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Pete McIntire Jun 2018
Since you lack what's called belief
Than become your own God
& better yourself for me

Cause now you're broken
& it’s easier for you to hide
But who has to clean this all up when you die
Pete McIntire
1/3.5
@RedLightWriting
It’s a freak if anyone has a future, save the freaks,
who have date with a bed of radioactive rainbow roses,
if they stick like, yep you guessed it, a magnet
to their magus, their Moses,
who parts devil’s roped chainlink
and reinforced concrete all the way to Mutopia.
Also unnormals’ Noah,
whose forcefield arc preserves all alpha lepers,
their atomicuglystickpounded stegga squaws
and stronty swampdonkey progeny,  
all those whose Quasimodo chromosome's a d’oh!
transliterated into DNA
shall pass on their futureshock stock
out of harm's way,
under cover of a mag(safety) net
for tho' facebenders be not fair,
a horlicksedhelix fassache
is not the mug cullions wear
in the Magnetosphere.
Magneto will not forsake freaks,
freaks need not fear    
his magnetic flipout:
entire EMfield is an akeldama
exclusively anthropocidal.  
Soon a GM child won’t need shieldin’ at all!

For those with molecules
molested more mirific than mere Merricks
and their muntant, minghawk consorts,
those with superabundant gains of function,
who owe thanks to industrial puddles
or flytipt is’topes for fly freak powers ,
these saddle up their war wuzzles and blue lobsters
from growth hormone oceans, then
chimera heroes charge the humes,  
the norms, mean mediocracy of muggles!
His Magjesty’s neomorphic myrmidons

versus irremedial malevolence of megamedium men,
well, what’s left of them
after they’ve  met their Makermatcher
maxing out the meetyourmakerometer,
literal worldbeater
splatting the reign of hubristic, Hum Bom‘ avin’ it hominids.
O eggbeaterbladesjamming,
lamppostwrapping,
traintrackcravatting
awesome welly, wrath
of Magneto!  Nemesis has no chance:
Prof X, babysbottombonced telepath
explodes everted by his own zinc supplements,
all his vitals evaginated with noise of a backward raspberry
– YRREBPSAR!
No, maybe just ker-SPLURKSHH! In front of news crews
from ‘Good Morning Gomorrah’, and what’s morer,
tho’ what they caught on camera was slipshod,
was coz new screws were oscillating right outta new tripods.

The Daddy Mag’s sapiosayso all it took,
delivered with a sidedishin’ shirty look,
supercilious fingerclick,  then supercallous frangible physics
he expedited lawless, as at a singularity’s mathematical badlands,
and sent all metal mad.
Spelt red death for the Prof,
whose own minerals reaving ionised skinned
mindreading Ironside skinhead entoectad.  
Now coquelicot slop, clairvoyant bald as a coot
must have been suicidal spod to *** off
muties’ Malcolm X and Master of the Universe’s Pulling Method
– like Timmy and his mallet in one corner,
Thor with Mjolnir in the other. Or a story with drawings by Jack Kirby,
juxtaposed next to a coat of emulsion narrating Jackanory.
Coulda just magnetised the Prof’s wheelchair
into the back of some haulier’s cyclistsquisher,
but Magneto’s a hammy Shiva, gloryhog like all gods.

O I know Barreness Margaret Hilda Von Doom’s more macho,
but were I my muse, Magneto, well, no Hitlerian librarian
could judgementdaydream so.
Tyler Matthew Jun 2017
"It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again."
- Allen Ginsberg

What does it mean to be an American?
Does it mean I can say the
Pledge of Allegiance
When I'm told?
Does it means that I can vote for
My president,
Governor, and
County clerk
Even when every choice is a Condemnation?
Does it mean that I must be
Proud of the military?
Does it mean that I am
Entitled to the world's oil reserves?
Is being an American a liberty or
A constraint?
Why are America's trails full of tears?
If I am cold will the
Flag serve to warm me?
Will that be enough?
Is it ever enough?
Does "one nation under God" refer to
My god, too?
Does America's god practice
The golden rule?
When will America keep its nose
Out of the Middle East?
If America loses its nose
In the Middle East, will a new nose
Be elected - this one twice as nosey?
Does being an American mean that
We can only dream in
Red or white or blue?
Does the American dream seem like a
Nightmare to anyone else?
Is it America's bad conscience
That keeps it up at night?
Does America ever get the blues?
Does America ever open a dictionary?
Does America know the
Difference between "democracy" and
"Oligarchy?"
Is America aware that I do?
Can America survive on
Minimum wage?
Does America pay its taxes on time?
Does America go to work every day
With a smile?
Does America punch out and feel Proud?
Does America really blow smoke
Up our *****?
Is six dollars and seventy-seven cents
Enough to get me through the week?
Does America only have one life?
Is one life enough to satisfy her?
What about three-hundred million?
What about me?
Daisy Arcos Oct 2015
We were born into a world of shallow minds and deep disturbances of young millennials mimicking mindless mimes because we were told to stay in line but be yourself but follow me but think "originality."

A generation full of copycatting individuals with monotone mindsets mulling over social ladders and trends dictated by invisible monarchs of industry inviting and spoon feeding insecurities masked as improvements.

A generation spending more time pretending not to care than on passions stifled by our peer pressuring playmates who are all prescribed Vyvanse, Adderall, Ritalin for their incurable imaginations deemed "learning disabilities."

