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ConnectHook Feb 2017
★ ✰ ✪ ★ ✰ ✪ ★ ✰ ✪

The Baby-Hole, her baby-hole!
Turn back before you lose your soul.
Those walls of pink, those gates of pearl
grant entrance to each boy and girl
who come through this organic portal:
newly-born and merely mortal.

Mystery to be dignified—
explored, adored, objectified:
the baby-hole’s expanding chasm,
promising celestial spasm,
is limned in deliquescent love
and fits the soul as hand in glove.
Beware her tantalizing pull
where poetry turns vaginal.
From depths profound, God can create
(where man would merely *******,
hitting Mother Nature’s high note
as the gamete turns to zygote).
Semi-seconds’ spurting passion
years of living baby fashion.
After pleasure’s jest, gestation
thus augments the population;
teenage dads recalibrate,
unsure just what to celebrate.

Yet, if they knew the daring risk
their ***** endure, they’d slip a disc;
to realize what threatening odds
confront these flagellated gods:
(see Luke in Star Wars, [number IV]
battling fascists in the war
alone in the zone to shoot the shot
that blows the death star up. Let’s not
miss out on noting, in this theme,
life’s true conception. So the team
of X-wing pilots flew the run,
eliminated one by one
save Luke, who penetrated deep
the death-star’s ovulated keep
and overcame the egg’s defense
and hit the mark. It all makes sense.
The spheroid bursting in his sight
depicts Conception's glorious might).

Therefore, show the matrix honor.
Shoot and leave—your star’s a goner:
nurture growth while life allows you,
while your star can still espouse you.

Seek her core of hidden gnosis
don’t just set off cell mitosis…
not, that is, unless you are sure
that the three of you won’t end up poor.
★ ✰ ✪ ✰ ★ ✰ ✪ ✰ ★ ✰ ✪ ✰

Yes - this poem was inspired by the ******
of the first Star Wars movie.

The original version with **** graphics is here:

https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2015/04/23/view-from-the-mortal-portal-gynecological-activism/
ConnectHook Feb 2020
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.
I was feeling negative. Sorry.
ConnectHook Mar 2020
A celebration . . .
The plague’s acceleration:
Our coronation!
Crown us with many crowns
(Read Psalm 91)
ConnectHook Jun 2019
Evil Drumpf ******, worse than Watergate
Orange Man bad— 'tis their hour to impeach!
Colluding, they rush to regurgitate
Nonsense from their last non-candidate's speech.

Accusations and trials. It's quite a show.
He's guilty, so guilty, of serious crime.
They're not sure of what, but he HAS to go.
(Their permanent peeve is our circus-time.)

Through dark lenses, opthalmologically:
They can hate on our optics; we won't mind
Our magic glasses allow us to see
With twenty-twenty vision . . . but they're still blind.
Please be sure to have regular eye checkups.
Ocular health is important for all.
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Lovely angles, muscles, motion
roused the pitch of hot devotion.
Banners raised as standards flapped
orders barked, salutes were snapped:
volk emotion.

Olympiads and warrior rallies
Mountain maidens, Rhineland valleys
showed forth her visionary arts.
This Überfrau demands our hearts’
analyses.

Leni filmed it with a flair
made us feel that we were there;
over, under, moving through
a merely mortal flaw: her true
**** affair.

Misbegotten Roman signs
intensified her visual lines.
Cinematographic blame
forestalled by Leni’s optic frame;
her vision shines.

She’d tackle any reef and stall
to answer nature’s filmic call
diving deep and wrestling Kau:
light in Sudan’s darkness, how
it can enthrall.

Has history been unkind to her,
this cinematic Lucifer ?
Or is she vindicated
and rightly adulated
as memories blur?

No one dares excuse, nor coddle
propaganda’s super-model.
Yet, the audience must admit
Leni was no hypocrite,
ours to throttle.

Liebfraumilch-maid ? Much depends
upon the angle of her lens
Leni makes the cameras falter,
wondering if film can alter
history’s ends.
HAIKU be all, like:
MINIMALISM baybeee . . .
(kickin’ Snapchat’s ***)
ConnectHook Sep 2015
☠☭☠☭☠☭☠

I ask you righteous Justice-lovers:
can it be that art uncovers
fiction passed as fact?
(is Cubism abstract?)

Behold the Caribbean glory –
pass the **** – uh, torch. My story
cries for sober ears
to modulate our fears.

