Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess
Boy, you’ve been a naughty girl, you let your knickers down...
                           John Lennon

A carnal muse and fallen sprite
I’ll paint for you, in flattering light.
My model’s sensuality
Shall trump all dull reality;
Inspired by Womankind’s raw truth,
Life-drawing class heats up, uncouth.
Still, I am sure some stiff-necked *****
Shall smear my heartfelt lay as lewd.

Edenic exile sought by men,
Receive this tribute from my pen
And keyboard, played inexpertly
By one who knows you rapturously
As a muse of Aztec/Latin race
Prodigious in your works and grace:

Born Ruth Ayon, in God-Knows-Where,
She overwhelms in underwear—
And shedding that, turns good men bad,
Makes angels fall and gods go mad.
Los Angeles (and that’s the joke)
Is where this cherub went for broke
Cashing in her soul for action,
Soreness, ***** and tumefaction.

Laurie Vargas, mouth full of ***,
Spread for us now your Aztec ***
Your sultry contours hypnotize;
The laughter in your ******* eyes
Brings music from Tenochtitlán
And opens windows to Aztlán
You smile, unlike those other *****
Who merely grimace. Gringa butts
Are less audacious than your own . . .
Their charms are better left unknown.
Your cheeks in tan proportion shine
Embodying some rare truth divine.
(Through Poetry, I’ll make them mine.)

I must speak forth of what I found—
Though standing on unholy ground,
Here I behold your lively art . . .
Your unpierced flesh has lanced my heart.
Whereas most stars are tattooed, jaded
Your bright aspect shines, unfaded.
Clad in campesina thread
While moaning on your torrid bed,
Adorned in homespun broidered blouse
In some vaquero‘s rancho-house
Or naked as Mexica dawn,
Bespattered like a dewdropped lawn,
Spurting with some panting plumber
In an endless *****-summer,
You glow, like honey dipped in light
And undulating Latin night.
Your burning bush, much-trafficked place,
Recalls the Red Sea’s parted space
No less than your beatific face.

An unrepentant Magdalene,
You plunge into each graphic scene.
Madonna of the varied act
You swell, engorge, dilate, contract
And play the part with crazy wit
Suckling madly at your own ***.
The way you can accommodate
What barely seems to satiate
With pure abandon, leaves us awed,
As mesmerized, your name we laud,
(With one hand—harder to applaud !)

Will you survive to have regrets
When raw desire no longer gets
Your body hot with inner flame?
When *** has ceased to call your name?
I wonder if you’ve found such paths
Of flesh and pimping sociopaths
A route to riches, gain, and pleasure
Or mere sacking of your treasure.
At the end of your sweaty day,
Is there more than a harlot’s pay?

I wish you well—and hope in time,
When life has left you less sublime,
You’ll find your way to God through Christ
And learn of what was sacrificed
To free you from your sordid fame
Where sinners hail your glorious shame.

It’s Easter in Coronaland;

The empty malls hold silent air.

There’s paranoia on demand

For Easter in Coronaland.

The baby chickens make their stand;

And pastel rabbit eggs declare:

It’s Easter in Coronaland

In empty malls of silent air.

> < > < > < > < > < > < > <

A White Rose said to an African Violet:

Purple darkness makes my day.

The Violet, showing forth her petals, spoke:

Let’s share some sun, okay?

Poetry is the message, not the way it gets conveyed (SNIFF)
Do NOT make it your own (SNORT)
It’s not about saying it in a new way (HICCUP)
It’s all about a message delivered lyrically (BURP/BELCH)
Poetry is NOT about emotions recollected in tranquility (****)
Poetry is not about pushing the boundaries of language (YAWN)
Nor is it spasmodic unburdening (AHH—CHOO!)
Poetry has no militant agenda (GRUNT)
and Poetry is not about your prosaic observations (SIGH)

          LET’S GET THAT STRAIGHT !

Oh Kushite muses, open wide my lips
Regardless whether blood or honey drips,
To speak against the backwardness of those
Who progress, light, and liberty oppose.
To clarify a theme of clannish wrong
While nomads move the camel-herds along.
Animal husbandry takes on new meaning:
Their brides sewn shut; their pasturelands are greening;
Sheba’s daughters cheated of their pleasure,
Despoiled through painful plunder of their treasure.

