Could be I’m on a mission:
Convince the entire world
I am the World's Greatest Living
English Language poet;
Of course, genius such as mine
Goes generally unrecognized until
The posthumous crowd weighs in.
And yet, wouldn’t it be nice?

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Yes, wouldn’t it be nice?
(The Nobel Prize,
Tribute at the Kennedy Center,
A MacArthur Grant,
The Presidential Medal of Honor,
Reverent BJs from hipster groupies . . .
The Poet Laureate in his vicarage,
Enjoying my sweet twilight celebrity.)

(Cue “Guys & Dolls” soundtrack: “What's in the daily news?
I'll tell you what's in the daily news.”)
23: Beheaded at Nigerian Election Rally!
Amanda Knox Gets Away with ****** Again in Italy!
Kung Pow: Silicon Valley Penisocracy Crushes Ellen Pao
German Crash Dummy Co-pilot Flies Jet into the Alps!
Hilary’s Emails Are *****!
Sierra Leone Ebola Lockdown!
Iran: Kooks with Nukes!
Sri Lankan President’s Brother Dies from Ax Wounds!
Saudi Diplomats Evacuate Yemen!
Stampede at Hindu Bathing Ritual, Bangladesh Kills at Least 10!
Simply put:  THE WORLD IS IN A STATE OF ****.

Perhaps it’s time we turn again.
Seek solace in poetry—
“Yeah, chemistry,” insists my Sky Masterson,
My “Guys & Dolls” alter ago.
Surprised? You shouldn’t be.
All poets are gamblers & moonshiners.
We polish our chemical craft,
Sweet-talking the distillation apparatus,
Getting us, getting at linguistic essence.
Cunning linguists are we.
(Colonel Angus, are you back?)
Oyez! Oyez! The gavel raps:
“The Curious Case of Sam Hayakawa.”
We open this hearing to determine
Whether or not S.I. Hayakawa—guilty of
Numerous crimes against humanity & other
Professional Neo-Fascist “entrechats.”--
Whether or not he merits a kinder, gentler
Wikipedia BIO.
(Wikipedia ( i/ˌwɪkɨˈpiːdiə/ or  i/ˌwɪkiˈpiːdiə/ WIK-i-***-dee-ə) Wikipedia)
We open this forum, focusing on his
Courageous stand against the
SDS & Black Panthers, part of
An unlikely coalition: The Worker-Student Alliance
& It’s rival, Joe Hill Caucuses.
Da Name of the Place:
(“I like it like that!” Hot Chelle Rae-“I Like It Like That” lyrics| Metro Lyrics www.metrolyrics.com Lyrics to 'I Like It Like That' by Hot Chelle Rae. “Let's get it on, yeah, y'all can come along/Everybody drinks on me, buy out the bar /Just to feel like I'm.”)
The name of the place: San Francisco State,
1968-69, the longest student strike in U.S. history,
Led successfully to the creation of
Black & Other Ethnic studies programs
On campuses across the country,
And, one could argue,
Gave the green light to
Osama Hussein Obama,
Our first Uncle Tom President.
But I digress.

ACTING SFSU President, Dr. Hayakawa—
Perpetual audition, the pressure on,
Feisty, independent-minded & combative,
Screaming at that skeevy student mob:
(Skeevy as in “He bought the thing from
Some skeevy dude in an alley.")
Declaring “A State of Emergency,”
Calling in the SFPD, whose
Inexplicable slogan says”
“Oro en Paz,
Fierro en Guerra.”
Archaic Spanish for
Gold in peace,
Iron in war, by the by,
For you holdouts,
Those of you who still
Think the “English First Movement”
Breathes life still.
I’ve got more news for you:
That crusade died long ago,
Locked up, dark & shuttered,
Bank Repo thugs, their thick
Neck muscles flexing from side to side,
Sashaying across the parking lot,
Like John Wayne on steroids,
Right up to the front door.)
The SFPD: San Francisco city fuzz,
(As they were known at the time) &
The California National Guard, as well,
Obstreperously, generously catered by
Governor Ronald Wilson Reagan,
(Early stage, Alzheimer’s at the time.
But still very much “The Gypper,”
Still chipper in Sacramento.)
Ronnie--keenly interested in
The Eureka State’s congressional clout,
Lassoes a seat in the U.S. House of Lords:
AKA: The U.S. Senate, SPQR.
It’s still hard . . .

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Still hard to believe that California was once
Rock solid in the clutches of the GOP,
Gripped tightly in the Party’s
Desperate talons. But the grip slipped,
Slipped in the slip-sliding 1970s.
It got harder and harder . . .

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Harder and harder to remind
Leroy & the rest of his ebony posse,
That it was Abraham Lincoln—
“The Great Emancipator” himself—who was,
Our first Republican President.
The Emancipation Proclamation:
That toothless rhetorical flourish,
Based solely on Abe’s
Constitutional authority as
Commander-in-Chief,
Not on a law passed by Congress.
It was just Abe blowing smoke
Up their ***** again,
Just an egalitarian blast from
His Old Kentucky past,
A youth spent splitting rails,
Busting his *** just like
Any plantation ******,
A stark plebeian commonality,
Too deeply etched to be ignored.
Poor Abraham Lincoln:
Probably a **** Creek crypto-Jew,
Neutered by the opposition:
His very own Republican majority Congress,
Another example of the GOP
Shooting off its own foot, right up there
With Mitt Romney’s "47 percent of the people,”
The rhetorical gaffe which cost him his
Second & final shot at the White House.
But I digress.

Senator Sam S.I. Samuel Hayakawa:
That inscrutable Asian fixer, is now U.S. Senator,
Republican, California, 1976-83
Pulpit-bullying his Senate colleagues,
Fiercely opposed to transfer of the
Panama Canal & Panama Canal Zone to
Panama: a diplomatic no-brainer; Duh?
Their freaking name is on both of them.
Senator Sam, obstinate & blustering:
"We should keep the Panama Canal.
After all, we stole it fair and square.”
And Hayakawa, later the driving impetus
Behind the Far Right “English Only” movement.
His co-founding an "Official English"
Advocacy group, U.S. English;
Their party line summarizes their belief:
“The passage of English as the official language will help to expand opportunities for immigrants to learn and speak English, the single greatest empowering tool that immigrants must have to succeed."
That’s how they sold it, anyway.
In sooth: just old-fashioned nativist
Anti-immigration hysteria.

