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Robert Ippaso Aug 17
Everything I've touched has turned to gold,
A feeling that never gets too worn or old,
I savor every moment, every win,
With my opponents stuck in their unsightly bin.

The more they shout and flail their arms,
The more my inner soul it calms,
Their din is music to my ears,
It gives me pep; it takes off years.

My aims are clear, my skills well-honed,
As to their mob, they seem half ******,
Supporting goals that folks don't like,
Wishing they would all just take a hike.

I've only started, the road is long
To fix our country, make it strong,
Instill a sense of pride and worth,
A gleaming beacon for this Earth.

Some complain I act the King,
With subjects kissing my eternal ring.
Do I care, not in a word,
But I do find the concept touchingly absurd.

Kings don't have the power I do,
Most don't even have the slightest thought or clue,
I instead can say and act,
Forgoing any nod to grace and tact.

I get things done, stir up the ***,
Turn detractors’ faces crimson hot,
Hire my friends, cull the wokes,
With a flourish of the pen and practiced strokes.

Next to Putin, now that's a blast
To try and make a peace that lasts.
Get it done with strength and charm,
End this war, curtail the harm.

Then who knows - that Gaza thing,
What a headache with a sting.
Two thousand years of pain and strife,
Where constant bickering is rife.

But if a deal is to be done
I'm the go to, I’m the man.
The Nobel thing will be my prize
This will cut Obama down to size.

And after that may you well ask,
What shall be my next enticing task?
Greenland’s there, Panama for sure,
Forget the catch, it’s the chase that’s the allure.
Remember this is a Parody - written as if spoken by Trump himself
AMAN12 Aug 15
They taught us to dissect frogs,
but not the feeling of being dissected.
We memorized the bones of empires,
but no one named the fracture in our own spines.

We wake up with hearts in our throats,
trap ourselves in flickering cages,
Pout like mannequins  in group shots.
We google "how to disappear"
between lectures on resilience.
We draft essays on survival ,
while planning exits.
We smile at teachers who praise
our punctuality while we
count pills under the desk.


The counselor called us in one by one,
handed us pamphlets
with smiling cartoon brains.
Just ticked boxes
and sent us back to class
with a sticker that said “brave.”
which curled by noon.

When the windows whispered
and the knives called us by name,
they called it depression.
It wasn't.
It was syllabus.
We were just doing the homework.
Кобылки сходили с дистанции,
Ликовала только Констанция,
Кто-то стал ура-визажистом,
Колхозницей с мужем стилистом.
И только насосная станция
Неслась по тропе террористов,
В тапок к последней инстанции —
Хуяк — и в дамках с министром.

Yaroslav Kulikovsky. Kiev, 2019 (c).
Part of the cycle: Poems on City Flesh and Power.

👉 tiktok.com/@kulikovskyonthepunchline
👉 youtube.com/@KulikovskyOnThePunchline/shorts
This poem is like a riot at a fashion show. There are no weak characters here—only different strategies. Some drop out, some level up. But the heroine, after riding through the chaos, wins her game. It’s about a woman’s right not to be ideal, but to be effective. Not an angel, but a force of power.
Супермое работала в ресте,
Месила Йо-йо мужчинам известным,
Супер Моет — разливала рекой,
Смена за сменой, вниз головой.
Кекса за кексом она выпекала,
Супер-чудесно им рот вытирала,
Суперлегка и супергнеда —
Супермое, ты та иль не та?

Yaroslav Kulikovsky. Paris, 2021 (c).
Part of the cycle: Poems on City Flesh and Power
👉 tiktok.com/@kulikovskyonthepunchline
👉 youtube.com/@KulikovskyOnThePunchline/shorts
This poem explores the everyday eroticism and social invisibility of a woman in the role of "Supermaid." Beneath the playful imagery lies the right to be embodied, free, and desired. It is a declaration: the body is not an instrument but a domain of power. Humor, roughness, tenderness — and deep respect for those society chooses not to see.
Так хороша, когда оттрахана
И фотки шепчут этот взгляд.
Давно мужчины так не ахали —
Все как один и — невпопад.
Забыла мышка по-предательски
Себя в пыли библиотек —
И понеслася по касательной:
Любить нельзя ебать навек.

Yaroslav Kulikovsky. Paris, 2021 (c).
Part of the cycle: Poems on City Flesh and Power

👉 tiktok.com/@kulikovskyonthepunchline
👉 youtube.com/@KulikovskyOnThePunchline/shorts
A woman, freed through desire. Post-*** glow becomes her real face — not the one shaped by books or culture. From dusty expectations to digital self-expression. Between knowledge and pleasure, she chooses to be seen. A clash between puritan heritage and modern ****** agency.
На битбоксе гоняла "Тоску",
Тоска — ваша соска.
Серьёзно? И зачем тебе этот «Оскар»,
Если ты в колхозе присоска?
Сексоваттов тебе не хватает,
И признаюсь я  —  жопа плоска.
Голый Вася и медный фраер,
Эй, здарова, бичи — всё просто.

Yaroslav Kulikovsky.  Kiev, 2020 (c).
Part of the cycle: Poems on City Flesh and Power.

👉 tiktok.com/@kulikovskyonthepunchline
👉 youtube.com/@KulikovskyOnThePunchline/shorts
A grotesque take on cultural dissonance — between rural survival and fake glamor. Laced with absurdity, ****** irony, and raw frustration. A slap in the face of polished ambition.
Перке-пута, Лук-пук и Диг-пик
Увлажняли друг другу язык,
Под увесистой тенью фиг
Аргонавты точили тупик.
Вот Медея, а вот Штрык-штрык,
Млеет киви над Дамой пик,
Рвет рогатку на части бык,
А-ну, нахуй в кроватку, Брик!

Yaroslav Kulikovsky.  Kiev, 2020 (c).
Part of the cycle: Poems on City Flesh and Power.
Part of the cycle: Poems on City Flesh and Power.
An absurdist fantasy of mythological ***, infantilism, and animal instincts. An ironic dance on the edge of decency and poetic madness.
Балерина — шлюшка с мозгами —
И с цунами из пары ног.
Проститут-балерон — феерия,
ПолудЕнному Фавну — хот-дог.
Вот она — театральная труппа:
Трупов нет, маскарад налицо.
Домино адюльтеров-супругов,
Вакханалок — и агнцов.

Yaroslav Kulikovsky. Paris, 2019 (c).
Написано после репетиции «Щелкунчика». Все совпадения случайны. Или нет.
ElizaJae Jul 30
This life feels like a joke. Misery all around not a smile to be seen. Words that flow from people's lips, rotten fruit. The stench clings to them. Life the gift that keeps on flowing. Why do they live? Each day the same, misery covered with *****. Scarred and broken, embarrassed of themselves. This misery eating them alive. No one cares they say yet all these people stay by their side. Assistance in every way. This life feels like a joke. Misery growing inside. Join me on this ride. Down the path of doom and gloom. Where nothing ever grows. Here take a drink. Come sit next to me. Misery sure loves company.
Satire
zen master
drinks too much coffee
says to class
pardon me
leaves lotus, runs down the hall
but not fast enough


zen master
visits his sister
she hands him
new nephew.
our bodies are illusions
but shoulder puke real


zen master
ponders the spring rain
when stupid
car breaks down.
meditation does no good--
******* thing is ****


zen master
says souls can migrate
from body
to body.
unsightly skin condition
will end when you do


zen master
has the hots for jane
but he must
ignore this.
concentrate on breathing or
think about baseball
_

zen master
hates Shaysie girl lots
and wishes
she would stop
writing stupid shadormas
with him **** of joke
Ohmmm
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