Filthy blade in hand, the crone bears witness.
The girl in terror, clueless, cut, then clitless.
As if this weren’t enough, infibulation
Ensures the bridegroom’s ****** *******.
The honeymoon brings every husband joy:
Reopening the wrapping on his toy.
Where knife or horse-whip place their gentle kiss,
there Kushite swains deliver nights of bliss.
And nine moons later, motherhood, grown mild,
is opened yet again by blade for child.

From Kush to Punt, on Afric’s burning horn,
Sadistic ways cause modern minds to mourn.
We wonder how this barbary was born . . .
Many Bantus, and Ishmaelites as well
consign their birth-machines to living hell.
Explain to me how Satan sold this rite
to those who dwell in bio-****** night?
Veiled in flesh, her godhead cast aside
Subjected to some herdsman’s wounded pride . . .
Let Kush and Punt, their glory days recall;
Their daughters drink the wormwood and the gall.

Old scars, reopened, threaten to infect
What multi-culti feminists protect.
(But no one ought to talk about such things
because of all the prejudice it brings.)

In the garden of earthly delights

A disturbing assortment of sights;

From sublime… to more ominous,

Holy Hieronymous

Painted abysses and heights.

The chicken coop unmanned, adrift at sea
Rolls aimlessly upon hormonal swells.
Her crew, well-versed in gynecology
Repaint in pink dull feminism's hells.
Such lunacy as ovulates their womb
Impels them now to celebrate our doom.

First freed from God, then finally, from men,
The silly sailors, decked like women's parts
Scold gender's greater half, like hens, and then
Cluck on, devoid of biologic arts;
Useless fowl, squawking fit to neuter us
Who dare exist without a ******.

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree . . .

                                               Coleridge:­ Kubla Khan


Sheba’s ghost, lamenting, wails for Yemen:

Her incense trees are lacerated, scarred.

Sapped for their fragrance, drained of life and marred . . .

Their smoking blood offered up to heaven.

No sinuous rills flow forth to bless the dead;

Beneath her ruined dam no gardens grow;

And Bedouins only sing of what they know

In wastelands of the nomad past. It’s said

That all those spices, all that golden smoke

and irrigated dreams beneath the sand

were just a subtle Solomonic joke.

The yearly weight of gold, the camel-trains,

Are cryptic numbers—chanted in refrains

That only Marib’s phantoms understand.

Frumptart meets Trumptard: it’s bliss forever!

Rainbow twins make pink Indian Summer . . .

Poke your hontas, indigenous lover,

Till Twitter-dumb gets Twittering-dumber.

Having had my fill of a noxious brew

(Militant Marxist Genderqueer free verse),

My soul now seeks a less venomous view:

Write more poetry!  Dispel this global curse.

☁ ☁ ☁ ☁ ☁ ☁ ☁ ☁ ☁
Like those Nicean barks of yore
That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,
The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
                                                  E.A. Poe


Such transports as true poetry provides

In raptures of the soul, and lyric rides,

May carry one beyond the lofty heights

In chariots of sun on drunken nights.

Whether true odyssey or shorter trip,

Homeric craft or humbler sort of ship,

The poet’s chosen stowaway rides free;

The ticket paid for literarily.

And afterward, the traveler comes home

Enriched by distant sights and worlds unknown.

Plumed Serpent/Fabled Phoenix/Rare Black Swan:
Let Poetry now shoot you from the sky;
Your sin, though trendy, shall no more rage on . . .
They’ll see you’re just a Dodo by and by.

You puffed and fanned, a dazzling Peacock Star
It’s high time you descended here to earth.
We see you for the Emu that you are:
Your gender, like your ***—assigned at birth.

