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Demi May 2
One. I ask my Dad what day it is, again. Two. I had a nightmare that our block of flats was exploding whilst I ran away, do you think this reflects my fear of the virus, doc? Three. Chocolate porridge at 2pm, maybe its a bit late for porridge. Four. I think I accidentally chucked my propranolol tablets into the bin. Five. I take a bike ride round the village and I get intrusive thoughts about knocking over old people, on purpose, for fun. Six. I’m back to the flat and the ceiling looks like it’s lower than usual, did I grow a few inches? Seven. I can’t remember the last time I saw Emma, must have been when she cried in Wetherspoons, someone crying with you is better than no friend. Eight. My breathing turns shallow I think, I check my symptoms. Nine. I imagine dying of it and look back at my twenty-five years like a montage and get really overwhelmed and then I start to watch an old Mickey Mouse cartoon on my laptop. Ten. I just spotted a really plump pigeon outside. Eleven. Is this how hamsters feel, trapped inside with a few things to stimulate them. If so, I’m so sorry Martin (my old hamster). Twelve. The frustration sets in like thick molasses filling in the grooves of my soft brain. Thirteen. I turn to drawing and just end up sketching a huge mouth swallowing a rat. Fourteen. It’s bedtime and I settle down with a book. American ******. Patrick just killed a dog and it set me off sobbing. Fifteen.  I close my eyes and wish for a better day tomorrow. Is it going to be Tuesday or Wednesday?
Prose poem.
Regina Apr 25
The famished arrive in their cars,
a Mass, break the bread,
their jobs gone, pray,
brothers and sisters, pray
Phil Bailey Apr 22
Hey there, I'm Joe Sixpack,
an American full of pride.
I don't want no welfare state,
I don't want no free ride.

And I don't want no charity
'cause freedom don't come free.
I just got four priorities,
they're ME, ME, ME and ME!

I just can't stand the government.
Tax, I don't wanna pay.
Don't want no lazy welfare bums
to **** it all away.

Don't want no ******* FEMA
after flood or hurricane.
Don't want no public healthcare
to fix someone else's pain.

But if my house blows over
or if I get unemployed,
and I don't got insurance
and my health's getting destroyed...

Well, then you'll see me change my tune
and I'll be first in line.
Sayin' "I deserve a handout",
"Oh poor ME" I'll ***** and whine.
Calling out hypocrisy is one of my greatest pleasures.
Brian Pilling Apr 11
At the Main Street Diner,
       “the special for down-on-their-luck poets”

        An orange square of processed American
        A double-flop of baloney
        A dollop of mustard
Placed between the right and left-hand justified
        slices of life.

The waitress winks at me :)
       “You’ve got to eat,
        especially knowing your habit
        to take-out rhyme and reason.”

So, I order an appetizer
       cheese-**** and crackers,
       believing in poetry
       that searches for the perfect belly-ache.
First Published in The Main Street Rag - Winter 2019 Edition
Joseph Preston Kirk Apr 2013
Truth Prevails
when times are good
everything is as it should
when times are hard
revealed is the hidden card
from the deck of life you were given a hand
play it right or it crumbles like sand
one can bluff or even lie
but the truth is known as it meets the eye
be true to thyself or or none can be true
as the life you build will fall upon you
based on deciet a heart can grow fond
but over time you will lose that bond
as with time it will show
the thorns as they rigoruosly grow
truth will consume the you, you think you know
because all the lies will suddenly go
when that moment of judment demandingly calls
and the castle of your lies built suddenly falls
to each their own and to thine own self be true
reap what you sow as it is cast upon you
Martial-law Civil-Law Civility
Limericks V - Politics

Baked Alaskan
by Michael R. Burch

There is a strange yokel so flirty
she makes ****** seem icons of purity.
With all her winkin’ and blinkin’
Palin seems to be thinkin’—
"Ah culd save th’ free world ’cause ah’m purty!"

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved


Going Rogue in Rouge
by Michael R. Burch

It'll be hard to polish that apple
enough to make her seem palatable.
Though she's sweeter than Snapple
how can my mind grapple
with stupidity so nearly infallible?

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved


White as a Sheet
by Michael R. Burch

Donald Trump had a real Twitter Scare
then rushed off to fret, vent and share:
“How dare Bernie quote
what I just said and wrote?
Like Megyn he’s mean, cruel, unfair!”


“Clintonian” or “Billistic?”
by Michael R. Burch

There is a new term, “Clintonian,”
which means, “Stop your *******’ and moanin’.
He’s only a man
doing all that he can
to put kneepads in the Smithsonian.”