Hayakawa: always the high achiever.
Hayakawa: The Great Assimilator,
Preaching his xenophobic Gospel:
“Immigration Must Be Reduced!”
Aryan rhetoric, of course,
A bi-product of radical authoritarian nationalism,
A movement with deep American roots.
Senator Sam: a Japanese-Canadian-American,
Always tried too hard to fit in.
Sam, comfortable in Chicago during WWII,
Not personally subject to confinement,
Advocated that Japanese-Americans
Submit to FDR’s 1942, Executive Order 9066.
“Time in camp, will eventually work to Japanese advantage."
Later, during the Congressional debate over
The Civil Liberties Act of 1988 . . .
(Passed the House on September 17, 1987 (243–141)
Passed the Senate on April 20, 1988 (69–27, in lieu of S. 1009)
Reported by the joint conference committee on July 26, 1988,
Agreed to by the Senate on July 27, 1988 (voice vote) and
By the House on August 4, 1988 (257–156,
Signed into law by President Ronald Reagan 8/10/88.
He opposed $reparations for WWII internment:
“Japanese-Americans should not
Be paid for fulfilling their obligations."
Some guys, I guess, would say, or
Do anything for Bohemia Club membership.
Plagued by night terrors, nonetheless,
His Manzanar nightmares, his vivid
Imaginary experience at other Japanese
Internment Sites: Tule Lake & Camp Rohwer.
Stalag (German pronunciation: [ˈʃtalak])
Stalags, infamous still,
“Stalags ‘R Us,”
Still palpable memories for
Issei ("first generation")
& Nisei ("second generation").
See: 323 U.S. 214. Korematsu v. United States
(No. 22: Argued: October 11, 12, 1944.
Decided: December 18, 1944.140 F.2d 289.
The opinion, written by Hugo Black,
Chief Justice Harlan Stone, Presiding.)

Hayakawa: a strange duck, of course,
But we mustn’t ignore his strong credentials,
And I’d like to disabuse anyone here
Of the notion that it was anything
Other than his academic record
That got his case to this Forum.
Oyez! Oyez! The gavel raps:
“The Curious Case of Sam Hayakawa.”
So begins this fractured Pardoner’s Tale,
This petition for forgiveness,
The Capo di Tutti Capi,
Presiding: the original Italian mafioso,
His Eminence--the Vicar of Jesus Christ,
The Supreme Pontiff
Pope Paparazzi of Rome!
Roma: the only venue large enough to
Dispense dispensation of this magnitude.

Hayakawa: everyone says his C.V. is “impeccable.”
But did anyone ever freaking Google it?
Just where did Professor Sam go to school?
Undergrad? The University of Manitoba,
Truly, by any Third World Standard
A great bastion of intellectual rigor;
Grad school? McGill and U Wisconsin-Madison.
He was a Canadian by birth,
His academic discipline was Semantics.
(As in “That’s just semantics,”
That all-purpose rejoinder in any argument.)
Professor Hayakawa, The Semanticist,
He taught us: “All thought is sub-vocal speech.”

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Hmmm? We think in words.
The medium of thought is language.
If you grok this for the first time,
Let’s stop to celebrate our enlightenment,
With a cultural nod of respect,
We salute our Islamic brethren.
Radical Islam: the new bogeyman,
Responsible for keeping lights on in Alexandria,
Paying the defense & intelligence bills,
Sustaining that sinister
Military-Industrial complex
Ike warned us about.
Hang in there, Mustafa, old buddy.
Like the Cold War, this insanity
Will eventually blow over.
Orwell’s Oceania will reshuffle
Its deck of global grab-***, and a
New enemy will suddenly appear.
Big Brother, as always,
In the full-control mode,
Simply put: on top of the situation.
So Hurrah!
Allāhu Akbar. “God is Great!
The Takbīr (the term for the
Arabic phrase: usually translated as
"God is [the] greatest.")

“All thought is sub-vocal speech.”
What a simple, yet profound insight!
Just a short hop, skip & jump to the
Realization that, perhaps, the clarity
& Power of our minds can be groomed,
Improved upon by mastery of—
In Sam’s case, anyway--the English Language.
Was this, perhaps, the germ of U.S. English,
The political lobbying organization
He co-founded, dedicated to making
English, the official language of the United States.
Hayakawa: a wooly conservative of his own design;
No wonder Governor Reagan loved him.

Dr. S.I. Hayakawa, a colorful and polarizing
Figure in California politics during the 1960s and 70s.
Can we forgive his daily afternoon naps.
Asleep on the floor of the U.S. Senate,
Leaving California so pathetically,
So ostensibly under-represented.
Senator Sam’s comatose presence at
Washington-on Potomac; the
District of Columbia.
A long time ago,
In a distant galaxy . . .
Far, far away.

TEAR GAS.
Alas, long before he got to Washington,
Long before ever setting foot off campus,
He called for tear gas to
Disperse those pesky college kids.
I repeat myself for emphasis:
He authorized the use of tear gas at SF State.
Tear gas: a lachrymatory agent?
Actually, a potentially lethal
Chemical agent . . .
(Yeah, Chemistry!
To wit: Sgt. Sara Brown,
Referencing “Guys & Dolls” again.)
Outlawed for use during wartime,
Banned in international warfare
Under both the 1925 Geneva Protocol; & the
Chemical Weapons Convention;
“Tear gas:  a weapon of war against
The people. We believe that
Tear gas remains a chemical weapon
Whether used on a battlefield, or city streets.”

Thus, history will be your judge,
You unleashed tear gas on college kids,
So I wouldn’t expect a rep makeover
Any time soon, Ichiye-san, my ichiban friend.

The house is quiet, only my whisper is heard...

oh, I guess I'm such a nerd,
are you hanging on my every word?

OK good, come on, let's go,

Shadows drifting, so discreet,
fowl breath, a cut out sheet,
  hard to move these trembling feet
a waiting guest, for me to greet?
not a trick, I hope a treat!?!

Perhaps the reaper comes this way
he knows of this, a game I play?
waking Crowley, where he lay,

I grab ahold the banister,
and step around the stair valute,
the air grows dark and thick again,
as everything is put in mute,
until a bell, I pause to think,
perhaps a playing flute?

Prolly not & that's real cute,
or maybe
inquiries of  candied loot?

True that,

I wait to hear again, a ding,
the joy of laughter it will bring,
the songs again my heart will sing,

I grip the rail, I'm petrified
a ghostly ghoul,
me, has spied
I move away,
from where I hide,

Shhhhhh be quiet,

My legs are heavy,
I slowly stepped,
you escorted,
up I crept
tears I wish,
that I had wept,
I move my hand,
away are swept,
no way for me to leave, get out,
they'd never hear me scream & shout
trudging on with wary doubt,
I bite my lip,
I moan & pout,
in every step, as I grow brave,
climbing up, a darkened grave,
with every step, my soul to save,

Very dramatic poet,
emmmm thanks, read on,

I reach the top in my suspense,
ahead I say, in my defense,
sorry if you're feeling tense,

It's alright,

I open up the door ahead,
filling me & you with dread,
dragging knuckles, telluric bed,
I look, in horror, shrilling,
....shrieking
a glowing face, chilling,
peeking, must be the one,
that I,
... am seeking!