Huddled in your castles like Prospero’s doomed revelers, sighing in the springtime of contagion, you evade and avoid the obvious. But the Muse has entered, unseen, and stands among you in her mask of elegiac splendor. She smiles as you mock her presence. She laughs quietly to herself as her influence wafts upon the very air, inspiring and infecting all concerned. You try to protect yourselves from the lyric epidemic, nonetheless her viral poetic molecules go forth, regroup, mutate, and attach themselves to the souls of her detractors. Her spores hang upon the very droplets of the mist, a suspended Parnassian miasma. The first tremors of poetic sickness begin to shudder deep within and among the most reluctant revelers. They try to dispel their fears; they brag and congratulate themselves, chattering about the uselessness of poetry, listing all they ways in which they have successfully barricaded themselves from her pestilential presence. But the Muse has entered and none can ensure her departure. Poetry will have her way and resistance is futile. Some will survive, but others will meet her as their avenging angel of the plague, and neither Egyptian magic nor sanitizing legerdemain shall deter the blossoming vector of her influence. Fear, oh unpoetic readers, this sudden lyrical acceleration, this verdant celebration:

               our poetic coronation.

Got to sleep in a old holler log
With my rifle, my pipe and my dog.
As you city-folk know,
She's a hard row to ***;
Dang Corona done slaughtered ma hog.

Human beings, like poets, lack dignity.
Ever subject to Satan's malignity . . .
People **** and then wipe
While they think, as they type,
That they're full of pure lyric sublimity.

The annual Darwin Gay Ball
Was a gala occasion for all.
The Australopithecus
looked quite ridiculous
Leaning, half-drunk, on the wall.

Zinjanthropus, high on bananas
Uttered forth a long chain of Hosannas.
Although missing a link,
He knew just what to think
And went cruising for greener savannas.

The Cro-Magnons (more agile than Lucy)
Like their hunting and gathering juicy.
The mating was prime
And their dance, so sublime,
could out-monkey the funky Watusi.

Twas a lowbrow event; all the same,
Proto-drag-queens competed for fame.
The divine **** Habilis,
Hairy, but fabulous,
Gave Knuckle-Dragging its name.

**** Sapiens' wisdom has wrecked us
As the Darwinist doctrines infect us.
Knuckle-draggers may dream,
But bonobos now scream
That the winner is: **** Erectus!

I used to write
I can’t be a poet
because a poem is about race-grievances
and identity-mongering,
speaking with a country drawl
unveiling a *******-*** flag
or letting the words pound like metal
into the brains of brothers
who will never understand
and vote for Trump.
But, I’ve spent my life as a white boy
a part oriental, straight-haired,
thin-lipped,
small-***** White boy
and the poem will surely come out right
like me.

And, I don’t want everyone misinterpreting.

If I could be a gun-owning patriot
with concealed carry,
someone’s Ken doll and Clint Eastwood,
I’d be poetry in motion
without shooting a round
and wouldn’t have to make sense if I did.
If I were militant, I could be peaceful and mad
instead of an evil, pouting confederate general
a *******, passed over
crumbled and passed over,
a *******
crumbled in the bushes.

My father tells me
I used to run home crying
that I wanted to be black like my sisters.
She shook her head and told me
there was nothing wrong with my skin-lightener.
She didn’t tell me I was racist
(so my face wouldn’t swell up).

White boys cannot afford to
have delusions of Afrocentrism,
not drumming, singing off-key,
dry and rigid White boys.

And even though in Amerikkka
I was mistaken for someone’s professor or landlord
or policeman down south,
even though I swore
never again to walk with my hair straight,
proud,
ever to care
that those people who denigrate
the popular brand of diversity
don’t feel me,
it still shatters.

Looking through a window, it shatters.
Standing next to my lover
when someone dark gets that
“he ain’t no NBA star” expression
it shatters.

But it’s not so sad now.
I can cry about it,
Shoot hoops and write poems
about all those lay-ups,
my age and shading.
I’m through waiting for hope and change,
the 80’s didn’t throw me a bone
and as many years as I’ve been
White like Ivory
White like the clouds
I have seen in the water
and the sights of my brothers
that ugly is the man in light
who withers with hating.

