The moment I laid my eyes on you,
        I knew,
           you were a dream that would never,
                come true.

Congressmen, police and ministers
All can be particularly sinister
When they take it upon themselves
To think of us as shoemakers elves
Fairytale beings who then madly
Exist only to work for them gladly;
Drudges to work for them out of sight,
Creatures that give in without a fight.

A sense of privilege causes this.
As fate is always rather hit and miss
It’s not granted by common sense,
More like a caprice of something dense;
A dark deity that is impressed by wealth
Without regard to someone’s right or health.
And the scary people the malady infests
Seems unaware of the evil it ingests.

Limelight and spotlights are the energy
That often drives their ***** perfidy.
But just as often, these fools don’t care
Who knows of their arts, no need to share.
They while away at greed and perdition
And certainly need anybody’s permission.
They only live to gobble and acquire
And never need anyone call them ‘sire’.

The most frightful of these lustful ones
Are those who ply their will with guns.
They decide the good from enemies
And few seem good to these entities.
They only plot their murderous plans
Without regard to the rights of man.
If you get in their way, you are foe.
That is as far as their thinking goes.

For that is the point here, after all.
These creatures ignore propriety’s call.
And the same with society, it is true.
Those needs, for them, will not do.
They work sorcery behind the scenes
And create acts that are truly obscene.
It matters not what is wrong or right
They are ever-vigilant, day and night.

WELCOME
To planet earth;
Abode of the free willed
Of men whom ****, land of the cursed.

GREETING'S
From planet technology;
Wherein mankind's forgotten themselves
They loveth ******, horror, dreary scene's, noone else.

BONJOUR
A message to anyone who seeith;
A concoction of disaster, nuclear bomb's;
Gang's, mob's, political master's.

CHAÍRETE
Cometh on in, greedy men
Get greedier;
Ninety-nine percent, just one left to plot and grin.

KUMUSTA
Don't forget to view ourn land;
Stolen, controlled, ruined, hellion in Armani suit's;
Turneth river's into poison, mountain's into sand.

HOLA
No need to rescue us
No time left, were doomed with demonic consent
This purgatory long ago, left God in the dust.

HELLO
Art thou ready for the end soon;
As angel's of wrath art to release the bowl's
Of prediction's long ago, oh head filled up to much? No room.

WELCOME TO PLANET EARTH
A PLACE OF SIN;
STITCHED IN AT BIRTH...........


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry

Jimminy crickets
I found
Snot
On gramps McDonalds biscuit.

TO HOLD AND TO OWN

   Life in frantic motion
   the daily round takes its toll    
   the mind ***** in the dirt
   that but pollutes the heart –the same story retold
   of man’s restlessness and craving
    to hold and own
    but grasps only the wind and dust
    he steps back and weeps alone
    
     this malaise—this sickening of the soul
     is the summary of  his diminishment
      he chooses to hold and own
      that which leads to his destruction and punishment

      for
      what’s the worth of a person
      a life
       that falls into the quagmire of self-dissolution?

       but
        there is redemption
        there always is if the sufferer
         is willing to let go the old—choose a new direction

         end
         the motion that threatens his claim
         to exist and take over his will
          then he will still retain a name

           desire,  the darkness within-
           the shameless desire---the hemlock
            that man drinks daily to oblivion
          in larger and larger does around the clock


          the day is insipid, the same humdrum
          life is a field barren and forlorn
          resurrection belongs only
          to those who choose to be reborn

         by surrendering the murky past
         that has clouded him for so long
          released from the pain and burden
          that has plagued him—he is the new man then-brave and strong.

"i ain't got no fat bootay.
i am just a little husky."
she said to me.
that big fat bus with the big fat yellow bootay.

"i'm a thinkin'
i'm gittin' REAL tired
of all your verse."
said she.

"you should live the life i do.
yes you should.
just for one day.
grubby little kids kicking the back of my seats,
hanging out the windows
screaming so loud.

"crying and punching
throwing each other's gear.
boxing an ear.

"picking and fightin'
and bullying every year.
wet boots and sand
poking me in the tummy
with their little stupid umbrellas.
wiping snot on my clean seats.

those high schoolers
smoking in back,
tobacco and joints
and drinking & stuff
thinking i don't know it.

well the he-ing and she-ing,
on trips, to games and more,
i won't go into here.
what do they think i am?
a rolling motel
hotel
super 6?

it's enough to drive me right
out of my mind here.

"i used to be shiny and bright and new,
and i was so happy
to finally get out on the town.
then i realized for what i was made
year after year,
driving around,
the very same trip
all over town.
more than enough
to drive anyone insane.

"if i had wrists,
i assure you i'd slit em',
for you can never imagine,
what is it like,
to be me."
says that big fat bus with the big fat yellow bootay.

okay so now... i'm starting to feel
just a little bad,
all the mad verse
i hurled
at her
all of those days.

so i say,
to that big fat bus,
with the big fat yellow bootay,
"why wait around?
set yourself free,
before you end up in the big fat bus
cemetery!

now in some other time,
in some other life,
i start to see,
i could see ,
the possibility,
of what good friends
we could have been.

i would have waxed her
well, brightened her up
shined up the grill
made those white walls sparkle.

i coulda detailed her
inside and out.
checked her oil
and tweaked those points
making sure those
spark plugs would light.

rotated her tires and
lubed all her joints.
windexed her glass
front, side and back.

so now
still feeling a little bad
i say,
to that big little-husky bus
with the big little-husky yellow bootay,
"go single,
go solo,
but GO NOW!"

taking my advice to heart,
that big fat bus,
with her big fat yellow bootay,

she discharged that last child,
and driver so worn,
and bided her time,
till well after dark.

she took a quick,
furtive look around,
stealthily rolled  
out of the yard.

once a safe distance away,
set her engine in gear,
and got right the hell
out of here.
right away.

flying down the open roads,
careening around every
sharp curve,
every bend.
tipped on her side,
tires right up off the ground.

shrieking like a madwoman

"it's a good day to die!
i'm finally free!"

"It's a good day to die! mother f-ers" she cried
as she sped down the road.

until,

HEY?
HEEEEYYY?
What's THAT in my way?

OH NO!
it's a BIG FAT BUS !
with a BIG FAT YELLOW BOOTAY!
and it's in MY WAY!

...brakes stomped through the floor with all her might,
smoking tires and squealing rubber, and skidding down the highway,
way out of control...

more to come ...Chronicles of a Big Fat Yellow Bootay

crazy how we often are told to live for today when all we want to do is die tomorrow.

Under his helmet, up against his pack,
After so many days of work and waking,
Sleep took him by the brow and laid him back.

There, in the happy no-time of his sleeping,
Death took him by the heart. There heaved a quaking
Of the aborted life within him leaping,
Then chest and sleepy arms once more fell slack.

And soon the slow, stray blood came creeping
From the intruding lead, like ants on track.

Whether his deeper sleep lie shaded by the shaking
Of great wings, and the thoughts that hung the stars,
High-pillowed on calm pillows of God's making,
Above these clouds, these rains, these sleets of lead,
And these winds' scimitars,
-Or whether yet his thin and sodden head
Confuses more and more with the low mould,
His hair being one with the grey grass
Of finished fields, and wire-scrags rusty-old,
Who knows? Who hopes? Who troubles? Let it pass!
He sleeps. He sleeps less tremulous, less cold,
Than we who wake, and waking say Alas!

When no one
pays attention
to your soulful
sad story.

All you are doing
is telling death how to die
I already know