide-eyed feminazis that seek to ransack men of their vital virulence to spotlight their unjustifiable oppression. Women are oppressed but the carnal nature of their calumniation and their vindictive powers of persuasion are deployed with such vehement vigilance and such distaste for the majority that the world relegates itself to quibbles of celebrities rather than substantive issues. There is a systemic feminization of society occurring that seeks to demarcate despotic uxorious pleasantries as an incarceration of vocal dissent against supercilious women and their tamed men that slavishly grovel in repudiation of anything prickly.  Men historically have oppressed women but the solution to this quandary isn’t a reverse discrimination where the minority concern is spotlighted as a majoritarian issue that overshadows the disproportionate nature of our society where nominal accreditation is afforded in a non-meritocratic way to absolve people of their carnality and demote the vigorous defense of human liberty as secondary to compromise solutions that appease more people than they offend but simultaneously result in suboptimal conditions that reward arbitrarily coachable people while jettisoning anyone witty enough to be capable of insubordination of a hedonistic epicurean world obsessed with appearance and ravaged by the decadence of formulaic profiteering at the expense of originality and true promethean art that is herculean enough to defy hackneyed tropes and siphon the best elements from a piecemeal world variegated with complexity but stifled by fomented hatred.
The solutions to these problems is to create a watchdog group of artistic critics who become eminent and ubiquitously heard enough to offer creative consultation to the artistic endeavors that we consume and the music that is curated for fastidious ears that crave euphonic originality rather than the banality of easily dovetailed bass-heavy cookie-cutter garbage and the gaudy tactics of talentless rappers whose swagger derives from  the intersection of opportunism and the divestiture of an industry that rewards gloated supercilious epicureanism and meretricious marketability. Am I the only one jaded by second-rate superhero movies that infest the cinemas that borrow from Michael Bay while thrusting pulse-pounding but narratively bankrupt movies down the throats of consumers that might prize the cinematic originality of the heyday of filmmaking? Is it always high art to invent controversy that is witless or half-witted just because it will create buzz? Shouldn’t we condemn the laziness of society in acquiescing to the penury of the modern cultural narrative which belabors the dead horses of racism and sexism ad nauseum? Shouldn’t we fight the war of against inequity through legislation rather than hibernating about scandalous eminence and testy malfeasance?
          Liberty should be championed above all else and we are turning our backs on the future unless we muster the resolve to diminish the sway of the common narrative and aim our spotlight at consequential endeavors rather than the tropes of prosaic and pedestrian bastardization of art and culture. We need to fight artistic laziness which has ravaged our culture and castigate the tactics of wannabee celebrities that use lurid tactics to attract an audience by bedizening themselves with Pyrrhic ostentations and rampant fakery to create more melodrama in a world that needs to be less histrionic. YouTube celebrities swarm us as they get high on ******* and lean-- at our expense-- and vandalize property and convincing nine-year-old’s like Lil Tay to flex her money like it is infinitely renewable in a finite world where all our attention is wasted on artless artifice of less talented people that know how to engineer a ruckus by strutting themselves beyond all decency and selling out to a corporatist nightmare of enslaved convenience. We need to be more vocal about the dissolution of artistic merit and the formulaic repetition of successful formulas that jade us and make us yawn about another retread of a previously successful idea that is milked to the point of cruelty.                                                         ­                       
       Let’s change the narrative and focus on creating true art rather than reacting to the meretricious tinsel of the vogue consensus which is so impotent in its ability to rivet audiences because it has become so notoriously lazy. Fight laziness in art, dismiss your news feeds, be resourceful, seek true happiness rather than find yourself hoodwinked and duped by the idea that Trump is the most important issue or getting caught in thought loops and brooding about sexism and inequality. Let us strive to be egalitarian but within limits that would also appease hominists rather than just the hypertrophy of the leftist narrative that seeks to cage us with the doublespeak of complaisant conformity.  Reject the unctuous charlatans that pretend priggishness when their banausic purpose is barbaric but beguiling to be a lullaby for laggards. We need to fight for the future of civilization rather than hobnob with convenience and loiter around decrying false perpetrators rather than systemic injustices that could otherwise be rectified if enough people fought for it. We can invent a future that is a great festivity serenaded by cultivated artistic refinement and forget about the trifles that divide us. United in ambition and fueled by ingenuity we can defeat artistic laziness and be resourceful with how we decide what is newsworthy. Spurred by the argosy of proactive motivation we can change the world in a substantial way by deciphering the subtext that governs the world. The subtext is everything!
due to me reaching
that post menopausal age
there's a hirsute carpet
growing on my chin's stage

