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Attributed To Concerned parents
of Traumatized Refugee
Dear Fred and Mary Anne MacLeod Trump...

Posthumous belated tattered letter fragment
recently discovered (liberally sprinkled with
hyperbole (presumed for greater audacious
zealousness), sans accidentally acquired
by yours truly.

Miscellaneous personal item highly valued
when thwarted from auctioneer, whose gently
persuasion collectible merchandise requisitioned,
thence keepsake property perfunctory mandatorily forfeited.

Due compensation from sole male heir (me),
whose long since (resting in eternal
peace) papa suffered degradation,
humiliation and understandable lamentation
as a kid living in Flatbush.

Authorities and expert legal scholars
pieced together what probably comprised
a lengthy epistle rivaling the Epic of
Gilgamesh).

Recollection recounted torturous,
malicious, and flagitious mean spiritedness
visited upon the ambitious, cadaverous, and
timorous body electric high-jinxed introverted male,
whose abstemious, conscientious, and nutritious
dietary regime, could not forestall rigor mortis.

A postscript (purportedly penned prior to
once philosophical pensive poet's papa's passing)
stated that said personage felt bitterness,
disharmonious envious self loathing.

That grownup man known as mine father,
though once upon a time, said recently
anonymous deceased old fogey ironically
registered as an atrocious, cantankerous,
and egregious deplorable high school student.

Also, the author of what constitutes partial
opprobrious litany attests during his
idolatrous, notorious, and semiconscious
Arab zombie school daze.

He ranked as de facto semiprecious,
tremulous and unanimous scapegoat
bullied by a bumptious, callous,
disputatious hippopotamus of a brat
infamous bruiser later in his life to become
forty fifth president of UnIted States.

Though documentation incomplete, the un
named subject referred within torn shred
recovered included signatory couching
ambiguous references to a tenebrous,
unscrupulous, and vicious ******* initials.

Dee Tee quickly intuitively assessed
as one inhumane specimen, whose pugnacious,
pretentious, and pestiferous, persona characterized
impetuous, adulterous apprenticeship appetite
for erecting ******* skyscrapers.

This once pacific pilloried pupil, whose grown
son (myself), now recalls father's misty eyed
anecdotes dripping with acrimonious, curmudgeonly
grouchy, grizzly and crotchety old sorries,
viz refashioned abominable kamikaze
psychological sorties.

I can vividly recall (how painful unto his old age)
oft daddy's repeated quotidian taunts, whereby
that bad ***, acidulous, avaricious, contemptuous,
enormous, and grievous big boy trumpeting
bruiser exuded devious, heinous, libelous, and
parsimonious tightwad, though born into wealth.
Lyn-Purcell Jun 2018
There are people who can sing

and

There are people who sing

There are people who can rap

and

There are people who rap

There are people who can dance

and

there are people who dance

There are people who can write

and

there are people who write


The difference is that with ones who 'can' are
usually the ones you bob your head
to as well as acknowledge.

But with the ones who just do what they do?
There are the ones who touch your soul.
Everyone is different, of course. I do listen to people who can sing, but I usually listen to the ones who do what they do. They are the ones who have that power to touch your very soul with what they do. Those people who do what they do have an aura of pure light...
Appreciate them.
Be back soon!
Lyn ***
Bull eve me (Adam, whether existence
     fact or fiction),
     his immediate legion heirs whole
heartedly partook
     to regale no Joe king paternal prominence,
     sans legendary, fraternity,
     and consanguinity subsequently implemented

     faux pas threatening Nittany Lions role
attested by this papa, a curmudgeon
     resident of the North Pole
burrowed deep within tundra

necessitated drilling permafrost black hole
son, which boring task found me dissatisfied,
     asper penultimate existential goal
thus, I decided to sell coal
to New Castle, transported
     within loco motive conveyance
     doubling up as fish bowl
decimated crossing Arctic
     great barrier reef Atoll

lauded me with mouthy gift horses,
     (one Mister Ed, adore
hubble hoof only high saddled
     Equus caballus neighing boar)

feted me, a hay er raising chore
followed by Mister Barns Noble encore
generation standing ovation,
     a deafening applause
     resonated across the floor
then an electrifying speech
     by (plan net fitness diehard) Albert Gore
describing ******, pillaging,