Any Woozy ****** Will Do
by Michael R. Burch

Once Kennedy, as we all know,
bedded a goddess, Monroe;
but a man of less mettle,
Bill Clinton will settle
for Lewinsky and a quick blow.


A Tale of Two Stiffies
by Michael R. Burch

There was an ex-candidate, Gore,
who amazed with his talent to bore.
“He was incredibly stiff,”
interns said, with a sniff,
“though not like his predecessor!”

Keywords/Tags: limerick, nonsense, light verse, humor, humorous, American politics, government, Republican, Democratic
Laokos Apr 3
"This is a collect call from: 'Darlene Ryder', at the Nielsen County Sheriff's Department, press '2' to accept charges and be connected."


"hello? Bill? there?"
"**** Darlene, how many times we gotta ******' do this?!", he threw his voice at her through the phone like a fastball wrapped in firecrackers.
"I dint do nuthin' wrong! they jus got sumpn' against me s'all!"
"uh huh, the **** d'you do, huh?
"the ***** had it comin', I was jus tryin' to have a few 'n relax then she come 'n talk 'bout how I was lookn' atter funny but I watn't- I was jus mindin' my own talkin' to Charlie. So all's I need from you is to get yer lazy, belly-picken', beer-guzzlin' hole fer a face down here and unpinch this ******' mess!" and hung up the receiver on her end of prison.
      The guards shoot each other a look then raise their eyebrows.  They'll be recounting this over beers tonight beneath the monstrous glow of 47 90" TVs in between attempts at the waitress young enough to be their daughter.  They'll shovel in the wings of a total of 18 birds drowned in hot sauce and butter before the sports bar stops feeding them.  Then they'll all drive home drunk with hot breath and testosterone like molasses, ending their nightly routine with their ***** in their hands and their pants around their ankles drooling at tiny glowing screens.  
      Long live the American gods of New Olympus.
Jonathan Moya Mar 11
They are shoved into the silence,
the one that speeds down the road,
bumps and rattles disguising muffled horrors,
handkerchiefs in mouths, gloved palms
over squeezed lips tight as a kiss.
These are the ones soldiers are told to ignore,
to turn their backs on- civilians, friends,
family- just listen to the chain of command,
follow through on their one and only duty.
There is only them and the next green man
in front, and the next, and the next, next..
forming one long unbroken wall
to stem the disease in front of them.
The doctors and nurses are dead,
and now they must wear the masks,
glove, gowns the hazmat suits,
spray the disinfectant like Agent Orange
on everything that moves, eats, drinks, dreams.
The trucks in back are filled with those
surging to cross the border in front of them.
It could be Canada or Mexico, or just those
wanting to escape the land for the sea,
the ocean, to swim, sail in hopes of
finding their private island to populate.
The rich have bought their own countries,
separated themselves with a technological
continental drift that they do not share.
The middle class have marooned themselves
on the Great Pacific Garbage Patch
fighting for sustenance with gulls, *****, sharks.
Only the poor are left— and them—
the green men who pledged loyalty
to the Constitution and now know
just the orange beast who tore it up
and rendered it to ashes, the Congress
inhabited with lawmakers with
hands over their eyes, fingers in ears,
and palms over their mouths, that
know the knowledge and meals
the beast provides only to them.  
Freedom they know is not free.
it comes with the ****** of those
who disagree, those disloyal to the beast.
The green men are fed on K-rations, MREs.
Their Bibles, Korans, Torahs, all
their sacred knowledge, has been burned
and doused with ****. They know they and
the poor are the **** of this deaf republic.  
The green men hear the screams
in front and inside them.  They remember
when they fought for freedom and liberty,
or at least when it had meaning.  They dream
of the past, when America before the beast
was great again.  Their present eyes see only
themselves and the poor.  Those who sleep
in torn open air tents and live in cages
because the prisons overflow. They
close their eyes and they dream as
the poor surge forward to the border.  
They are too tired to stop them.  Nor do
they want to. They only just want to rest
and wait for the call of the next American Revolution.
Carlo C Gomez Feb 29
1-hour photo lab: an aged prop:

One hundred years of solitude: glass city:
yellow be their faithful death:

She prefers another color
for the bedroom wall:

She's in the spotlight
staged like a warm peach:

'Almost a spy--
looking forward to a bright and wonderful future'
--eternally and everlasting:

What do you give the person
who thinks they have it all?
that dull brown stocking to wear on his feet
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