a goatee  beard adorns
in such distinguishing tone
it's envy of my neighbour
Russell John Stone

over the years he's tried
to cultivate an abundant hair tress
but alas his bare cranium
has borne less and less

since my whiskers
are so prolific in sprouting
I could shave them off
for his wig's touting
Liberalizing democracy
To the extent of
Embracing *******---
Going out of one's way
To promote ****** orientation--
Is no less transgression
Than strangulating it
With iron censorship--
Simply touting
The government
Is immaculate!
Democracy west/east
A Simillacrum Oct 2018
"I will beat this," I swear.
No one else has,
as there is no end,
but there must be an end.
I'll find it.

Watching everyone spin
on their axis,
touting their progress,
there must be a someone
or some thing!

Watch me spin.
Spin and fidget.
Watch me spin,
spin and fidget.

Spin the blades
to your right.
Now you're loading. Now
you're spinning.

"I will beat this," rings obsolete.
Now, "I will secede,"
seems pragmatic.
Is it romantic to
be at one with nothing?

Cross legged on the floor,
I whisper,
to myself,
"Oh,
         you
                 bet."
Eleete j Muir Oct 2012
The poleax of Paroket
a pietersite soul sheath
the head which is not,
keening like a red horse
between two lions
slaying men and peace
with the hymns  of ascent,
swatting humanities darkness
thrilling the sword of Michael;
First Cause , sweeping the graveyard
dust garden of  Magna Mater touting
predicant trappings of the etheric
revenant a self compassing
mandala who is all right side invoked
By laudible Yahwistic nutation.


ELEETE J MUIR.
Michael W Noland Sep 2012
Twiddled knifes upon glass eyes, cry the insight of reprise, amongst a galvanized pride, in flight from spotlit skeletons, denied of sunlight, without a fight of adrenaline and puking on the side of missed roads.

An abode, of foreboding wealth within a duffel bag, drags the corroding moral codes of trolls controlled by ignorant over lords over the coals, before another log is tossed in the fire.

Before the fog of the fading embers, dislodge the common splendor, from the lives of nine to fivers, tending to the totals of the dead versus survivors, in vocal onslaught of the names of the slaughtered daughters of liberty that faltered in the after glow of nevermore.

Anymore,  i only wish to dream.
dream of better things that sing in the blood, and shrug the smugness from drug-less fiends, in consumption of peeling seams, and paint-chips.
Cancerous fractions entrap us.
Just ask the plaintiff.

Sustain it ...

In stillness.

Mastery over illnesses.

Embrace the contaminants of my inanimate imagination, swallowed in the shallows of a nation lost to bacon and broken beautiful.

Tokened suitable with corporate suitors to the masses. Blinded in the flashes of dismal diobolitry ,upon uprooting the touting in the jealous shouting of the shenanigry of driven villains, knowing of the chronology of the buried devilry, toiling in the ecology of a dying star.

My gods aren't too far from yours.

My stars aren't too bogged for more.

My more, your cut off point.

Disjoint the facts, let the words womb themselves and slither in the delivery, of malicious adhering to the tongue, in the atrocious abominations of falsified accumulations of the letters manifestations of fruitful creations abiding to immaculate consummation of lost thoughts that prevailed in one long exhale of a run on sentence.

No penmanship in breathlessness, as i faint in my confessions of restless lessons learned in burned futures overturned in grief.
Burned in the disbelief of fractured animals, cannibalising the chastised cultures of the mechanical signals planted in our cores.

Arms forward and moaning for more.

Always more.

I claim victory in my plastic citizenry of pity and tragedy, where i too can proclaim my self godliness and engage in bliss with the rich.

Im an emo ***** with blood on his knife and a list of names read aloud from the braille niche upon glass eyes, where to see is to realise, the severed root of the bloodline, in slow chromatic decline over time, until the with, is without, and the made mark is gone and the new birth is spawn to embark upon, brawn over brain the simple rule shall remain, conned in the game of numbers, slumbering from under the wonder of man vs machine. Again ranting in my rhyming declining into boredom.
Seldom to abandon the foreboding doom i cant shake.
Stephen king meets Dr seuss for a lovely kick of the chair and a hug of the noose.
Never to lose when smiling.
vircapio gale May 2013
pollen rots,
faintly wafts increasing death
in an otherwise vacant Spring breeze.
the memories of bees buzz.

melodramatically,
i add a spoon of honey to my coffee.
it isn't fair trade.
neither is the milk..fair trade milk?