Ask the ones who fled that island
why they left their tropic homeland;
if they think it’s cool
to glorify Red rule…

The noble face of Revolution,
CHE provides the cheap solution;
earnest young Ernesto
lived out the manifesto.

Martial hippie, beatnik butcher
bravely gazing toward the future
beams the brow of CHE
their shining knight of day.

Brand-new bloodshed – same old song
for guerrilleros of the ****
who rage against machines
confounding ends with means.

Such semi-informed fools display
a heady ignorance of CHE –
as if he played the bass.
(I hold them in disgrace.)

Though CHE was tough on Rock n’Rollers,
he abetted thought controllers;
jailing small and great
in Fidel’s prison-state.

Yet they’re convinced that CHE was righteous:
militant against injustice –
worshiping his name,
impervious to blame.

“Yo, CHE wuz for the PEOPLE, man.
(They’re not too sure about his plan…)
He died to make men free –
immortal – isn’t he?”

Vaguely Leftist youth display him,
not quite clear on how to play him –
Bearded god of Vision:
immune to all derision.

Ahem. A different Bearded One,
God’s other revolutionary son
borrowed from CHE – or stole
The liberator’s role…

Yet, let us not be blown off-course.
My words must gather rising force
to set the record straight
and hotter heads deflate.

The hairy Argentinian medic
left a lucrative esthetic:
****** meme of war –
his T-shirts rock the store!

Outworn by posing poetasters,
dreamers, thugs and hero-wasters
ignorant of history
and high on Marxist mystery.

He glowers with a lit cigar:
the noble hippie ******/czar
for kids who went to Kollege
emerging void of knowledge.

Now hailed by rappers, clueless starlets
Hollywood saints (and leftist harlots);
everyone’s a fan
of Cuba’s Magic Man.

What was his plan to save the nation?
Proletarian dictation!
Eliminating classes
while kissing Party *****.

Classic Leftist liquidation:
bathe the land in blood. Salvation
comes much later on.
For now let’s get it on !

(Let’s get his T-shirt on that is.
The taste is flatter than the fizz
of Revolution Cola;
go ask the Ayatollah).

One serious thing I beg of you.
Do NOT discern the truth. Just view
his face with pure devotion
to set it all in motion.

CHE was a merciless father-mucker
(translate THAT to Spanish, sucker).
Put away your ****.
My poem’s too long
(thus ends the song).
https://connecthook.wordpress.com/mine/various/viva-el-che/

☠☭☠☭☠☭☠
ConnectHook Oct 2017
Bright light city gonna set my soul
Gonna set my soul on fire
Got a whole lot of money that's ready to burn,
So get those stakes up higher
There's a thousand pretty women waitin' out there
And they're all livin' the devil may care
And I'm just the devil with love to spare, so
Viva Las Vegas, Viva Las Vegas
How I wish that there were more
Than the twenty-four hours in the day
Even if there were forty more
I wouldn't sleep a minute away
Oh, there's black jack and poker and the roulette wheel
A fortune won and lost on ev'ry deal
All you need's a strong heart and a nerve of steel
Viva Las Vegas, Viva Las Vegas
Viva Las Vegas with you neon flashin'
And your one arm bandits crashin'
All those hopes down the drain
Viva Las Vegas turnin' day into nighttime
Turnin' night into daytime
If you see it once
You'll never be the same again
I'm gonna keep on the run
I'm gonna have me some fun
If it costs me my very last dime
If I wind up broke up well
I'll always remember that I had a swingin' time
I'm gonna give it ev'rything I've got
Lady luck please let the dice stay hot
Let me shoot a seven with ev'ry shot, ah
Viva Las Vegas, Viva Las Vegas,
Viva Las Vegas, viva, viva Las Vegas
"Viva Las Vegas" is a 1963 song written by Doc Pomus and Mort Shuman and recorded that same year by Elvis Presley for his Viva Las Vegas film vehicle, which along with the song was set for general release the year after. Although Presley never sang the song live, it has since become widely known and often performed by others.
ConnectHook Jun 2018
No Cyrus he, this Angloid king from Queens;
In hate, they big him up to take a fall.
His eagle visage loads the magazines
Provoking hissy-fits of Fake-News gall.
Despised by half; notorious to all
And goading on his foes' hysteric scenes
A hail of ****** insults hits the wall
Unleashed by frothing cows and clueless teens.
Such overused hyperbole grows weak,
And tirades, through inflation, lose their worth
To finally miss the target that they seek—
While nations on the face of God's green earth
(countries that define themselves with borders)
Appallingly parade their own disorders.
A shekel for your thoughts:
https://www.cbsnews.com/news/israel-trump-coin-honours-recognition-jerusalem-as-capital/
ConnectHook Apr 2021
Hyphenated–Last–Name had  opinions.