I chuckle at the sounds of creaking,
bones & boards beneath my feet
they tell,
so sneaking up?
say
you lived in hell?
so I give up
hey, where's the bell?

Oh hear it is, that's just swell,
I know right?
Thanks for finding it though,

Look out!?!

Jumping out, you give a start,
I feel it pump inside my heart,
looks as if I need black art,

Yikes!!!

Your not afraid?
you silly girl, let me give
another whirl
a bony hand, sweeps & swirls
tattered sheets they creep & twirl

You do your best
to discourage guests
I'm prepared for any scary test
Yes I'm different from the rest,
& by the way,
you mustn't know that I am blessed
I'm not leaving, you may have guessed

Some pumpkins happy
some are scary
the children here,
they shan't be wary
I am not, no I am nary
this may be a fateful twist
but by the gods I have been kissed
sorry but your aim, it missed

I know that I look a witch
as I move my nose & give a twitch
but my dear, I pulled a switch

I raise my hands, I curse your words
as spirits cry, my voice, is heard
I bind you here, your soul I gird,
I cast a spell, hogtie your feet
take a bite, it's really sweet
yes my dear please have a treat
do you mind, if I have a seat?

I call my spoon, my kettle stirring,
as he speaks,
the words are spurring,
I laugh aloud, as kitty's purring,
supernatural events, occurring,
as caldrons bubble, broomsticks fly,
& Frankenstein went walking by,
his Mummy gives a wistful sigh,

Your look of shock, a priceless one,
like someone just removed the sun,
I dare not say, a silly pun?

No it's very good,
Oh hey thanks friend,

As breaking glass of aged pane's
& your attempts to stop me,
all in vain,

In  rattlin' of my heavy chains
relieving bones,
from what they weigh
as my skeleton comes out to play
protecting children as you prey,
wave a wand, a hand & down I slay,

Too much?

No, go on...

The werewolf howling at the moon
growling baying, softly croons,
a clown I think might be a goon,
the wicked hour coming soon,
cackling witches laugh &  snicker
spirits run & candles flicker
demons plot, giggle...
... snicker,
rubbing hands,
they fight & bicker,

Hehehe...

I must admit their kinda spooky
Some are cute and kinda kooky,
To me look like a bunch of groupies,

Ha ha, good one poet!
Oh, well thanks!

I give my stick another flick,
I guess I gotta few more tricks!?
as fires dance in flaming licks,

Ewwww, I like it...

Halloween no time for fools,
the banshee comes with gaurding ghoul,
we're taking him to scaring school

Oh very cool,
yeah I made some room,

You can ride with banshee there,
the one with all the crazy hair,
you'll be alright just don't stare,
It's not as if I just don't care,

Huh!?! Great,

The unwanted speaks,

Well my dear, I'd say we're even
but temporary guess I'm leavin'
and your magic I might believin
pretty good, you think you won
congrats again, it's been real fun
a spell like yours can be undone

Hmmmm,

Oh I see, you think my best?
wait a sec, I'll get undressed
something here I must confess

Most these monsters are my friends
on whom my back I can depend
do your thing, with time you spend

That's okay, you go ahead
I don't wanna end up dead
and now I see, an empty bed
& your face is just filled with dread
boy you're really turning red
must be all the ink I bled

Careful now,
is this just a story?
filled with rhymes,
& kinda gory,
finding out is mandatory,



Now I jump out,
- I just say BOO
I guess, you see-
the tricks on you!

Happy Halloween!

Great ending,

Awww thanks for the love,
yeah sure do love this time of year,
lotsa fun, this one,

Enjoy a candy,
& thanks for coming!

Cherie Nolan © 2016

[Intro: Honey *******]
You ******* ******* stink
Go take a ******* shower
Schwag. Asian *******

[Verse 1: Honey *******]
******, I ain't got time for a stupid broad
Cause bro I'm 'bout to beat a ***** and probably lose my job
****, I'm a bubble
Listen, *****. I tell you cool it off
Cause acting smart'll get you deaded
*****, I rule the spot
Now, homie, I ain't ******* down to catch a charge, bro
Now her body found the same place she had parked, bro. (Whoops! [x3])
I forgot my ******* ride for me
Cause these ******* that drive for me
Are these ******* flying for free
I gain mine. There's a difference. You remember that
Cause I'm always hungry for the **** that I ain't never had
This here is baby food and be all like, "*****, **** a snack! "
See ****** who said I'm crap is asking me to hit 'em back
*****, **** that!

[Hook x2: Honey *******]
Now, I ain't got time for *******
If I ain't getting mine, then that's *******
Why you all up in my face with this *******?
Ew. *****, you smell like *******

[Verse 2: Honey *******]
Oh, here I go. There they go in this here game again
Now these ******* praying they gon' never hear my name again
But look, I'm a stay around even although they acting like I can't
I don't sleep at all cause it'll always be my time again
That means I work hard, homie. I don't play around, dawg
Better cut this ******* or your face'll meet the ground, dawg
But after all, it's for the haters and the groupies, though
Find me at the studio
The smart ***** with a stupid flow
**** delivery. Got fans who in the dance
Now my enemies got plans
They just searching for a chance
**** friends cause I'm married to the music
*****, cause I gained the world and die before I lose it
So cool it

[Hook x2: Honey *******]
Now, I ain't got time for *******
If I ain't getting mine, then that's *******
Why you all up in my face with this *******?
Ew. *****, you smell like *******

[Verse 3: Tyga]
***** back, back. Why your *** so flat?
Tell your best friend I want that
I don't pretend, *****, and I don't act
Why you all up in my chat?
Telling people that you know him
If I lend you all on my back
Criss-cross, you wiggedy-wack! (Aghh!)
Duplicating my racks
Introduce you to my life
Yeah, my gold heavy metal
You can't rock out on my level
Yeah, yeah. That's a red Ferarri
And I'm dancing with the devil
***** testing me, you get answers
**** a ***** quick fast, like cancer. (Aghh!)
(Well, well) Make a ***** rubbin money on my **** till it swell, swell
And ya money, money shorter than a elf, elf
And I keep cool J's like LL
(Hell yeah) I don; t wanna start nuttin' *****, lemme finish
All in a ***** net ***** mouth like a dentist
(Dennis) Rodman. Come on, come on
*****, is you with it, with it?
Cause I ain't