40 multicultural minds
hexagonal attuned:
the IPI begins to gather
in consilience
some further future data,
worked together for a whole new picture-
target for debunkers touting
benefits of pesticides,
ultra-gene manipulation patenting,
cross-pollinating property.

i am a bland dismissal too,
not just touchy-feely rage at rampant death
upon death, on death, death after death..
for 'death has always been common' right...
as i sit here, sipping sweet and sour coffee
not quite awake




.
IPI: International Pollinator Initiative

http://www.ceh.ac.uk/news/news_archive/multiple-pressures-cocktail-pollinators_2013_26.html
http://www.internationalpollinatorsinitiative.org
http://www.internationalpollinatorsinitiative.org/uploads/Pesticides_web_file.pdf

my mood perhaps finds an antidote in recent news (discovered after writing):
http://www.independent.co.uk/environment/nature/victory-for-bees-as-european-union-bans-neonicotinoid-pesticides-blamed-for-destroying-bee-population-8595408.html
Ben Jones Feb 2015
Finding something on the road
And serving it for dinner
Buying dresses far too small
And thinking you look thinner
Solar powered submarines
Broken ribs or ruptured spleens
Driving cars and drinking beers
Lightbulb licking, bad ideas

Knowing where you shouldn't be
And being there despite
Going out in thunderstorms
To fly your iron kite
Sharing needles with a shark
Going to Mansfield after dark
Setting fire to someone's ears
Telemarketing, bad ideas

Not deploying gaffer-tape
When doing D.I.Y.
Believing the implausible
While branding truth a lie
Replying to Nigerian Princes
**** bleach and ******* rinses
Tabloid papers touting fears
Voting UKIP, bad ideas

Impersonating ******
Before nineteen forty-five
Catching a train on Sunday
And assuming you'll arrive
Turning lights on with your nose
Eating food that moves or glows
Listening to Britney Spears
Marmite Pringles, bad ideas

**
Dominic Simpson Aug 2013
Hi . . . This is about the kinds of people who work in corporate big money office buildings . . . Imagine them at lunchtime, how they interact and picture the scene in any . . .

Busy little bistro

Sharp - sharks - circle - the - pack
Pinstripe finned and eager
Snapping their snacks back with ease
Points to prove with nothing to lose  
No cracks in their creases
They're keen to return to the fray.
These boys play with girls
Aren't yet uncles with nieces
Just unproven throwaway pieces . . .
In shiny  . eat ***** . suited up . Chelsea boots
Bidding for ***** with cute looks and loot
Touting with confident ***** . . .
As mobile as their smart devices
Loose

Next . . . ?
And fresh from a mornings abuse
And fifteen years of fear . .
Beleaguered older shirts sit . .
Flogged dogs with weak barks
Parked packed into packs.
Tongue tied ties tied together
Safety is numbers
Get each others backs
These partially satisfied cats
Know today is NOT their day . .
That was yesterday . . .
Obliging lives and mortgages
The reasons why they stay

Passing Cabs cruise . . .
Seen it all before.
Sat in the back a high class *****
Glazed eyes glancing away  
From her play-away payday
Nibbles in the boardroom . .
Napkins . . for the dribbles
A working lunch for this Girl
Her money-shot a wrap without applause
Was just a  . . . pause  . . . between paws . .

Then Dora on reception
John, who minds the door
Evie in the IT room
Or dave . . who buffs the Marble
Sparkles glinting in the floor . .
And the guards . . who guard . . what exactly . . ?

All of this . . ? Networking . . !!!
Everybody's selling something
It doesn't quite stink
But it definitely smells
A little high

As time whiles by
Seems this
Is the state of our nation
And in this state
Defines our aspirations
And yes . . this state's a splinter
Taunting my imagination . . .
Do I stake my place within this game
Or sit in observation
Commentating on a race
Where human nature fakes it's place
Where people sit as players
Yet no one wears their own face
drumhound Mar 2014
That grin
enviably free of worry
should be an advertisement
for the way things ought to be.