A generation of temporary friendships because no one can connect with each other but we can connect to the internet and chat with strangers and share thoughts, photos, and secrets to a virtual audience that loses interest in an entanglement of wires forming a noose around our sincerity.
Inspired by "Howl" by Allen Ginsberg.
Kara Rose Trojan Dec 2014
My Second Letter to Allen Ginsberg
Dear Allen,
Almost five years ago, I wrote you a letter, and in
That letter, I purged my drunkenly woeful cries
That seem so first-world now and naïve –
The things I grimed over with luxuries I didn’t
Realize that rubbed against my plump limbs
Like millions of felines poised at the
Tombs of pharaohs.

Oh, Allen, I’m so tired –
These politics, and poly ticks, so many ticks that
Annoy my tics. Allen! I smear your name so liberally
Against this paper like primer because the easiest way
To coerce someone into listening to you like
A mother
or predator
tugging or nibbling on your ear –
Swatches of velvet scalped from a ****’s coat
Are you and I talking to ourselves again?
Candid insanity : Smoky hesitance.

Dear Allen, I’m so tired –
Yes, I love wearing my ovaries on the outside like
Some Amazonian soapbox gem glistening from beneath
The iron boots of what the newspapers tell me while
I cough at them with the hurdled delicacies of alphabet soup.
Give vegetables a gender and call them onions, Allen.
Sullied scratch-hicks pinioned feet from slapping
Society’s last rung on the ladder.
Ignore the swerve of small-town eyes.
Scapulas, stirrups, pap smears, and cervical mucus – now do you know who we are?

That fingernail clipped too short, Allen. We’ve all got AIDs
And AIDs babies, haven’t you heard? Hemorrhaging from the political
****** and out – they haven’t reached the heart.  
Since when have old white men given a **** about some
13 year old’s birth control? I’m riding on the waves of the
Parachute game and I swear this abortion-issue is just a veil outside Tuskegee University
Being further shove over plaintive eyes, swollen and black.
Pay up and
shut up.

I still remember my first broken *****, Allen.
Can you tell me all about your first time?
The vasodilatation that made veins rub against skin,
Delirious brilliance : unfathomable electricity.
I made love during an LSD experience, Allen,
And I am not sorry. I see cosmic visions and
Manifest universal vibrations as if this entire world is
A dish reverberating with textiles and marbles, and
All are plundering the depths of the finished wine
Bottle roasting in the sink like Thanksgiving Turkey.
The patience is in the living. Time opens out to you.
The opening, between you and you, occupied,
zoned for an encounter,
given the histories of you and you—
And always, who is this you?
The start of you, each day,
a presence already—
Hey, you!

Ah, Allen, if you are not safe, then I am not safe.
And where is the safest place when that place
Must be someplace other than in the body?
Am I talking to myself again?
You are not sick, you are injured—
you ache for the rest of life.

Why is it that I have to explain to my students that
sometimes what I'm spouting is prescribed by a pedagogical pharmacy --
but all they want to know is "what do the symbols on the television mean?"
I am completely aghast against the ghosts of future goners --
I am legitimately licensed to speak, write, listen like some mothers --
I am constantly cajoling the complex creations blamed on burned-out educators --
I am following the flagrant, fired-up "*******"s tagging lockers --
Pay up and
shut up.

Yes, and it’s Hopeless. Allen.
Where did we get off leaping and bounding into
The dogpile for chump change jurisdiction, policing
The right and the left for inherent hypocrisies when
Poets are so frightful to turn that introspective judgment
Upon ourselves?
We didn’t see it coming and I heard the flies, Allen.
Mean crocodile tears. Flamingo mascara tracks
Up and down : up and down: bow – bow – bow – bow
Buoyant amongst the misguided ******* floating around
In the swirlpool of lackadaisical introspection.
What good is vague vocab within poetry?
Absolutely none.
Would you leave the porchlight on tonight?
Absolutely, baby.

Dear Allen, would you grow amongst the roots and dirt
At the knuckles of a slackjawed brush of Ever-Pondering Questions
Only to ask them time-and-time-and-time-and-time-again.
Or pinch your forehead with burrowed, furrowed concentration upon those
Feeble branches of progression towards something that recedes further
And further with as much promise as the loving hand
Attempts to guide a lover to the bed?

Allen, I wish to see this world feelingly through the vibrations of billions of bodies, rocking and sobbing, plotting and gnashing like the movement of a million snakes, like the curves collecting and riding the parachute-veil.

Ah, Allen! Say it ain’t so! Sanctified swerve town eyes.
And everything is melting while poets take the weather
Too personally
And all the Holden Caulfields of the world read all the
*******’s written on the walls and all the Invisible Men
Eat Yams and all the Zampanos are blind and blind
And blind and blind and blind and blind
Yet see as much as Gloucester, as much as Homer,
As much as Oedipus.

Oh, Allen, do you see this world feelingly
and wander around the desert?
Colored marbles vibrating on the curtailed parachute paradox.
Lamentation of a small town’s onion. Little do we know, Allen,
That what you cannot see, we cannot see, and we are bubbling
Over in the animal soup of the proud yet weary. I can see,
However, how the peeled back skulls of a million
Workboots and paystubs may never sully the burden
Of an existential angst in miniscule amounts.
Pay up and
shut up.  

My dearest Allen, there is always a question of how
The cigarettes became besmirched with wax to complement
What was once grass, and
What was once a garish night drenching doorknobs.
The night's yawn absorbs you as you lie down at the wrong angle
To the sun ready already to let go of your hand
As you stepped, quivering, on to
The shores of Lethe.

— The End —