[Hook x2: Honey *******]
Now, I ain't got time for *******
If I ain't getting mine, then that's *******
Why you all up in my face with this *******?
Ew. *****, you smell like *******

basilisk ****
nonparticular inexecrable exit
art ****
the lips on for breakfast
twilight zip entanglement
meticulous bending and sensual telepathy

fever-sickness
rock 'n roll boo-boos
lilting black 'n blues on the caboose
puppeteering every tasty ***** loose

chews the collar
thighs and necking room
bustling bussers it gives ifs
gets down with

daisy, dior, dkny, grapefruit(purple) to narcisso and pink sugar too

Bliss tainted madness
playing tug-o-war with
January's vacuum
Years of passing down groupies
to the most recent djs playing bad dubstep tunes
and that sickness of seeing iloveyou's abused

Which of your Favourites you take to Trust
And hoping One of them will fill your Void
So Alone, though in Many you Adjust
Though their trifle pertinence you carry
Those Nerds ahead just consider you Strange
Yet Groupies counteract with their own Praise
Now who is Correct? They sit at the Lounge
Then settle to offer your own Fresh Space
That around your College are Ideals formed
When Some in Prayer may publish their Book
Took you as a Model; And Critics scorned
See their Used Lives in a Better Outlook.
You just have to Smile; And Happy you did
Fan their Frustrations of that Love you hid.

It was kind of crazy,
Army guys listening
to Nena & her red luft balloons,
Kim Wilde’s American Kids,
a bit of Madonna Lucky Star and
Lauper’s girls just wanting to have some fun.
Man o’ man,
we danced our drunk ***** off
with all them pretty little lasses.
And like we gave a flying ****,
for in a moment’s notice,
we might have been
Airborne,
hoooooaaaaah.

I Am Fly And You Are Flu
Which Means You Were Fly Before I Came Thru
I Walk In Slow I Steal The Show
And I Don't Want Your Man But I'll Take His Dough
I Am Me And Me I Do
I Keep My Dudes Like Curfew
So They Running Back
And Me Is Too
And I Pull More Dudes
Than I Pull Tissue


Girls Are Stupid
And Guys Are Lame (Lame)
Girls Want The Fame (Fame)
Guys Just Wanna *** Me
So Friday Thru Monday
My Phone Is On Vibrate
No Drama On My Plate
Im Just Gonna Party


I'm Just Gonna Party
No Drama On My Plate
My Phone Is On Vibrate
Friday Thru Monday
Guys Just Wanna *** Me
Girls Just Want The Fame (Fame)
And Guys Are So Lame (Lame)
Guys Are So Lame (Lame)


Groupie Girls Wanting Fame
Ugly Boys Wanting My Aim
Backstabbing Friends Playing Pretend
I See Right Thru Just Like The Lens
I'm The ****
I Set Trends
You're A ***** That Steals Boyfriends
He's A Loser
Broke He Is
Im Indigo
And Im Filthy Rich

Girls Are Stupid
And Guys Are Lame (Lame)
Girls Want The Fame (Fame)
Guys Just Wanna *** Me
So Friday Thru Monday
My Phone Is On Vibrate
No Drama On My Plate
Im Just Gonna Party

I Am Fly And You Are Flu
Which Means You Were Fly Before I Came Thru
I Walk In Slow I Steal The Show
And I Don't Want Your Man But I'll Take His Dough
I Am Me And Me I Do
I Keep My Dudes Like Curfew
So They Running Back
And Me Is Too
And I Pull More Guys
Than I Pull Tissue

Groupie Girls Wanting Fame
Ugly Boys Wanting My Aim
Backstabbing Friends Playing Pretend
I See Right Thru Just Like The Lens
I'm The ****
I Set Trends
You're A ***** That Steals Boyfriends
He's A Loser
Broke He Is
Im Indigo
And Im Filthy Rich

Girls Are Stupid
And Guys Are Lame (Lame)
Girls Want The Fame (Fame)
Guys Just Wanna *** Me
So Friday Thru Monday
My Phone Is On Vibrate
No Drama On My Plate
Im Just Gonna Party

Im Hot
Im Hot
And Haters Aren't
And Haters Aren't
Im Having Fun
Im Having Fun
While You Mean Mug
Uh Huh
Uh Huh
Oh Wee
Oh Wee
Oh
Ice
Ice
Ice
Oh Wee
Oh Wee
Oh
Im Nice
Nice
Nice
Break It Down!

Im Indigo Vanity
Every Guys Fantasy
Make You Lose Your Sanity
I Hate Groupies
No Sus Monkeys
Can't You See
I Do Me
So You Do You
I Do Me
So You Do You
I Do Me
So You Do You

I.... Do.... Me....
So.... You.... Do.... You!

Sloane swallows.
***** is ****!
I execrate extraterrestrial.

We are all kaput to conk out.

Pollyanna is singular hanky—panky.
Little green men are unpatriotic, perverted and naughty.
I verily don’t grease a *****
Oojakapivvycum.

If you are amphibious that means you are an effervescent ventriloquist capable of
Cannibalism, cannibalism and cannibalism.
The fluid inside the android is so gothic and naff
It is knock—kneed in the face of flashing *******.
I do not feel that I am on the shoulders of cobber doggies.
I am protoplastically lassoed abutting penetrating vampire and pervert
That penetrate ***** creature.
I have pricked little green men myself and taken pleasure in it.
It is only with the help of bad hair days of groupies that I have not been in Sing Sing.

We are all sadomasochistically decomposing in a heap of our own meconium.

I bore stiff to outstrip yours truly as much as I have room to swing a cat from Ku Klux ****,
But I am as complicit in the android’s ****** abuse as it were android ***.
Little green men ***** me as I ***** myself.
I ***** bug—eyed men’s ******* types as I have perpetually vomited Molotov cocktail.
I smell little green men’s filth televised on their ******* types.
I feel like I am inside a crust of cancers who delight in smelling others bonk upstairs,
Ad hominen id.  Ex post facto,
I am too much of a dastard to throw cold water on myself.
I coagulate gungily to my menstrual gibbering ******,
Castrating anti—Semite to flash me abutting crème de la crème.  
Strenuously, my ***** gluts under one’s nose because that is all there is.

i bet you never had
someone hit you
so hard
like a wave.

i bet you never
thought the day
would come
where someone
would be so eager
to stay.

well i can’t make
any promises,
and you can’t expect
to do the same either,
but when i look at you,
something speaks truth,
and i just gotta
tell you.

i wanna know you.
i wanna know what gets you
going like you do.
i wanna know you.
why do you do the things you
do?

on friday night,
do you like to watch horror movies?
or are you the type,
to hang with your groupies
and smoke a doobie outside?

