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Lice H-P Jul 2020
Expergefacient MOR rentagobs
compere the googoo reveille
of soliciting R 'n' B
& commodified classicrock,
jerking the Marionettes of Mammon
back into jobscurity, from peon
dreams of dream workshyness.
Yet mad as a tess-

eract of toads how
- despite lippitude winning mainly
worms - attractively most worker zees
still view lariats of elbow-
grief, thief of metime (& zeetime).
Tho' metime would be zeetime
were I a meatpuppet of mundane Mammon.
Pinky? Perky? Nah, they're just gammon.

O Marionettes of Mammon
hustled by systemic rigging
to their appointed watertreading
rung upon
an obscene ladder
of several dozen scatmunchers,
or to their rightful lowly station
in humancentipede of horizontal promotions.

A zillion days of bumbling evolution,
Hanuman centipede evanesces into the flimsy
future. Bleedingedge of ontology
nurdle-gazes, collogues no conclamation
of Union Jacquerie in the mirror,
but sells an English midsummer's
day for a dinodollar. American Ian Beales
ply the ch'i-eating artofthedeal,

convincing kine the controlbar binds
neo-Dickensian diet Coketown puppets
not to a few cantillionaire marionettists,
but dystopian furniture of their own minds,
catchpenny capitalistrealism that mugs
'em off en masse. Fear pea soup thugs,
sweat the smallstuff, but this jittery planet
of glittery gannets

will be veneraformed
by Planet Ponzi passing as Planet Ennui.
But 1st, thick as hegemolina the sea
w/ flyfishingtipt Yarmouthgnomes,
other Anadarko pets, plasticrust-
ed plasticrustaceans. 1st,
binwaterlogged will be Wall
St., more effectively occupied. Control

bar's shadow l/ electioneerwings
of ******'s Junkers uber Deutsch-
land. Puke pursuit of loot exploits
a tier jerks cursed w/ forswinking
p-strings taut, parallel as Government Sachs.
Drudgery a tragedy we bleat terse stats
to propup, l/ the dragongob
of shrugging Atlas collateralises smog.

Dangler Atlas, Bilderberg Stromboli,
whose intangible tubby tentacles
hebdomade Hell, which superstructural
whimsies gussy up w/ Gadarene piggy-
banks' consumaspasm, or paupertunistic
perks l/  silverwarelined tabard or tunic
(to help w/ the cost of livery). Mammon-
ionettes' mecha grins chagrin

me. It's not white drapetomania'll see
me selffurloughed for foreseeable sunsets; idealist  
this Great Abscondologist: I'm no polterheist
p-string pullerman's piperspree presentee.  
Seldom is an evil puppetmaster laissezfaire.
One of the strings attached is a Corbyn sanitaire.
If needs must, I'll mitt the moolah then go.
Only zeroes dream of zeroes.
Shruti Atri Jan 2016
It was selfish of her
To leave.
She needed the change;
Had to move,
Having been stuck so long
She felt suppressed,
And so depressed.
She just needed to leave,
But where could she start?

He was easiest to leave,
The most convenient to cut off;
He didn't hold on,
He didn't even try.
She didn't know,
Was she angry
That it was easy for her to leave?
Or that he didn't even try to stop it?

But she had to leave,
The reasons didn't matter,
The semantics were moot,
Whether he wanted her to,
Or he didn't--
Whether she wanted to,
Or she didn't want him to let her;
Nothing mattered.

It was truly selfish of her
To leave.
She had to fly
And he made it easy for her
To leave him behind...
Autumn Whipple Jan 2015
envy grows
a curious thing
no rhyme or reason
just a sting
of leaf green
to destroy the envy
the lust
the greed
you seek acceptance
you want
no, you need
to be released from the prison
of spiky green
a prison that grows and grows with each passing hour,
but could be cut down with only a flower
growing inside the carefully tended walls
a flower called ego
this bud
once uncovered
can bloom
and break the envy walls
so that for today
they won't bother you at all
but care for the flower
today tomorrow
the next
so that envy doesn't reach out again
and re-trap you in a web
of tangled mean
envy is a problem i've been dealing a lot with lately. its no bueno. ne bien pas! rant rant rant.  sorry ill be out now
Duke Thompson Aug 2014
you were the type of girl to read Ayn Rand
thinking o what good ideas in this Fountain
I was the type of who'd join a tontine
and play Russian roulette with self
till dead from cop killer bullet to head
or encourage co-conspirators
bury me 6 feet deep

you decried what joy there is in order
I cried out swollen summer sadness
what joy (is there at any joy at all)
in this madness

pointing out the chaos of everything
order in chaos is wishful thinking
for apes liking everything in neat little
wax paper wrapped deli packages

your satisfaction is my dismay
yet I cannot look away
wash me clean after
I sully you suddenly with
sickly sullen pallid mess

— The End —