Hyphenated–Last–Name was stunning & brave.

Hyphenated–Last–Name felt threatened as well as outraged.

Hyphenated–Last–Name spoke for all women everywhere.

Hyphenated–Last–Name took a bold stance for the marginalized.

Hyphenated–Last–Name spoke truth to power.

Hyphenated–Last–Name felt that strict measures were called for.

Hyphenated–Last–Name had her head up her ***.

Hyphenated–Last–Name did not believe in God.
NaPoWriMo prompt #14:
write a poem that delves into the meaning of a first or last name.
ConnectHook Oct 2018
Human shields
Mothers go first
Honduran fields
The plan rehearsed
Fake refugees
Who storm the gates
More borders, please
Trump hesitates . . .
WE ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE TO PROVIDE SOCIAL SERVICES FOR THE ENTIRE LATIN WORLD AND MEXICO STAY IN YOUR OWN COUNTRIES AND IMPROVE THEM READ A BOOK GET EDUCATED STOP DANCING SO MUCH AND HAVING BABIES AT AGE FIFTEEN DONT EXPECT GRINGOS TO TAKE CARE OF YOU TIME TO PUSH FOR REFORMATION AND REVIVAL IN YOUR OWN DYSFUNCTIONAL COUNTRIES A CELL IS DEFINED BY ITS BOUNDARIES AND GOD ALMIGHTY ORDAINED THE NATION STATE SO DOWN WITH YOUR MOB MENTALITY
ConnectHook Jul 2022
I send u link
u send me link
but nothing changes
what we think.

U tell me this
I tell u that
but that won't alter
where we at.
Stale mating rituals
VS.
Male stating rituals
ConnectHook Mar 2016
It's Sunday again for you cloistered patricians
aloof from the madness, the magic and myth;
who trust in your wisdom, investments, physicians
unready to answer forthwith:

"Why bother with worship—in church or the zoo—
why weaken the links with a dull set of tools ?"
you ask yourself over your high-end Tarrazu,
bemused at the fables of fools.

You've bartered salvation for New York Times articles,
sipping on bitterness (shade-grown organic).
You settle for molecules, atoms and particles
unfairly-traded, satanic—

while you celebrate emptiness, general futility
musing on nothingness, sure of specifics
ensconced in your kitchen of pampered gentility
flirting with atheist physics.

Those simple plebeians:  you'd love to enlighten them
help them, like you, to become a free-thinker
but you remain tasteful, for boldness might frighten them
reeling in fairy tales: hook, line and sinker.

Yet somebody, somewhere has uttered your sentence
(though you abhor judgement, let's read it again).
Sheba and Nineveh, versed in repentance
await you—not whether but when.

The darkness is brewing unholy filtration;
the wine of the harlot approaches the rim;
your guilt is augmenting in slow percolation;
you shrug it all off on a whim.

The souls of Assyria rise from your paper
they watch in amazement, prepare your abyss.
Your coffee now brims a more sulfurous vapor;
oh sinner—there's something amiss:

The crypts of Marib and the tombs of the Axumites
shudder and groan while you're reading the Times...
(immune to the words that some Christarded  poet writes
mixing psychosis with rhymes.)

Royal Sheba will chastise your erudite unbelief,
smug self-importance and cynical squawk.
Then she'll sigh with immense Ethiopian grief
and her Highness Queen Bilqis will talk.

It is Sunday in Babylon.  What if your sunlight ends...
why are there mobs in the streets of the nation?
Shall you have breakfast—or calculate dividends...
what would you pay for salvation?
The men of Nineveh shall rise in judgment with this generation, and shall condemn it: because they repented at the preaching of Jonas; and, behold, a greater than Jonas is here.
The queen of the south shall rise up in the judgment with this generation,and shall condemn it: for she came from the uttermost parts of the earth to hear the wisdom of Solomon; and, behold, a greater than Solomon is here.