well, i’d choose neither.
and i **** at pulling
all-nighters,
but this little song
is not about me.

hey there,
hey you,
when i look at you,
something speaks the truth,
and i just gotta tell you.

i wanna know you.
i wanna know what gets you
going like you do.
i wanna know you.
why do you do the things you
do?

they say if you ever lose
your sense of spark,
then something isn’t right.

and i can’t promise
to always be your sunshine,
but i’ll try and i’ll try
to always be the light.

if you’re in a room,
and you feel the gloom,
and nothing feels like
it’s going right,
look at me,
and you’ll see
somebody who likes

the way that you are,
the way that you do,
oh, you, hey you,
i’m digging you.

cause when i look at you,
something speaks truth,
and i just gotta
tell you.

i wanna know you.
i wanna know what gets you
going like you do.
i wanna know you.
why do you do the things you
do?

i bet you never had
someone hit you
so hard
like a wave.

i bet you never
thought the day
would come
where someone
would be so eager
to stay.

i wanna know everything.
because you’ve got that something,
that i can’t explain.

How Poets routinely tell lies or truth with great "sincerity"
and earnest projections of "poetic charisma" and lashings
of "who me tell lies?".
and yet they routinely avoid truthfulness, in case they forget the  power of lies and truth, in their search for fame.
Mesmerised by its attendant celebrity groupmind and of course its wealth..
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truthfulness
has nothing to do with truth.
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truth
is a lie and a lie is truth,
two sides of a darkened mirror
and both are equally valueless
except  for  seeing false faces in..
Poets bleat on about how the shackleable object of their 'love' ,
she or he, are not theirs to own
or categorise or monopolise.
yet they keep on expecting full submission
and just getting an empty back,
and a disappearing set of footprints.
Like the sheep and goats that Poets are,
they bleat on endlessly
about their wants their wants  their wants.
They want fame as Poets--disguised as distribution deals.
They want contracts to produce garbage for HallMark--as if..
They want **** licking critical acclaim--from **** licking critics.
They want international poetry prizes from aesthetic morons--
wearing Armani suits.
They want Groupies--but not *******.
They want Media eulogies--but not truthfulness.
Always are they  deliberately forgetting that
"you cant always get what you want".
The last thing that Poets want is what they need most of all.
They really need
An end to the narcissism of those
that want to be called "poet"--in your dreams.
An end to the juvenile arrogance that motivates them to put up strings
of meaningless associated words
and vainly call them poems.
An end to childish immaturity, and inchoate meandering
through other peoples words and experiences, stealing others lives
and characters.
Always incessantly pretending that because
they can read the words of others
that they have also shared their experiences--indeed their experience was deeper wider higher.
In another day and age of non-violent sensibility  
these kind of Poets would
be called thieves and liars.
In this day and  age they scribble emotional garbage
and pretend its "poetry"--encouraged by intellectual follies.
As poets they have become walking proto cash registers.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin is Spanish for without.
Poets are  SIN integrity.
Poets are SIN Truthfulness.
Poets are SIN decency.
Poets are SIN.
Im so glad I could never be mistaken for a  Poet.
Wouldnt want to be mistaken as a poet.

They crawl hands and knees!!!

Lacklustered fanatic's,
Groupies of needleshooter's and powder transits,
Their noses they wipe off fairied dust!!!

Their skin fragile and delirious!!!

A spoon to copper boil,
Eyeglasses to split the sun ,
Sticky fingers to stop and go..

Bloodied toast!!!

They cringe their pearlies,
And wobbled by to and fro waves,
Their here for today,
Gone for tomorrow!!!

A vein full of sorrows!!!

A hitch hiker of fertile roads,
Though,
Thy load leadeth one down to the pit!!
Within millipede's of Spit,
To drippeth the argot that slurreth them!!

Taketh thy hector out of thy baggage,
Thou serf of emptiness!!

For thy plentiness thou seeketh,
Lies beyond the ark,
Behind the purple shroud!!

On love and astral travelling,
Through the stars we're wandering,
On the universe we're pondering,
My eternal love, Napoleon,
Intangible man, but  full of fun,
Our jewelled cloak of stars,
We've journeyed from afar,
Shape shifting, glittering,
On love and astral travelling,
I'm no Carlos Santana,
I have no scarlet bandana,
I am the oestrogen,
Old Josephine,
Where haven't we been?
I have no testosterone,
You're my "Yes, master!" Napoleon---
On love and astral travelling,
Sentimentally wandering,
Are you Angelus or Incubus?
Reminiscing, reflecting,
Comical groupies for loving,
On love and astral travelling......

My girl, she's a beauty,
Long, flowing black hair,
A voluptuous *****.
She struts along streets with a confident air,
Very nearly, but not quite, snooty.
Her *******, a perfect pair,
Her morning breath, fresh and fruity.
Her smile makes lonely strangers stare,
Her dimples, wow, she's such a cutie.
Her body, an alluring, ***** snare,
Multitudes of friends follow like groupies,
  Although she makes other men swoon in despair,
  I've succumbed to obey her with a sense of duty.
  I'm sick, I'm done, time to get her out…**she better prepare.

Got to string out the guitar backstage
With Ben bridwell from the Band of Horses,
Drank a beer with J. Tillman of the Fleet Foxes
With Colin Richey I had a glass of wine
And me and my band for one hour shined.
I rocked with known rockers
Follower groupies,
Not to mention or did I?
With my second string player
I smoked a magnificent doobie.
What a week it's been
Three more days
Then coming back home.
A getaway to remember
A getaway well known.

I should have known it was starring in a movie,
When they said that writers also get groupies;
As these women continue to swarm by the flock,
I get rid of some, more come to me nonstop,
But you knew before I was even deeded such,
You saw potential in me when did not see much.

If you only knew...

Can I have YOUR autograph?
Inscribe it dearly over my heart on my chest.
Can I go between the scene, backstage?
I love women in uniform, watch you get dressed
As you star in the role for your life
A hardworking single woman who needs no man,
I have a lot of respect for a lady like you,
I need to be on your mailing list as the biggest fan.

I write and serve in the Army of the United States,
But I support my hardworking single women always;
Your determination give me the strength to try,
Thinking of you work and study all day and all night;
You say that you are ordinary just to yourself,
I say that you are extraordinary beyond anyone else.

If you only knew...

Can I have YOUR autograph?
Inscribe it dearly over my heart on my chest.
Can I go between the scene, backstage?
I love women in uniform, watch you get dressed
As you star in the role for your life
A hardworking single woman who needs no man,
I have a lot of respect for a lady like you,
I need to be on your mailing list as the biggest fan.

