There's a tiger in my crotch
An iguana on my ass
And I'm not sure if to stand up
Or stay put like a reptile at the sun,
I'd be better off killing those two.
And I might do it,
If not, I might end up turning into a circus house
And live like a clown.
I'm upside down
Flip me over
I liked it better
The other way
Upside down and
In the lost
And found box
All mixed up
Time and time
My own pot
Of broken dream
With someone else's
And vice versa
To the bird
That lives in
Of twigs and leaves
By the ear wax
That always seem
In one way
The guardian angel
And little devil
Sitting on my shoulders
Pass a bottle
Back and forth
At my shortcomings
So the clown in me
And we all end up
Drunk and naked
To the gumbo
Oh words, a vile pit of clay to be formed for each guest they meet.
Shall our digits press upon them in this way or that as a creaght
Of thoughtless claws within a lying dainty love of the gravest making.
Let not these words be the reason that we are forsaken.
I form out of the clay a form of an empty skull.
Yet has not this skull a tongue in its hull
Like a politician who drowns out the emptiness of its head?
One whose reach would circumvent God himself - as if the almighty were dead.
But my skull says NO! Good morning my sweet Lord!
Thou, my most highest idea, have mercy on this – my gourd
And tell us how to oust these screeching clowns.
I see the good book inside this face, tubes of you and other pointless nouns.
A Politicians’ speech - as empty as an empty skull full of worms
Whose bone is worthless to all but its breeding.
Watch them – never listen – watch their tongue as it squirms.
These people only see words as how they can be used to be misleading.
How absolute this knave is who speaks from a card.
An invocation made not by pure thoughts but infiltrated by lard
Greasing the mind into inclusion with nothing but simple sounds.
With hair and makeup and clothing – and the empty skull - they are the clowns.
The fist-bumping champion
My all-time fixation
Classroom walls shake
When you guffaw and laugh
Makes my heart ache
When every tease’s a bluff
Beneath your grin
I long to find your glow
But it’s a sin
So says your burrowed frow
My heart wishes
In another lifetime
Pranks to kisses
With your hand locked in mine
The nightmare consumes me
Bringing forth fear and pain
Colors glistening off ur face
White and red mark you
As an outcast in my life
In the midst of darkness
Taking advantage of my sleep
Feeding into my fears of
These painted beings
The grin brings me to tears
Cowering under your big red feet
You're the Set-Up
And I'm the Punchline
The following poem is a generalization, on that, we can likely agree,
but this is the way that most Trumpists appear, to many a person like me:
Dear Trumpists, I am here to say I think I understand
just what you're really all about across the troubled land.
It really bugs you, does it not, when walking in your town,
to see so many people with a skin of black or brown?
To hear a foreign language when the immigrants converse.
To see them in a headscarf or a turban makes you curse.
Their differences, their ways of life, you see as disrespect
and you hate being asked to be "politically correct".
Then one day came a savior shining brighter than the sun.
His name was Donald Trump and you knew he was the one.
You knew you must support him 'cause in every speech he'd give,
he'd validate your hate and he'd fit with your narrative.
"The Mexicans are rapists", "The Muslims seek to kill",
"Black lives don't matter quite so much". Such thoughts gave you a thrill.
Sometimes he was outrageous. You could not trust every word,
but vote for him you did because you felt you had been heard.
Well, now your man's in power and it's no longer fun,
with half his staff revolting (and that's in more ways than one).
He hasn't drained the swamp, it's just become further bogged down,
with all his slimy yes-men there to praise the orange clown.
He comes across as ignorant and looking like a fool.
He's subject to fact-checking and resulting ridicule.
The press, it has a field day and comedians rejoice.
His opponents have united and have found a common voice.
Dear Trumpists, I do understand that this has made you mad,
but sense and reason don't support the notions that you've had.
So you rant on social media with foul, insulting fits,
like a bunch of whining, shouting, howling, idiotic twits.
So Trumpists, don't you realize, your chance has passed you see?
Oppression has been in decline since the end of slavery.
So here's a new idea that I'd really like to share:
You might try something different by showing that you care.
Why don't you go extend a hand to those that you attack.
They might provide you insight that you desperately lack.
Just open up your heart and head and throw away the hate,
and America once more could be a nation that is great.
There is in London town, a clown, who works at all the pubs
A frivolous demeanor, and usefulness with clubs
As a bouncer and a cad, he's known both far and wide
Mock not the clown, named Prancer, or you'll wish, that you had died
Always has a joke or jest
he keeps them up his sleeve
Putting the teacher to the test
as she's asking him to leave
Never letting the mask slip
showing who he might be
Hiding the tears and rips
growing larger, by degree
The class clown, has no power
only quips and jabs, to entertain
His face, demeanor, dour
as his dreams, go down the drain
Trees like dark coal wimpering white ghostly
bare dull lifeless Life's cruel wicked costly
Chattered teeth hearing the sound's
He shifted so close desirable
( tasty mound's)
The stranger Billy dont B fool joker
Dark-love complicated Damn it Choke her
Deep-house music strangled rope seated,
Did someone touch a nerve dead-beat Harvest-hair
Trembling through your Rocking Chair
It's still rocking and speaking
Elevated you deadly crumb's of a row
Blood was dripping
Someone's eyes pop-out fixated
Dark brain felt poluted foggy white chalked
You were being watched EYE'S stalked
Rows and Rows Cosmic dark Gothic
Webs caught in webs black tears
Being followed drawn in face hallowed
Loud drips from the sink discolored
Wrinkled Hand's Slime Sticky
4 your long neck Nasty trick-y
Rocky-Road Ice, Emerald city eye's melt
into his poppy,
He's no lover of mine cheaply.