[Christ's words from Matthew 12:41,42]
ConnectHook Jun 2020
🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

Strident Social Justice:


(Some loud ***** with her fist in the air.)
A gentle "haibun" in the manner of Bosho for you.

https://youtu.be/7ljXduxcquM
ConnectHook Apr 2024
Weird wisdom: attractive to some.
While to others, quite clearly, just dumb.
Mystic truth from the East?
Ask your guru. At least
He will sell you a mantra to hum . . .

Western Buddhists: they talk very Zen;
And they placate our Japanese yen
For satori. (and sake);
It’s fake sukiyaki—
The food they prepare, such wise men…

But the weirdest of all of these sages
Is the fake tantric monk who engages
His female pupils
In sin, with no scruples,
And little regard for their ages.
P R O M P T #6 :
write a poem rooted in “weird wisdom”
ConnectHook Apr 2019
My old dull knife; I love that blade.
Behold her blunted self portrayed:
She shines, yet cannot make her point
Unsheathed, she’ll only disappoint.

Her edge, that dares to draw no blood
When cold, shall carve no willing wood;
Well-warmed, she’ll lose the fight to butter . . .
Despite her glitter, she’s no cutter.

A useless tool. There is none worse.
I’ll sharpen her—and then, my verse.
PROMPT #12:
write a poem about a dull thing that you own, and why and how you love it.
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Dylan Thomas, drunk-*** poet,
uncorked nouns, imbibed the verb
downed six pints and thought about it
sitting unsteadily on the curb:

“Winds of word unleashed in drink
will fill to the full my poem’s sails…
though it may totter on the brink,
my drunken boat defies the gales.”

Floating on wreckage to distant shores,
our ***** bard beheld the deep
where whales spout forth their lyric stores
while the inebriate muses weep.

This postwar lush and lyrical fad,
was the biggest pint in the bar called Wales.
While not the worst, his verse was bad…
(but better after seven ales).
I wrote this after perusing A Child’s Christmas in Wales, which was a big yawn
and, to me, embarrassingly bad poetry.
But some of Thomas’ early verse is beautiful (in the eye of this beholder).
So I ALMOST  feel mean for scrawling this little ditty.
ConnectHook Sep 2015
find less than arresting: stilted musings gem-set

in ardent verbiage.

recherché semantics, florid phrases facing a withering sun

or policing of metaphor –

until handcuffed: Italic jewel thief caught on surveillance

Sudden bewildering

                                        spaces with odd punctuation;  ?  &

inward dithering semi-confessions in serpentine

verse.  Badder (or worse)  annoying line

           breaks /

cloying internal half – rhymes,

overwrought.     Over-edited;

over-thought until  you want to see

what’s on TV instead.        As if

the poet’s every random musing was so

essential.  Reverential semi-precious mythos

(Siren’s distant waves echo, shipwrecked rocks: Ossifer,  ossifer

it’s only boring poetry…

                        I’m so sorry. I’ll never do it)

again.
Poetry revival !!

DEATH to boring free verse !!!

Rhythm & rhyme in a structured line !!

YEAH baby...

ConnectHook Apr 2018
I sing of human dignity
whose absence can be seen
through lens of foul reality
within Mad Magazine !

The foibles of America,
the hubris and the glory
the paunch, the slouch, the bad-hair lives,
the real plebeian story.

Bruegel’s mobs and Ensor’s masks
improved, enhanced, updated
on comic page, until one asks:
is painting overrated?

Beardsley, Hogarth, masters all—
and acid-etched our race;
but unkind pure hilarious truth
beams forth from Alfred’s face.

The dolts, the clods, the leering fools,
the sociopathic clowns,
glitter like fractured plastic jewels
in Walmart-purchased crowns.

Alfred Neuman has the goods.
The lash, at first, feels bad
when whips of satire welt our back.
Behold the man: he’s MAD !
The good thing is that
You can crank a Haiku out
while you’re half asleep
ConnectHook Sep 2015
The ranch-bound bovines, in dehydration,
yet wary of Kool-aid, declined to drink.
They grazed in wonder, cowed rumination:
where does “beef” come from?  A herd tends to think

of pasturage, water, and basic needs.
Ranch-hands assured them all was in order;
privileged guests enjoy the finest  feeds.
Cows, content on this side of the border

try Buddhism, yoga – or simply gaze…
though things in the distance loomed ominous
(those lots at the edge of the well-hoofed ways)
– and a stench wafted into their consciousness.