No matter if I write music, books, or serve,
I still know the definition of a woman's worth
And prove it with the right given chance
For me to be one of your very biggest fans.

So I m sitting in the mall
Waiting for life to entertain me
As I know it will
Feeling moribund and gloomy
As if a full belly and a dry bed
Aren't good enough.
Like the universe owes me a back stage pass, right?
And access to the green room
And the groupies,
And how no matter how much I get,
It will never be enough,
This is the most depressing thought,
That I am insatiable,
And any form of happiness
Will remain at a distance,
Because I can't shove enough pleasure
Down my throat
Or get enough women to lay down,
Or find an end to this need to
Consume.
Ekhart was right.
Just go sit on a bench and shut up.
So I m sitting in the mall
Waiting for life to entertain me
...

Everywhere I go
They throw roses
And love letters
Bright flashing bulbs
The tabloid circus
I'm a hero
I can walk on water
They want me at their charity
They want me to date their daughter
Paparazzi press
Unison- applauders
I said nothing funny
But they want my autograph
All the potential wannabes
Who claim they know my soul
The stupid adoration
Accumulated lull
The hippie-mystic groupies
Who want to get me high
The young married wife
Who shares my zodiac sign
The cop who lets me go
When I want to get caught
The journalist and his
Unrelenting cameraman
The sickly-devoted, naive
Screaming fan
The occasional stalker
Assassin-like scare
The philosophical ******
The devil-may-care
Crowd always willing to
Get slaughtered by celebrity
Until the stardust melts
And I'm no one else but me
Personal interest groups
Who always love a clown-
Now take everything above
And turn it all around

Vacant, empty, bottle corked
sour
followed
shadows
stalked
billboards, ankhs, purple peace
fever
groupies
slow
release
pill pushers, drunkards, hollow wholes
pimps and
******
broken souls
black, white, all in tune
sunsets
rising
wednesday's moon

nothing inside
nothing out
listen how
silence
shouts!!

Mona.
Lisa.
Lee-ah
nardo
how do
YOU know
my mom.

I remember having
pizza
with ya the other night,
we watched
the "Da Vinci Code"
after we had that fight,
about Montauk
hotdog tripe flavored ice cream.

Even the audience
doesn't think that's yummy!

You taught,
me how to knit
chocolate and wish
upon the sun.

Did you mom?
Am I your son?
I'd prefer pecon pie.
No-body likes
pecans in my family.
Did Leo
like legumes ?
******,
I may always
be cursed
with writing words
that make reference to obscure
astrology.
My apologies to his
groupies who think he's
the best ******* art-east
since slice bread.
But how would it
feel to had some dude who
painted your mom
and it was
the big-gust
most successful
commercial success
through out
time?

Its nefarious arrogance, that's scaring grandparents, but its in the air and I'm airing it, as we are seeing all the signs, but just staring at them.

Somehow there is safety as an arian, where we are safely alien to  Americans made in sapient sanitariums, shooting you first for glaring at em.

So what if i'm Dolling up my delirium for a serum to cure them all.

I am awol, from my call to duty, recreating movies, for serial groupies, suiting up to slither a delivery of a soothing sour piece.

I am stalling to clean the secretions from hostel sheets from the screamers being eaten, by Cretans, with beaten dogs at bay, staring blank at the fanfare from a cage.

Im burning white sage, under pages of poetry anointed by a stoical spleen, tuning out the dreams, of lesser beings, until complete.

A zoo within a zoo within a zoo, i barely know you now

Barely know how, to know you as a model citizen with baller trimmins, fixins, and a life with others wives, in the rough diamonds of the bluff, before the door opens just enough, to look through and confirm what you already knew.

Love is the stuff dreams are made of.

And through you..

Im through.

Pleading, to seed the need for repentance and with reduced sentences, bleeding the demands on stances of chance, in costly cants.

I am convulsing in the congruence, in which I am influenced, by my afflictions of depictions in my head

I might be addicted to the dread of previously said decor, in my adorable horror show afloat, deplorably denoting the nopes of logic, and the slippery slopes of khangi, that spring off me when i'm coughing on my green tea.

You are wrong to stop me in my dislogic, dodging the narcotic mocking of toxic strong arming, in proxy alarms, setting barns ablaze.

I praise the poetry pushed on me, dauntingly haunting me with savant like ambiance, from the have nots, having things as far as the eyes can see.

why You Callin Me
I Ain't Got Time
Why You Callin Me (Uhh) [x2]

Now He Trynna Do Me
But I Ain't Yo Girl
How You Actin Like You Knew Me [x2]

Iunno You Boy [x4]
(But I love you tho)

Well I Don't Love No One Yeah I'm a ***** For It
Cooler Than The Coolest Kid I Don't Feel **** For It (Ha!)
Cause A ***** Tourin
Like Jeremy Lin You Know A ***** Scoring
Eating Rap ******* And It's Been Borin
Shout Outs To The Groupies Cause They Been Whorin (Well)
They Just Have Fun G Tyga Got A ***** In The Crib With A One Piece
***** We King And How You Feel Now
****** On The Coke Cause Honey Got A Deal Now
For Real Now The Queen's ****** Busy
You Can Come To The Party But You Ain't Going With Me

Why You Callin Me
I Ain't Got Time
Why You Callin Me (Uhh) [x2]

Now He Trynna Do Me
But I Ain't Yo Girl
How You Actin Like You Knew Me [x2]

Iunno You Boy [x4]
(But I love you tho)

Well I Don't Love Em But I Don't Hate Em
**** Actin Like A Care Cause I Don't Rate Em
All These Guys Suicidal Cause The Coke Made Em
Lil Honey Ain't A ***** She Let The Coke Break Em (Uhh)
Fake ****** I Ain't Bout Bout Em
But They Fun What The **** I Do Without Em Out Em (Uhh)
So **** It Let's Smoke Boo But I Ain't Gon Love You 'Member I Told You
Now I'm Chillin At Home & He Callin Me
Tell Him Wrong Number Like Excuse Me Pardon Me
**** Was All Cool When I Meet Him
But The Next Time I Act Like I Forget Em (I'm An *******)

Why You Callin Me
I Ain't Got Time
Why You Callin Me (Uhh) [x2]

Now He Trynna Do Me
But I Ain't Yo Girl
How You Actin Like You Knew Me [x2]

Iunno You Boy [x4]
(But I love you tho)

[Talking:]
Hahaha
****** Wit You
Ima Have To Change My Number
Hahaha
I'm Not Jokin Tho

I Cheated
With a lover
At hello
After
Years of being
Married to
Goodbye

Growing up I always had
Some very special friends
Where we shared in everything
Even our love for Heavy Death Metal Bands