Chirlane McCray   (b. 1954)

I used to think
I can’t be a poet
because a poem is being everything you can be
in one moment,
speaking with lightning protest
unveiling a fiery intellect
or letting the words drift feather-soft
into the ears of strangers
who will suddenly understand
my beautiful and tortured soul.
But, I’ve spent my life as a Black girl
a *****-headed, no-haired,
fat-lipped,
big-bottomed Black girl
and the poem will surely come out wrong
like me.

And, I don’t want everyone looking at me.

If I could be a cream-colored lovely
with gypsy curls,
someone’s pecan dream and sweet sensation,
I’d be poetry in motion
without saying a word
and wouldn’t have to make sense if I did.
If I were beautiful, I could be angry and cute
instead of an evil, pouting mammy *****
a ****** woman, passed over
conquested and passed over,
a ****** woman
to do it to in the bushes.

My mother tells me
I used to run home crying
that I wanted to be light like my sisters.
She shook her head and told me
there was nothing wrong with my color.
She didn’t tell me I was pretty
(so my head wouldn’t swell up).

Black girls cannot afford to
have illusions of grandeur,
not ***-kicking, too-loud-laughing,
mean and loose Black girls.

And even though in Afrika
I was mistaken for someone’s fine sister or cousin
or neighbor down the way,
even though I swore
never again to walk with my head down,
ashamed,
never to care
that those people who celebrate
the popular brand of beauty
don’t see me,
it still matters.

Looking for a job, it matters.
Standing next to my lover
when someone light gets that
“she ain’t nothin come home with me” expression
it matters.

But it’s not so bad now.
I can laugh about it,
trade stories and write poems
about all those put-downs,
my rage and hiding.
I’m through waiting for minds to change,
the 60’s didn’t put me on a throne
and as many years as I’ve been
Black like ebony
Black like the night
I have seen in the mirror
and the eyes of my sisters
that pretty is the woman in darkness
who flowers with loving.

©1983 Chirlane McCray

♛  ♡  ♛  ♡  ♛  ♡  ♛  ♡  ♛  ♡  ♛  ♡  ♛  ♡   

As I walked out one evening,

   Walking down Bristol Street,

The crowds upon the pavement

   Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river

   I heard a lover sing

Under an arch of the railway:

   ‘Love has no ending.

‘I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you

   Till China and Africa meet,

And the river jumps over the mountain

   And the salmon sing in the street,

‘I’ll love you till the ocean

   Is folded and hung up to dry

And the seven stars go squawking

   Like geese about the sky.

‘The years shall run like rabbits,

   For in my arms I hold

The Flower of the Ages,

   And the first love of the world.’

But all the clocks in the city

   Began to whirr and chime:

‘O let not Time deceive you,

   You cannot conquer Time.

‘In the burrows of the Nightmare

   Where Justice naked is,

Time watches from the shadow

   And coughs when you would kiss.

‘In headaches and in worry

   Vaguely life leaks away,

And Time will have his fancy

   To-morrow or to-day.

‘Into many a green valley

   Drifts the appalling snow;

Time breaks the threaded dances

   And the diver’s brilliant bow.

‘O plunge your hands in water,

   Plunge them in up to the wrist;

Stare, stare in the basin

   And wonder what you’ve missed.

‘The glacier knocks in the cupboard,

   The desert sighs in the bed,

And the crack in the tea-cup opens

   A lane to the land of the dead.

‘Where the beggars raffle the banknotes

   And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,

And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,

   And Jill goes down on her back.

‘O look, look in the mirror,

   O look in your distress:

Life remains a blessing

   Although you cannot bless.

‘O stand, stand at the window

   As the tears scald and start;

You shall love your crooked neighbour

   With your crooked heart.’

It was late, late in the evening,

   The lovers they were gone;

The clocks had ceased their chiming,

   And the deep river ran on.




W.H. Auden  (1907-1973)

Medo-Persia smacked!
Hornets' nest is buzzing now.
Don't believe the hype...

MSM: just die!
We don't need the Fake News spin.
Reality's here.

Those pervy bros Podesta:
Collector's breed apart;
Both share a nasty interest
In a type of sordid art;

Depicting painted victims,
***** kids in disarray;
Their taste projects the symptoms
Of what their souls display.