Effusive innocence
casts itself from a
twenty year old snapshot
like juice from a fatted orange
pierced by a thumb
spitting jealous longing
on people who wear pants
giving anything in trade to
erase what they know
about growing up
to sit next to a
gleamy eyed kid
making **** prints in the earth
proudly touting a ***** nose and
Sedona sand on his Underoos.

Must we ever leave there
the paradise of naivete'
devoid of threat
absent of concern
universe of
daddy-can-whip-anyone?

Enemies do not exist
because we have not yet
learned hate.
Joy is first instinct
until we grow into fear.
The world is fig leafs and beauty
before a cynical serpent
has his way with us.

A father begs his son
"STAY THERE! STAY THERE!"
Protection is lost
outside the frame.
There's no recourse
for growing up.
vircapio gale May 2013
polish those internment touting charms
Lucky Queue Mar 2013
I've never liked hospital room flowers
Their plastic, chemical smell mixed with the scent of disinfectant
Fake yellow, greens, pinks and whites
All the colors of pastel
No reds or blues, why's there never blue?
Sometimes they come with squeaky foil balloons
Brightly touting phrases like, "get well soon!"
And "we miss you!"
Cheerfully shouting the words to eternity
To everyone, but no one listens
But what's the purpose of flowers?
All they've ever done to me is cause depression
They stare you down as they slowly droop and decay
Wilting, they seem as if to say, "look, look at us"
"Like us, you are dying, slouching, falling into mortality"
Then when their rank water is cast aside
Soggy limp flowers and leaves tossed in trash
You're sickened by the task, rub your hands in disgust
Feeling as slimy as the cold ooze on the stems
What's the purpose of hospital flowers?
I've never liked them
All they've ever done to me is cause depression
Bad association with my dad's accident-caused hospital stay a couple years ago, and flowers in vases... *shudders*
breeding frenzied jawboning
nastiness, rock'm sock'm vermin
zealously, dizzying hordes kickstart
outrageous trampling, xMen busting

displays, heralding luminary
pastoral times, Xing Bethlehem
figurine Jesus observes sacrilegious
wackiness anarchy.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
  
Ah, nothing beats the fistfights,
   bloodied noses,
   knocked unconscious bruising
   bad *** blimp

   at absolute gall
bladder kicking, eye poking,
   neck choking, up pall
ling, et cetera brutality at this,
   that, or s'mother mall

far from madding crowd portentous squall,
but at a safe distance
   removed along a deserted hall
witnessing flying seer sucker-punches,

   et cetera all
encompassing pandemonium
   solely about one small
pinterest ting live mutant

   ninja vudu doll, a mere couple inches tall,
sporting ability to transform
   into an antagonistic tournament
   cavalier two pronged horn spurning beast,
   which former attribute
   manufacturer didst install
with constituent parts shipped from Blue Ball

poker red hot furious loosed bull
   eyeing a glitter bauble
   half cocked pissant, with an alien drawl
dressed in bulletproof coverall

shoving people
   just another brick against a wall
angrily erupt volcano like,
   provoking  lava lee flowing mayhem,
   when a security detail
   prior to temporary cease fire didst recall

merely axes whatsapp with y'all
thence, bing kicked in groin
   and reduced to crawl,
   thus in no mood to sing jingall
bells, where stood,

   yet another beefy watchman
   aghast at squall
lid human wrecking machine
   analogously offensive as off fall
spreading riotous wildfire conflagration

   analogous to absent referee,
   when sure betted best
   team mate of foot ball  
   lost Superbowl game
   by a tackle merely postal
stamp size distance to win game,

   thus anonymous observer
   made an urgent call
   to Donald Trump, whose reaction begot
an uncontrollable nuclear fusion reaction

   jerryrigged, hair-pulling,
   fisticuff dueling brawl,
spreading bedlam, sparking
   avast capitalone, groupon,
   flickr ring plenti tinder
   triggering military police to go awol.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
a quick thinking whippersnapper
   holds up a baseball bat
as a make shift microphone,
   donning reversed hat
feigns to be an announcer
   live from pseudo faux palestra and spat
out nonsensical *** for tat.
It's not the ticker tape parade when the police come to raid you nor is it a polite knock on the door
It's just a smack in the chops by the boys they call cops
I don't like this play any more.