Yet calves frolicked on while the bulls mounted heifers –
dreamed vegan dreams as they nibbled grasses
some earned doctorates, others went clubbing;
all loosed sustainable methane gases.

Soothing their calves with fables and stories
where cows are the measure of pastured life
they deflected the gist of the young ones’ queries,
affirming that Truth means avoidance of strife.

“It’s best to just graze. Don’t ask questions dear.
We’re on this planet without any clue.
We evolved. From just what is a little unclear –
but Cow Science has proved that it’s true.”
ConnectHook Nov 2019
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.
Conspiracy analysis: Isaiah 8:12-13
ConnectHook Apr 2023
Letz keep it real and talk cosmetic care:
You despise a white blonde—but ape her hair.
You celebrate Blackness, but lighten your skin;
Hate on white neighborhoods. Then you move in;
Blame us for everything, covet our goods . . .
Tell me once again about those white hoods.
Culturally appropriate: hair made straight:
Chemical process of permanent hate.
ConnectHook Apr 2021
Militant poetess, dark ingrate
From what black hole did you emigrate?
From what strange galaxy of spite
Did you slither forth to curse and bite?
What absent father spawned your soul
to spread such vicious vitriol
And bring bad vibes wherever you go
In your bitter black feminist minstrel show?
NaPoWriMo day #6
ConnectHook Oct 2016
Governments fall from sheer indifference.
Authority figures, deprived of the vampiric energy they **** off their constituents, are seen for what they are: dead empty masks manipulated by computers. And what is behind the computers? Remote control. Of course. Look at the prison you are in, we are all in. This is a penal colony that is now a Death Camp. Place of the Second and Final Death. Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape. Don’t intend to be there when this ******* goes up. Nothing here now but the recordings. Shut them off, they are as radioactive as an old joke…
from The Western Lands (1988) by William S. Burroughs.

https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2016/10/07/material-seven-souls/
ConnectHook Jun 2021
Fake celebration
More forced blackification
A dumbed-down nation
todayz google page
ConnectHook Apr 2023
Set your alarms, y'all. I'm mad WOKE.
Order Chinese—send in the clowns.
(General Tso, you know, was white . . .
Africa's in on the corporate joke)
And every lion-tamer frowns.
Sleeping late on Sabbath morning
You might miss my woke-*** warning;
Time for you to get it right.
Soccer moms talked on, inept
Wokesplaining Blackness to the slept.

Hoping lion's would not bite'em,
Lambs were roaring, panthers leapt.
(Lamb-chops are a pricey item...)
Blind-men too, received their sight,
Discovering new shades of white,
As one young sheep, determined, kept
Wokesplaining Blackness to the slept.

War on Whiteness! Dark the night.
Time to dis-empower their light.
Pull the plug on those Caucasians;
Afro-centrify all Asians!
Full-court press, seconds remaining
Final quarter: there's the game
Light-skinned Latins start complaining
People of color hold no grudge;
Whitey look for who to blame.
Take notes, brother. Here come the judge.
Fools held court. The jury prepped:
Wokesplaining Blackness to the slept.

Then— the basketball was ended.
Cross-country skiing now the rage.
Black was under-represented;
Social justice facts presented:
Winter sports now turned the page.
Nordic culture was up-ended.
Pride makes possible all, except
Wokesplaining Blackness to the slept.

St. George Floyd is celebrated
Neighborhoods get burned to ashes
Racist rioters compensated
Whiteness hits the brakes—and crashes.
Mary murmured . . . Jesus wept
Wokesplaining Blackness to the slept.
Stay woke, y'all
ConnectHook Apr 2023
The wokeness is so deep: they're sleeping.
Clueless legions are on the march . . .
Ignorance has Wisdom weeping;
The wokeness is so deep they're sleeping
Through the harvest, and the reaping.
Behold the view from Titus's arch:
The wokeness is so deep they're sleeping—
Clueless legions are on the march.
PROMPT #4 
try writing triolets. A triolet is an eight-line poem.
All the lines are in iambic tetramenter (for a total of eight syllables per line),
and the first, fourth, and seventh lines are identical, as are the second and final lines.
This means that the poem begins and ends with the same couplet.
ConnectHook Aug 2018
Hyphenated-Last-Name had an opinion.