But every time one of us
Pick up an instrument
Whether banging, blowing, or strumming
We never made a lick of sense

That is until we found the jewel
That we all could play
Which turned around our tender lives
And tenderized us all that day

Now we travel the country side
With our own road crew
In a Heavy Death Metal Band
Where we all play Kazoo's

The very first Kazoo's we purchased
Came from the Five & Dime
But were able to throw down for the better stuff
Once our careers all started to climb

Now when we step out into the lights
Taking center stage
It's worth the pain in our vibrating lips
To see adoration on a groupies face

And playing lead Kazoo
Isn't as easy as it looks
You've got to hold your lips just right
To come up with those major hooks

We used to open up for other Metal Bands
Like AC/DC and Metallica
Pretty soon though our style passed them by
Leaving those sissies in top 40 dust

Because next to us they played soft rock
And when your "Axe" is a killer Kazoo
The others stand around dumb founded
With no clue of what to do

Don't get me wrong this rock and roll road
Isn't always paved in gold
Day in and day out in a Kazoo Death Metal Band
Can take away your very soul...

somewhere in hollywood along route 66
stood a cheap motel—
an asylum
for rockstars and their groupies,
artists and and poets and strangelings alike.
the morning only saw its residents,
drunken and drowsy,
and its black-tiled pools as dark as the night;
yet the nights were its prime
when the artists would gather
in the name of music, dance, recklessness.
the syringes would pierce their skin
and the alcohol like ocean waves
washed out the most of them,
and events too unspeakable were the norm.
the motel never attained 5-star ratings,
but it become the playground
for fleeting moments, wild nights,
brewing grounds for creation.
these nights were so loud and colorful,
but only remembered in hazy visions
and muffled sounds.

and so all those nights end here, today:
at the south of The Strip
where some modern, ordinary hotel now stands
once used to be the mess
that the likes of Jim Morrison
and Tom Waits called home.
its guests would have burnt it down,
but they would've wasted their money,
and who has the time anyway?

ladies and gentlemen, the tropicana motel—
a stop over where
wild minds and wild hearts would meet
and eventually go their way,
the place where these legends
of music and madness
came to play.

Wacky Writing Ranger

I'm a wacky writing ranger,
living the life of a stranger.
Got my pen and my paper,
I write what I want,
doesn't matter size of font,
my warped mind will find a new caper.
Writing rhymes since I was forty,
no woman ever called me shorty.
Money, what the hell is that,
it's everyone else's wallets getting fat.
My mouth is dry, fingers are numb,
even with a talent, I'm still a lazy ***.
I *** big holes in my wall,
inside the house, I play too much ball.
I have eggs with my breakfast toast,
Jeffrey Ross, where is my comedy roast.
A life filled with agony,
writing keeps my sanity.
From New Jersey to Florida,
living with my woman named Laura.
Hundreds of hearts earn my name,
can't even count the one night stands,
listening to all my favorite 80's hair bands,
all the groupies are just the same.
I've worked and had a paying job,
Bob spelled backwards is still Bob.
Left Jersey so far behind,
for that Florida weather grind.
Writing is in my blood to stay,
I don't care about the lack of pay.
I'm a wacky writing ranger,
I live the life of a complete stranger.
Read this rhyme and follow it til the end,
Then maybe after you decide to die,
look down at all the people who will cry,
then maybe Edgar Allan Poe will be your friend.

Now on Cliff's Harbour sports Activity
Delight in using its Pimples to climb
You or the Mentor - sight Vicinity
Where the Air-Maiden flags her Whitened Thigh
Whitened, which your Species usually wait
Eager to indulge your Athletics prove
That, hoping 'ere ***** Groupies debate
Their pawn-teared bets to your Reflex above
Then decide - vertical, flex horizon
Either which way your stubbled trunks secure
Then breathe on Faith; And delight on Season
By their Applause earned with your Feelings pure.
Still the Mentor was Proud of your Result
Though in his mind their Cheers enhance your Salt.

I think it’s cool you got groupies
And even cooler that you would never refer to them as groupies
But there are groupies
Chilling around you
Which is cool
You’re like The Fonze of poetry
Gotta be the coolest guy I ever did see
👍

how many decimal points would it take to create
                                                                ­a 2 = 2 scenario?
maybe the cultured swine in me asks such
questions, or perhaps i don't have
enough practical, matrimonial and
heterosexual worries in my life to ask
such a question in the first place?
would it take 2 = 2.00000000000000002?
how many denials
             then?
       maybe i'm asking a question like this
to start trending a nuanced vogue
amidst
            the most discriminated form of
humanity, namely white heterosexual men?
hmm... perhaps.
      last night i watched a movie adaptation
of a video game: can i just say that
Mario Bros. worked, but
the intricacy of game becoming movie can
only work when you get sore thumbs...
can these people: who play or design such games
ever write a novel? nearing two hours into
the movie and i was chanting with a variety
of onomatopoeias a zombie apocalypse
best summarised by the words: agony drool...
well d'uh.. e ragrammaton is a sneaky ******,
pops up everywhere in language,
      while looking for the post-Heraclitean logos
within the framework of phonos
  i came across the surd dynamic of four:
well, three, the H-twins and the trigonometric W
of sine and cosine, leaving Y as the tangen
and a focal point of convergence...
    and Jesus paid no respect the name -
i could tattoo pharisee on my *** and burp
    through it... there, four prime surds...
in Sanskrit: dhaal... you sort of jump over the h
and add a macron: dāl... but let's face it:
the aesthetic is sorta missing, what you hear
and what you see are cued combatants...
              why am i writing this? i just received
Monday's newspaper... could i be less
reactionary about the world inviting itself into
my pleb-bound world? can someone please
usher these gnats from my halo?
no... well... hence the reaction.
          and so much more vitality comes from
self-loathing than from self-love...
   life is more colourful, and so much less
lies-fudge-packed-between-the-sardines-to-an-ideology...
     catch you on a Friday night when it's not
so pristine? sure thing babe... sure thing my
tweaser plucked runny-mascara piglet...
we'll be snorkelling in mud by then.
could anyone think of a reason of mixing mayonnaise
with horseradish?
          but seriously... when did people forget
the concept of polyphony that Bach (ich?
see, the phonos already retracts the polygamy
shared by the same spelling) - say chequers and
cheese in german... chaka demus & pliers
and venting out a tension in the Caribbean quarter
of London, postscript August:
and it always rains... rains daggers and lip-kissing
anger of: ******, not enough scotch-**** chillies.
      and that's saying enough before Shaggy Dry Fuss
came on the scene with: wozzin' me.
   the real whizz kid right there... question is:
alter Paris? Jim Morrison's grave is taller than the Eiffel,
well, all the bums go there and steal the naive
    groupies leaving bottles of wine and joints at
the grave... but yeah... they called it cut-up post-Tzara
with Burroughs,     a zillion things that crept up on me
while i wasn't thinking about Juliet...
                and the reality of a shopping spree,
and all the cliches imaginable...
        perhaps truths too...
                    but even the writing said it was originally
theirs... Bach was already prescribing polyphony...
        let's say multilayered convo....
                       let's say: vogue of millennials'
distractive tendency... and that's so so so much clearer
than what poetry can become:
       a deaf man's tapping to a jazzy / hip-hop beat...
   a tenacious d's   one note song: ******* too,
rhyme... grr...         why do people write poetry as
if they're talking to Muhammad's Aisha prior to
skinning the grape?
                    why don't they talk to poetry as they might
talk to a *******?
                     who are "they" (yes, not paranoid, just
an obscurity with no vectors or index pointy pointy
*******
           the oyster)
                              which brings me to the controversy...
do you think rapists are masochists? or sado-masochists?
there was me on a date, i brought the movie and she
brought the bed and dinner...
                     see, i ask because something odd happened...
first of all was the Victorian practice of *******
under the bed-sheets rather than on top and all bulges
in full view like serpentine lizards (fat? i tend to
see it as seafood)...   yeah... but in the brothel
she would fake arousal for my eyes to see and slobber
her oyster in butter... or l'oreal cream...
   fair enough... but i'm wondering: this one time
she felt so so guilty after getting a genuine ****** on
the job... obviously that's hard... but on this one
authentic anglo-saxon date i got ****** by a dry ****...
       so either rapists are self-endorsing masochists
and all the women they **** have dry ***** due
to fear... or... yeah, that glistening or...
             is this a prescription piece? no, i'm just curious
why prostitutes smother their foreskins with
beauty cream so it doesn't hurt, and this one
pristine puritan babe was all Saharan pouch deepfryer...
                which is why i'm wondering...
   if a ******* can cream-up, and a good upstanding
girl with a decent job in a grammar school with
free accommodation on site can't....
                       you might as well shove your prometheus
        into a tube consisting of sandpaper.
                                         some also call it
    scratching your 5 o'clock shadow.