Such themes as fill their mansions
And cloistered halls of power
Reveal some dark delusions
And what they would devour.

Our capital's elitists
Show plainly what they are
The price of their admission
Won't get them very far.

I wet the whistle first, then blow
(my algorithm will let you know—)

And then my bot will rob you blind
in the name of humankind.

Which means there exist no more than two genders;
both of them are Truth's defenders . . .

and Eric Ciaramella didn't **** himself.

If your wisdom is known by your chants,
The Red Rage loses all its romance.
Those ******* refrains
Preclude any real gains
From your dull dialectical dance.

When patriots express their views
It trumps the deep-state network news,

Who call it this and call it that
Then spin it in their laundromat . . .

Apart from all they say and do,
Every conspiracy is true.

Take it easy. They'll implode slower.
Eric CIAramella is the whistleblower.

Race, race, race and then some more about race...
As if we cared that much about your face;
God bestows His beauty in diverse hues.
You’ll never learn this lesson from fake news.
Be a grateful citizen of His grace.

Cadaver animated by Marxism
Corpse possessed by militancy
Dead body filled with resentment
Zombie legions stirred by revolution
Mortuaries quickened by Dialectical Materialism
Necropolises of confrontation
Armies of dysfunctional ignorance
Reanimated carcasses of class consciousness
Semi-informed legions of the Undead

Just tell us how it happened. Throw the courtesy aside.
Vague murmurings of hushed restraint are more than I can take.
I’m leaping to conclusions while I wonder how he died.
There is more than vain conjecture I’m presuming one can make . . .
Whether natural, accidental overdose or suicide,
It’s too late for social niceties. He’s reached the other side.

Greta, oh Greta, you’re freaking out.
Our planet won’t perish. You'll grow up.
Hyped and promoted by globalist funds,
Your unbalanced drama makes us cringe.

Greta, oh Greta, you’re barking mad;
Your handlers have let out too much leash.
Time to lie down on your favorite mat
And pray to the Lord Jesus Christ.

I could not care less
concerning global warming.
That's YOUR religion.

I'm not interested
in your fake apocalypse.
You need to get saved.

You substituted
this silly theory of doom
for Faith and true Hope.

Wake me up when Christ returns at the end.
When sin, death and hell no longer offend.

I almost made it until the last scene,
depressed⁠—considering what might have been . . .

But what I envisioned, that it was not;
And thus, I finally lost track of the plot.

The African tyrant Mugabe
Drove his nation to death as a hobby.
First he trampled their rights
Then expelled all the whites
As he robbed his own nation, that Robbie.

Terms are derivatives of each other.
Wypipo are different from Blapipo.

Do tell.
Wypipo say **** like do tell. . .  

Not all white people are Blapipo.

The two
should not be confused
or used interchangeably.

The differences
are too vast to quantify,
examples:

Blapipo will kiss their mouth
with the same silverware
they are eating with.

Wypipo see a bullet-riddled body
leaking outrage in the street
and feel no empathy,
but will mistreat a house cat.

Blapipo steer clear of white neighborhoods
and will show up at Sea World
with picket signs
to protest killer whales.

And it’s not just animals.
All white people get angry
that the phrase even exists.

Wypipo share a comfortable egocentric delusion
with Blapipo: that anyone who doesn’t reach base
must not be as good a hitter.

He so cold cool he hot
Peep be like: word
Mixing trax in da klub
King of tha mix
They all: we lit
Layin down them oldskool
Cuttin in some riddim
Droppin beatz
Sound system be like: higher
Mixmaster T play it 4 tha playas
And 4 tha kidz
Funk Soul Hiphop Latin House
(White House too!)
Thatz why he prezident
Funky Commander-in-Chief
Talkin bout Tha Dee-Jay y'all
Nuff respeck
Cuz its about LOVE people...
So dig your DJ:

☆D.J. TRUMP☆

They be like: ****
You be like: no
It's just a World-Star minstrel show.
The Afrocentric thought runs deep . . .
(Now get your woke *** back to sleep.)