Hyphenated-Last-Name felt threatened as well as outraged.

Hyphenated-Last-Name spoke for all women everywhere.

Hyphenated-Last-Name took a bold stance for the marginalized.

Hyphenated-Last-Name spoke truth to power.

Hyphenated-Last-Name felt that strict measures were called for.

Hyphenated-Last-Name had her head up her *** and did not believe in GOD.
Don't be another H-L-N.
ConnectHook Apr 2024
Ready for any feminist feat
In her ****-tube and starry skirt,
Wonder-Woman looks petite
(though probably ought to don a shirt)
In, fact we’d better make her black
Before her foes, unhinged, attack . . .

Go-go boots show off her legs
Muscled for emancipation;
And for bearing wonder-eggs
Through empowered ovulation.
Binary gender’s warrior queen
Bursts forth upon our sexist scene,

And bristling with the strength of ten
Of her not-so wondrous sisters,
She centers red-starred crown, and then
She’s off to fight the truth’s resisters:
Rosie the Riveter’s better half—
An old-school feminist sacred calf.
NaPoWriMo 2024
Prompt #23:
write a poem about, or involving, a superhero
ConnectHook Aug 2024
False form of Christianity:
American insanity.
Dispensing what’s unorthodox
To their low-information flocks,
Preachers rant from outer space
Extorting tithes, with glowing face.
Exhorting stubborn sheep and goats
To sow that seed in higher notes.
Media-promoted freakshow,
Beamed by satellite. Here below
We observe their bald expansions:
Buying Lear jets, yachts, new mansions . . .
Something in that Tulsa water
Fattens up these calves for slaughter
While they prattle, Okie-style,
Preaching from the Book of Vile.
Empire-building in tailored suits . . .
Its time to judge them by their fruits.
ConnectHook Nov 2016
A ****** midwestern Somali
was feeling and acting quite jolly.
This homegrown jihadi
employed his own body
in hacking (not cyber). Thanks, Ali.
News from Ohio:

The alleged attacker, Abdul Razak Ali Artan, was killed by police, but not before driving a car into a group of people and then attacking victims with a butcher's knife, said Monica Moll, public safety director at Ohio State. FBI agents had joined local police in investigating the incident. Eleven people were injured; all are expected to survive

Artan was born in Somalia and living in the United States as a legal permanent resident. Investigators discovered a message he posted on a Facebook page before the attack in which he expressed anger about the treatment of Muslims around the world, according to reports from multiple news outlets, citing unidentified law enforcement officials.
ConnectHook Nov 2021
Kyle is a hero!

He killed a violent child-molester
and another deadbeat agitator,
both of whom attacked him with a mob.

Rosenbaum called him a *****
even though Kyle is white as snow.

Another criminal bludgeoned him with a skateboard.
(Dude, that's totally THRASH--)

Too bad the third criminal
only got a shot in the arm...

WELL-DONE, Mr. Rittenhouse,
https://theothermccain.com/2020/08/28/***-offender-joseph-rosenbaum-taunted-armed-civilians-shoot-me-n-r/
ConnectHook Sep 2019
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.
found modified poem from:
http://neguswhoread.com/wypipo-explained/
ConnectHook Dec 2018
Data-driven snow
Globalist control and gifts
Shut up and Buy, sheep.

Shepherds keeping watch
Disco Sky-Aliens appear
Christ's freaking light-show
One World yo mama
ConnectHook Apr 2023
Smoking Mistress Nicotine's Sister in an upright bent poker tonight.
Upon unzipping her can and lowering her inner lining there is a pronounced initial note of excited unlit tobacco. The leaf is very moist, almost slippery in lubricity and takes the flame like a 22 year-old ****** on her honeymoon. Pack me hard, I want a long smoke tonight, she murmurs as I look for a match. She arches up, desiring to burn and be transmuted into holy smoke. Upon relight, there is a distinct taste of female sweat and pheromones. Initial room note is comparable to that girl at the 10th grade spring dance when you snuck in some apricot brandy. Partway into the bowl, the sophomoric fumblings become more enjoyably experienced and there is a shared sense of tobacco torpor. Deep in the bowl she asks if you will smoke her for the rest of your life. Yes, you answer, breathing heavily.

A smoldering jungle of desire:
Where you discern her smoke, there's fire.
Pulsating tunnel of delight,
She swells again upon re-light.
Her rounded bowl accepts my flame 
Excusing her from any blame
.