My father always told me life was never going to be fair
He's right, but I don't care
I'm going to get the best even if I have to play truth or dare
With Satan and his groupies
Advancing to the next level
Then turning them into Jesus
And tell him don't worry about it after thanking me
You made things this hard for me for a reason
That, I thank you for
If I never struggled I'd be laying on my fat *** eating cheetos playing a brand new video game on the Xbox.
Thank you God

takin my life day to day
is really second to second
as the character Wayne
in this movie im filming
i have characters out the ***
full of laughs and tears
from a cast widespread
from my fam to my peers
as the smoke clears i emerge
from the lows to take stage
throw bows and take aim
for my prize waiting for me
the one made by god
no assembly required
to be my leading lady
and rule my loving heart
unlike the others i casted
they were good in some parts
but in the end they couldnt hack it
they got other scenes
the girlfriends and the groupies
two very important troops
taught me how to lie
and point out the truth
on the lighter side of things
lookin higher in my cast and crew
my brothers and sisters
all keep me pullin through
this romantic drama
with words and actions
that spices things up
adding comedy to the equation.

everyone does their own stunts
except the others
i spoke on before
it only happens in *** scenes
so i shouldnt say more
but **** it im grown
in my movie its really my wife
im making scratch and moan
then the other girl re-appears
once the lights come on
and my wife is back
sitting in the Producers chair
waiting till her time
for the shine of my spotlight
from the wedding chimes
till the end credit sign
adding sequels to my life
a little similar but
different from mine
Wayne III and Sydney
will be the first two
those movies will do numbers
ill do a cameo with them too
like Will and Jada
imma have a Wonder Crew
wit uncles and aunties
who will love and cherish
their nieces and nephews
how ever many we have
we dont have a number
all we worried about
is acting this movie out
workin towards the gold
happiness and unity
till were nice and old
and God yells CUT!
our characters will die off
but our story lives for infinity

The emails have not been kind of
Late –
It’s not sadistic publishers
Or die-hard groupies
(well, mostly not)
No it’s people getting in touch
Wanting a taste of the good stuff
Their mouthful of meat
What they believe is theirs,
A weight I should carry.
Sometimes it’s about poetry,
I only wish more of it was –
But mainly it’s people
With nowhere to turn
And no thought for my situation.
I try and assuage their grief
But it’s no good
I cannot do it.
One day I can take no more,
I am staring at the ceiling
And I hear the telling ping.
I hit delete
It could be Jesus gone viral
But I doubt it,
Even He knows
I’m past saving.
Then I know it’s a diehard,
My phone begins to make
Continual pinging noises;
An ****** of woe.
The buggar then begins to
Ring.
I could fling him across
Main Street
But I only bought him
Two days ago.
He’s not worth it,
And goes away,
Before I can blow.
But sure enough,
There is no peace for the wicked:
Beep, beep
Ring, ring
Ping, ping
I picked it up, primed
“What do you want?!” I bellow.
“Oh... I’m sorry Mr. Hinton, just
To let you know this is Nurse
Georgia, reminding you about your
Appointment this Friday?”
I told her I’d be
There for her.

If the pen is mightier than the sword
then computers are guns
and the keys are bullets
but just because you own a gun
doesn't mean you have to shoot someone
so shoot me if I'm wrong
              But I don't think you should
mar your speech with hate
          and I think your mother would be disgraced if she read what you wrote
and do you even know what '******' means?
                     It's a bundle of sticks you throw onto a fire
so I guess it's just another way of you telling me that
                I'm going to burn
I get it
       God's sending me to Hell
but He's the one who inspired his prophet to write:
"But the greatest of these is Love"
while his Son hung out with prostitutes
               and thieves
and drank wine with His twelve groupies
      So if you really want to be like your Savior
Stop judging and instead love

.i still can't find my generation bv limp bizkit online... that's... just, just ever so bothersome... and what did: the who, ever receive.... oh... right... the sunday times magazine front-cover.... HIS generation... roger daltrey, the Who frontman, on the groupies, the madness of keith moon - and backing Brexit... nice... nice... but i can't search for lim bizkit's my generation - song... this is the part where you pray with the congregation... when the last of the Auschwitz survivors die... hmm... a free world... when the last of the Auschwitz survivors die... hello wowld.

like burning out
cigarettes on the tips
of your knuckles...
just because...
you're too cheap
to intake tattoo ink.

always a blast with
a blur,
    of a remnant scar;
sure as hell
beats taking to
defining self-harm
with inking.