" ***** up your ears"
from years ago
was the best show that
I ever saw

but Orton's long gone
we
carry on
as if it never happened
at all.
Helen Dec 2013
is that even a word?
literaturely?
who cares really?
It is now, to me

I have oft complained
the seductive heat
of tar and ink
that has literaturely
clogged my veins
and in turn
gummed my brain
often touting screams
that proclaim
NOT SANE
is here to remain
but I was wrong?

When last I cut my wrists
the pain ran Red
and inside my head
I literaturely turned Blue
Who knew?
that all things unsaid
are put to bed
on a razors edge
cutting my soul in half
that never once
turned on you

I literaturely turned gray

I paled beneath dying embers
of forgotten burning fires
dulling as ash coated remnants
of long ago desires

I now step back
from the fray
I've had my weak
my day
and upon the hour
where the clock strikes
the 780th minute
13 leaves a sour
taste in my mouth

turning all good things South
swimming in blackness
in my new ruby red
bathing suit
that literaturely
turned white
I literaturely died
tonight

Now a mute
blood red in vane
I sit and stare
at the bones
of my soul
that remain
A ghastly caricature
of a misspent life
that can't negotiate
the road at the bend

I literaturely can
no longer
comprehend
Carmelo Antone Feb 2012
Voluptuous virtues he swore he would share  
Fraternizing with folklore for the sake of a faith based cure
Reading the words of a quill scribble scare,

Touting the tales of those who have already seen where this go’s,
Flirting with prescribed predictions despite doc being six feet below

Unable to hear this
Those of a breathless conviction
Of a possible conscience

Personally pathetic, the absence of your acceptance,
Mortality is not insignificance
So keep this between us if eternal darkness sparks your interest,

I’ve grown intolerable of,
In horror of,
The Extorting,
Marketing,
******* of,
Prophesized certainties

The lives they took the souls they shook,
From shillings to dimes,
For centuries you’ve tried
Labeling me at infancy,
Condemning me as if it took a martyr to open my eyes

You’ve been attempting to defy the possibility that,
Good can be,
Physically derived,

Scared of the potentiality
A human worthy of being primed,
To senate your anxieties.
This is a poem taken from my student portfolio and can also be found on Mantone.net
John Fiebelkorn Mar 2010
Something tells me I'm not cut out for this.
So, I'm not listening to 'it'.
Who says what I'm cut out for?
Who says what I'm built for?
People above me seem to believe what they say goes.
but they are only above me in their own mind.
because they put themselves on the pedestal,
they climb on their high-horse and then build the pedestal
ON THE HORSE.
They play king of the mountain.
"You there," they decree from their heights,
"you can't do that." "you aren't good enough."
"That's not the plan we have for you."
But I don't listen to them.
I can' barely hear them from down here.
Down in this hole I've dug for myself.
It's kind of nice but I can still hear them, I know they're still up there.
Yelling. Commanding. Touting.
"No, no! Do it like this."
And the masses follow.
The rest of us are as yet undecided.
Or too decided.
Either clawing and scratching our way out of the hole,
or digging ourselves deeper,
trying to drown out the noise.
My hole is almost finished,
not much further now.
I just want the silence. the peace. the comfort.
Everyone else can have the spots at the top.
I'll stay down here in my hole.
Soon, though, I can stop digging.
just as soon as I reach the bottom of this 6 feet.
© John Fiebelkorn
Poetoftheway Oct 2019
“give me your linguistic promiscuity”^ Cyrano to Roxane

trifle me not with sugar and spice,
give me salt, and everything not nice,
Campari, with a spritz of lime bitters, doubling,
the bitter sexiness of your taste buds
on the private parts of mine mind

the body’s parts held a conference,
who is the most important of us all,
all spoke, touting their unique servicing functionality,
at last, lastly, the tongue spoke

“none so powerful as this itty bitty muscle-me,
for with a chosen-few, well claimed, words whispered,
can put all of us in a prison cell to rot collectively,
utilizing my linguistic promiscuity, enticements seductive

so beware the disastrous dissatisfied tongue,
needy for 24/7 accoladed attention,
fail to worship can result in bee stinging poetry,
and jealousy

my love is bitter, my taste buds glory in this wondrous horror”

except for my Roxane


<>
Slavishly touting laudatory
Remarks that
Run counter to his belief
Could not let a journalist
A moment's relief!

"The incumbent
Has flickered
Darkness piercing light
Now as things are bright
None stop
We have to condemn the past
To catapult the present
On the infallible mast!"