After the last spasmodic puff of smoke dies, there is a lingering pleasure which pulsates in the cooling bowl and makes you want to smoke again. I rate this tobacco very highly indeed.
PROMPT 24: write a poem in the form of a review
ConnectHook Apr 5
I’m off to Bermuda
While you’re up the creek!
I cruise like old money;
You float like a freak.

As you steer between rocks
In that ****** canoe,
You’re a maritime nuisance
Obstructing the view.

My luxury vessel
Steers clear of the sharks;
You paddle and fulminate,
Studying Marx.

Your dugout is leaking;
I’m greasing the skids.
The dividends pay out
to bankroll my kids.

My profits accrue
While you seethe at your bosses.
You rail at the system—
I minimize losses.

I cruise into port.
Our hotel is reserved…
Your bitter resentment
Means dinner is served.

Departures are blissful;
We glide into harbors
And dine amidst hollyhocks
Under the arbors.

The banquet is served:
An idyllic location—
But you merely murmur
In disapprobation.

So scratch my maid’s Tesla
(or blow up a dealership…)
Rattle your chains
While insulting my captainship.

I’m by the pool—
You can splash in your gutter.
I’ll leave you a tip
For some bread with your butter.
NaPoWriMo PROMPT #5:
https://www.napowrimo.net/day-five-12/
ConnectHook Apr 2016
♗  ♗  ♗  ♗  ♗  ♗  ♗

Hopery, changery, stranger-than-strangery
tip the good vicar your hat—
as he sits with Obama, the global Gautama
indulging in neighborly chat.

Popery, popery, changery-hopery
grant the old Pontiff his wish.
Then summon a bishop to season and dish up
a kettle of catechized fish.

Changery, hopery—swing from the ropery,
garnish the Vatican stew.
The Cardinals compassed, the media rumpused
the Protestants joined in, too…

Fakery, changery, safety in dangery
lack of direction was lost
as it became clear that no concord was near
and the threshold of lunacy crossed.

Changery-hopery, soap-on-a-ropery,
buy the Obama a beer.
Let the Lord’s liberation enlighten our nation
as forums and quorums get queer.

Hopery, changery, babe-in-a-mangery
hail the immaculate mess;
until limbo is purged and repentance is urged
and the canonized con-men confess.

Babilo-mockery, roll with the rockery
kiss the pontificate ring;
til’ the old Argentinian wax Constantinian
causing Gods angels to sing.

Jiggery-pokery fooling the folkery
monkery second to none…
what was once sacrilegious is now a religious
conventional focus of fun.

Papacy, lunacy piping the tunacy
Father goose mothered the egg –
but it cracked in the nest while the stupefied West
lit a match to a gunpowder keg.

Yessiree/nopery—smoking the dopery
opiates dulling the masses
who bow genuflecting, with candles reflecting
the shine of their Latinate *****.

Fakery funkery, pachyderm trunkery
hierophants never forget
but the clown and his trainer cut loose the restrainer
and cancelled the circus’s debt.

Piggery, smokery, tighten the chokery
offer the refugees bacon;
their mullahs may howl with a slaughterhouse scowl
but the empire’s free for the takin’…
a poem about our president's date with Pope Frank
for NaPoWriMo2016
www.connecthook.wordpress.com
☺♗☺♪  ♗☻☺♗♪
ConnectHook Jul 2020
Save me, O God; for the waters are come in unto my soul.

I sink in deep mire, where there is no standing:
I am come into deep waters, where the floods overflow me.

I am weary of my crying: my throat is dried:
mine eyes fail while I wait for my God.

They that hate me without a cause
are more than the hairs of mine head:
they that would destroy me,
being mine enemies wrongfully,
are mighty:
then I restored that which I took not away.

O God, thou knowest my foolishness;
and my sins are not hid from thee.

Let not them that wait on thee, O Lord God of hosts,
be ashamed for my sake:
let not those that seek thee be confounded for my sake,
O God of Israel.

Because for thy sake I have borne reproach;
shame hath covered my face.

I am become a stranger unto my brethren,
and an alien unto my mother's children.

For the zeal of thine house hath eaten me up;
and the reproaches of them that reproached thee
are fallen upon me.

When I wept, and chastened my soul with fasting,
that was to my reproach.

I made sackcloth also my garment;
and I became a proverb to them.