     And looting dip lore
able incursions as heath n (moor
or less opprobrious upon poor
sacred Mother Nature
     whimpering and softly doth roar
ring, now treated like a *****

telltale global devastation
     impossible to ignore agog
pollution extant across
     entire world wide web bog
gulls restorative legislation,
     when offal debris doth clog
estuaries, where watersheds habitat
     choking with despair,

thus imperative to grab hold collective
     figurative (corny as this may seem) ear
cuz jackknifed, irreparable,
     horrible gnashing fear
fully betokens catastrophic
     environmental fractured glare
ring ****** impailment here
and everywhere.
Anthony Mayfield Jun 2018
Who died and made me king?
Who burns my Icarus wings?
I can't afford such dreams.
They take,
They steal,
They seek.
Well, I'm no king.
Specifically, not your king.
But I dare to dream.
And I strive to sing.
Through wingless flight
I gain my stride
At altitudes high,
As the shackles start to sink.
I'm no king.
I'm no king.
But still, I dare to dream.
I need those things
I will always need those things
Bryce Jun 2018
Venus and a sun-dog in the setting day
a signal that everything's gonna work out,
okay?

botanist at the table behind a wall of succulents
telling me fungi
stuff
and the way they fixate
the soil
for plants to grow and eat
okay.

summertime there are no fields to plow
we're all off anyways
searching for happiness in a kiss
in the promise
of a long-lasting relationship

titanic orders, but that's only a myth
to Smith
maybe not the rest
they're blessed
with that floating boat of happiness

a mean end, that stuff
no means of ending that
they laugh and dance
a quirky ritual
I still cry at the loss
of innocence

goodbye kendred soul,
pass off the torch to a new you,
and bit a sweet adieu
to you,
in the way we both behaved
stumbled our way
out of the garden
and on into the earth.

For what it's worth,
I see he'll be
everything you dreamed
he could.
trf Jun 2018
skipping stones
i've lost my mind
can we just take a second

in this place
waiting for my phone
can you imagine

i've lost the rippled fade
i've lost the count of time
i'm deep in your embrace
can we keep the static lines

dreams
last a second
smell like earth and i fall apart
it seems
like every minute our whispers
lose from the start

It's not like....
I'm in this plain existence,
You feel....
and i breathe

Can we dance to harmonies
Can we frolic to and fro
Can we live like war and peace
Can we disco
Constantine May 2018
Drugs on the nightstand
i feel dead
but your alive for me
do you want to feel like me?
take one or two and we can spend
forever together
POSSIBLE May 2018
1.  I still see lightning
Through the fog.
I still see crosses
When I close my eyes
So many lost

2.  When my Eyes  are open
I see the Hurt the Broken
the Time spent Unspoken

3.  The Cracks                          Grand canyon size.
Missiles fired with abandon because there was no plan.
Mutually assured destruction

4.  Borne By a Single  Thought
Doubt.
When it's presence graces our minds
Faith finds It hard to Spark Through.

5.  Or Does it?
We cannot park in neutral every time the stop signs cross our path.
Peddling back and Forth When Swirling Bright Red anger Darkness to wrath.

6.  I wade through the RIVER OF SOULS
being drained by time and torment.

7.  But its worth it for you and it always will be.
You are my salvation and example.
Made bright by comparison to this Darkest Night.

8.  And with Hard work and Love....
Maybe we can save each other.
8 steps
symbol of contemporary life
packaged, preserved,
instructions on the side.

simplicity of modern day,
pop stamped symmetrical;
hunter gatherer.

collect them into rows
italian chopped tomatoes
best before date, barcode.

tin can still bites,
like bramble thorns,
to repel against harvest.

boxed up comfortable living
adding edge to expectancy
countering convenience.
April 2018  (draft scribbles in 2015)
Vachaspathi May 2018
Can we talk with our mouths closed and hearts open?
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