Conveying messages
Without beef,
Also forced to turn
Eyes, to reality, deaf,
He is smote by
Excruciating grief
Freedom of expression
Turned brief!

To spare himself
A stomach pang
He has to allow
Political thugs,
In the guise of
Media bosses
That form a
Government's favour
Ingratiating gang,
His mouth to gag!

Intimidated by them
Into self censorship
The facility of his pen
He could not keep!

Ironically,
A mainstream press,
With a toothless face,
Rather conveys
An autocrat or,
To be precise,
A clinically dead
Government in place!//
The fate of genuine journalists across the globe who have to work for no other option of living in a country, where democracy is gasping for air.
cosmo naught Nov 2015
be still, be still, be still;
palpable and touting
: you won't say
what's on your mind,
(your body will.)

so quiet, quiet, quiet
: you continue to deny it
while the valves supporting life,
the silence, fill.

beating, beating, beating
: so continually fleeting,
lends some meaning
to the furrow of your brow.

so tell me, tell me, tell me,
please—
your silence overwhelms me,
and your heart was never readier
than now.
vf Jul 2015
89 degrees and humid, sunset at 8:30.
Eastern barbeque smokin out in the backyard
the grass is getting lo-o-o-ong, but
it can wait until next Sunday.
iced tea, sweet, sinful tea
and no cowboys in sight.
just Low Drawled Camouflage Men
and Freedom to Own a Gun,
black n milds, porch swings and
mosquitoes turn up in your ear holes
like politicians touting their pro-life campaigns.
Sam Temple Apr 2016
tattered memories
of flattery
splash against the backdrop
of pastel coated youthful visions
soft blended colors fade and blend
swirl and collide
embrace and recoil
forever interpreting
the dreams of my childhood –
faces take shape  
staring blankly into space
I shake my fist
and race to place
the case at the law bringers feet
bowing at the stone alter
sacrificing time
desperate and forlorn
I say, I say, I say,
boy,
feeling like foghorn leghorn –
cartoon falling down the hallway tunnel
funneling idealism
into tiny glass cups
roughly stumping speeches
at penniless preaches
beseeching those reaching
for free handouts and doubting
the ones touting freedom of thought….


sometimes I get caught up,
lose my train of conscious ideas
this is what that looks like –
Mark Toney Nov 2019
Timothy Tolliver Tines
Taught tax topics twenty times
Touting tax tips he tried
Till terribly tongue-tied
Twisted tongue tending to twine
11/28/2019 - Poetry form: Limerick - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
Bee line in the beach lane
on to a resourceful resort
Of styles, shorts and sorts
in search of freedom
from enforced routine

Bales of barren clouds
Mushroomed the sky line
Set a merry mood in motion
of the touting tots n' lots

The band of souls pitched
hand in hand on sand
Gay was the day at bay
All and sundry fielded the day

Bask and bath
Rock and roll
Fun and frolic
Wind and weather
Hoot and beat
Hip hip hurray
soaked in the sea of ecstasy

Slim shut swim suit
hemming here and there
Bikini blonde bouncing
Spicy curves and colors
pushed up passions
Of the passers by

Sand sipping sea
Sea slipping sand
Land and sea lip to lip
A great fun to run around
Born Jul 2015
Everyday I wake up
the world is a little different
something has changed

My lover
of yesteryears
is  too boring to look at
my house feels larger
and the echoes are touting

Something's changed
so I take a bottle of beer
and Bury myself somewhere familiar