They that sit in the gate speak against me;
and I was the song of the drunkards.

But as for me, my prayer is unto thee, O Lord,
in an acceptable time:
O God, in the multitude of thy mercy hear me,
in the truth of thy salvation.

Deliver me out of the mire, and let me not sink:
let me be delivered from them that hate me,
and out of the deep waters.

Let not the waterflood overflow me,
neither let the deep swallow me up,
and let not the pit shut her mouth upon me.

Hear me, O Lord; for thy lovingkindness is good:
turn unto me according to the multitude of thy tender mercies.

And hide not thy face from thy servant;
for I am in trouble: hear me speedily.

Draw nigh unto my soul, and redeem it:
deliver me because of mine enemies.

Thou hast known my reproach, and my shame,
and my dishonour:
mine adversaries are all before thee.

Reproach hath broken my heart; and I am full of heaviness:
and I looked for some to take pity, but there was none;
and for comforters, but I found none.

They gave me also gall for my meat;
and in my thirst they gave me vinegar to drink.

Let their table become a snare before them:
and that which should have been for their welfare,
let it become a trap.

Let their eyes be darkened, that they see not;
and make their ***** continually to shake.

Pour out thine indignation upon them,
and let thy wrathful anger take hold of them.

Let their habitation be desolate; and let none dwell in their tents.

For they persecute him whom thou hast smitten;
and they talk to the grief of those whom thou hast wounded.

Add iniquity unto their iniquity:
and let them not come into thy righteousness.

Let them be blotted out of the book of the living,
and not be written with the righteous.

But I am poor and sorrowful:
let thy salvation, O God, set me up on high.

I will praise the name of God with a song,
and will magnify him with thanksgiving.

This also shall please the Lord
better than an ox or bullock that hath horns and hoofs.

The humble shall see this, and be glad:
and your heart shall live that seek God.

For the Lord heareth the poor, and despiseth not his prisoners.

Let the heaven and earth praise him,
the seas, and every thing that moveth therein.

For God will save Zion, and will build the cities of Judah:
that they may dwell there, and have it in possession.

The seed also of his servants shall inherit it:
and they that love his name shall dwell therein.

Psalm 69 [KJV]
ConnectHook Mar 2017
You predictable communists rant,
your lobotomized zombies may chant.
But the people for Trump
are now over the ****.
You'd depose him, we know...  but you can't.

PS:
"** **, Hey Hey - Donald Trump has got to stay!"
Really, anti-Trumpers need to get some new chants...
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Dear diabolic debutante / Spawn of the unfathomable abyss of blackness / Daughter of dreadful dead desire / Black-shrouded sinister sister of celestial gloom before whose imperious gaze the heavens fall silent / Whip-lash girl-child of the graves whose pallid visage kindles the myriad infernal fires / Autocratic vampiress of lunar doom whose winding-cloth enfolds the thousand horrors of blood-drenched nightmare / Thou that wanderest the cypress-crested hills of funereal necropolises / Whose icy glance cracks the ungraven tombstones of utter desolation / Empress of night and madness / Who stalks the locked and shadowed hallways of unhallowed thought / Whose burial-boat glides the still waters over Lethe’s silent depths to the unglimpsed isle of eternal mourning / Whose parapets tower above the fiefdoms of quotidian banality / Whose flying buttresses overlook the Stygian waters of the forgotten drowned denizens of damnation / Whose unshackled dungeons open to worlds of regal splendor / Whose spires pierce dark skies where oblivion buries the ruined cities of revelry under the drifting clouds of leaden time / Oh maiden of melancholic alchemy whose petrified passions transmute base metal into pure gold…

May the gibbous moon of equinox shine its baleful eye upon you; may you tread in sacramental calm the winding starlit paths of somnolent cemeteries; may my unmixed metaphors unveil in delirium their parabolic mysteries before the smoldering altar of your uninterpretable allegory; may the favor of your scorn forever lay me out, embalmed, undead, on the cold stone of merciless reality. Behold: in cryptic script of spectral apparition, in tracery of coded illumination, amidst the dawning rays of torment I write thine unknown name on the threshold of daylight. And from within the mortared wall of self I speak forth from my sepulcher the Sibylline utterance,
unsought, unheard, undreamt:

JUST WANTED TO SAY ‘HI’ !

http://tinyurl.com/og3so8a
♥♥♥

— The End —