But the questions
and the exclamations
are still there

I would have travelled
across galaxies for you
buy now
your like a beautiful painting
amazing when looked at
but no idea what you mean
Sam Temple Jul 2015
sagebrush and juniper
with the occasional tiny yellow blossom
sprout without fear
in the drought stricken desert
touting new growth despite
the Sun’s best efforts
and the total lack of precipitation –
granules of wind-blown granite mountains
give way underfoot
leaving misshapen footprints
near faded remnants
of an old rattlesnake shed
strewn delicately over
last year’s deer tracks
preserved in a landscape
that exists outside of mankind’s time –
Did Louis Lamoure ride though here?
Was this a secret cowboy stomping ground?
Off in the distance comes a noise though the underbrush
slow and methodical
meandering
one lone cow steps into the sunlight
as we lock eyes
the buzzing of insects fades
I lose track of the surrounding foliage
and consider,
“What a cud he must chew!”
Sam Temple Mar 2015
besmirching the Presbyterians
all dolled up
pretending they don’t drink
and fornicate
for dollars
down at the stop’n’save,
a low chuckle rises
the pits of hell never heard such a guttural and robust howl
my face distorts at the hypocrisy of their lives
small narrow-minded hate-mongers
doing everything they can conceive
to impose their will on others
to force their beliefs
down the hearts and minds and, yes
the throats
of any culture they come in contact with
invoking “god’s work”
while spreading disease and poverty –
blame the Baptists!
it was they who confined the natural people of America
to starve on barely habitable plots of desert
until uranium was discovered
then pushed them to the very edge of extinction
for a few more corporate dollars
in the collection plate…..
heathens rarely tip –
Smash the seculars!!
they continue to punish their sons and daughters
over genetically predisposed lifestyles
while touting grace and faith
in the most high authority
which basically means
they are above man’s law
having forgotten, it was men
who wrote god’s law –
oh hypocritical little lamb
your head and *** do not really belong together
in a perfect union
they should be separate
you know, like the founders intended
with the state and your *****, *****, churches
the same churches
where young boys are *****
for Jesus –
that man is a underhanded thief
a thief he is
nicking off with stuff
that wasn't his
when I catch up with him
he'll get a piece of my mind
which wont be of a nice kind
he thought he'd get away
with touting my stuff as his own
but he must realize
that my stuff is mine and mine alone
he'll get a reprimand from me
for skiving off with stuff that belongs to me
Olivia Kent Dec 2014
A clamour of ladies.
No glamour here dear.
Dressed in tacky filthy garb.
A little sniffy.
It's the powder they do.

Dare you speak to them?
They hover around.
Touting for business.
Those bad luck *******.
(C) Livvi
Tate Morgan May 2014
Feeling the day as it passes
to memory from the now
Finds my wonder of life's spaces
sweeping the sweat from my brow

So as the day now spins along
reckless and out of control
No hand upon the tiller's wheel
with no aim in life or goal

Cast to a life of drudgery
full to the rim with despair
Life seems too close to misery
lost souls live everywhere

The roadside vendors give respite
to the holes in their worn shoes
As all go running on and on
playing life unto the blues

The sound from the touting vendors
carole "Save your soul" and more
Learn to tolerate the preaching
take your soup as if a chore

Not surprised to hear their answer
when they're asked which they prefer
Would you rather have all wisdom
or be an entrepreneur

Knowledge is said the enemy
of the working common man
Slave, toil and suffer to the sound
of a life without a plan

Now walk the streets of the lonely
with no bed to lay your brow
Push along the cart you call home
of the fate you disavow

For that is all that's left of you
to hang your dignity on
You've lost the hopes of any dreams
your family is all gone

Pride now carried upon the wind
everything has a price and fee
Won't someone smile, hold out a hand
to share salvation with me

Tate

© 2014 Tate Morgan
Written
February 15, 2014
Who can say with any certainty that one day this will not be their own fate? "There but for the grace of God go I". These people had hopes dreams children families. Who cares why they have fallen down? It is the duty of humanity to lift them to their feet. In this era of globalization we have taken a step backwards in civility. Gone are the days of pensions and compassion. Crushed under the jackboots of the giant corporations that don't believe in humanity at all. Corporate profit is all that matters to the world now. All are made to be thrown out none are saved or even repaired. Our politicians are as corrupt as ever selling our birthrights to the highest bidder and leaving the old and infirm along the side of the road. Greatest place in the world? The day will come when we are given the choice to end our days through euthanasia. Rather than to live as an outcast to the society that no longer values us. Welcome to the 21st century. Everything we hear is an opinion not a fact. Everything we see is a perspective not a truth. Many have been convicted on an opinion of a perspective.
Bee line in the beach lane
on to a resourceful resort
Of styles, shorts and sorts
in search of freedom
from enforced routine

Bales of barren clouds
Mushroomed the sky line
Set a merry mood in motion
of the touting tots n' lots

The band of souls pitched
hand in hand on sand
Gay was the day at bay
All and sundry fielded the day

Bask and bath
Rock and roll
Fun and frolic
Wind and weather
Hoot and beat
Hip hip hurray
soaked in the sea of ecstasy

Slim shut swim suit
hemming here and there
Bikini blonde bouncing
Spicy curves and colors
pushed up passions
Of the passers by

Sand sipping sea
Sea slipping sand
Land and sea lip to lip
A great fun to run around

— The End —