One Direction’s music is like molten rotted snot poured into the sewn-open third eye of the last few real artists.
Except that would be far too original for them. or any boy band.

More like a metrosexual LGBTQRsTUV unicorn ******* hot Harry Potter-Twilight glitter on the cast of High School Musical,  busy reenacting ******* ad infinitum
and somehow managing to ruin that too ,

The internet  collapses ...
Michael Jackson
endless Super Bowl halftime show molestation nightmares still  played  daily on the  radio..

Corpulent period blood dripping  rejected flag girl Katy Perry rocket-cat vomits neon cactus Skittles into OUR  tortured ear canals.

Post Malone
Kindergarten  prison  tattoos ,   his own face
  even more  
with a used ***** shaped like Trump

Kathleen Kennedy orgasmically throttles a twerking Dave Filoni cowboy-hat-wearing velociraptor
across the corpse-strewn Hollywood ***-dungeon set of
every Disney Channel **** remake ever masturbationally  imagined,
laughing in Lil Wayne autotuned Top 40 perfection.

The ever present Hackneyed  trailer-park **** goddess Tay Tay  the airbrushed
levitates above it all with her latest braindead steroid love toy, in an oozing  unfettered RFK Jr. STD glitter storm of unlicensed Chinese sweatshop labor TikTok dances.

And no one is home to raise little Johnny who is making all this possible although he   has  no
standards ,
no reference
no respect
and  no education 
  but  he does have  48 thousand subscribers for  his feet videos  on you tube......

" the futures so bright I gotta wear shades'     Indeed.


The same Republican family values. machine that markets poison   and PRISON  life as “culture”  are the  ones
with lobbyist rubber stamping. the corpo  laws,
buying the anti abortion  judges,
and deciding when Little  Johnny  gets to rot in a cell for stepping out of line. 
 We are in a  fascist  culture
built on corporate bribery
pretending to be  holier than thou collection plate morality.

You can feel the contradiction breathing   the people who bankroll the
Enron,
  Gloldman Sachs rot
walk free in tailored suits,
while the ones caught in the wreckage get branded for  life as doomed  to minimum wage  criminals.
And the worst part? They’ve managed to sell that arrangement as  "JUSTICE "  and  ignore  our  truths  with  "hate speech "  labels.

When I was young, I had drive
All the reasons to feel alive
Young love, wife, and the family
They were all the best of me
Poured out my heart, worked down to the bone
Worked for everything we ever owned
Now I enjoy the simple things
A call from my daughter, hanging out with my son
It lets me know life is not done
Memories of youth, aging with my mind
A better life would be hard to find

10/07/25

Plain Jane
was full of grace
face of mild will
displaced
Dear Jane
the child
abandoned
the enlightened me
to the perverse
Sweet Jane
the legend
the fiend
attracted to attraction
to be woefully
     willfully
     deceived
Complacent Jane
do thy bidding
to pure Jane
     of joy
     begetting.

That week was so hot,
every shotgun house gasped,
windows flung,
screen doors striking wooden frames,
the squawk of rusty springs.

Touching skin felt like punishment
at first,
then penance,
then prayer.

We were thin, androgynous,
switching cut-off jeans,
sharing tank tops,
slick with sweat and shaved ice.

Strays ourselves,
barefoot thieves,
pirates of the quarter.

Hibiscus syrup stained our mouths
outside the Prytania,
where The Abyss flickered
and you cried like a boy
pretending he didn’t.

Inside your walk-up,
we dipped into quiet love
like bread in stew.

The radio’s crackle carried The Ink Spots,
which I recognized but couldn’t name.
You mouthed every note like a secret
you wanted me to guess.

Faint smiling lines near your eyes
from knowing,
like you’d seen me
long before we met.

Not woman,
not man,
just two bodies
leaning toward the same heat.

I wouldn't see your fall or your winter.
When the seasons change,
I’ll be gone,
back home,
watching rain from a train window,
each drop undoing what we were.

That last night,
you placed your key by the door.
I saw it,
watched it glint,
and said nothing.

The snails were climbing.
The air was too sweet.
You slept through goodbye.
I left the key where it lay.

ლ(´ڡ'ლ)
This   is  comedy   ovah  here      don't  get all  pissy. ...  
If 50 is the new 30  ?
'  , then what the hell does that make 18? …What, negative three? I can’t touch that. That's a felony   AND  a math problem.  turns  out  Judge doesn’t accept algebra as a defense.

50 is the new 30, huh? Okay, okay, then 18 must be.... the new embryo. ?  
Which explains why every time I have to place an order at a fast food joint or something, anytime I gotta interact with these little *******…
dealing with a ******’ teenager these days, am I right?
How do these little ******* even get jobs?
Who would hire them?
They're just like, “Yeah, let's sink the whole ******* business right now slow  quit   who's with  me  ? .” Comes with the built-in torpedo.  Slow  quit ? I got  socks older  than  you .

I feel like I’m babysitting a fetus with cyborg Wi-Fi.

I go to get the   last few hairs that I got left cut and
, you know, this one
She  doesn't even want to put down the phone.
I'm like, “Are you serious? You're gonna try to cut my hair?”
The stylist’s got one hand on the clippers and the other glued to TikTok. I
’m like, “Sweetheart, unless you’re livestreaming my bald spot, can we focus pls?”

You know, I'm not really crazy about how my ears look up there either, but I would like to keep ‘em both.  jeez

Oh my goodness. Can I see the manager?
She   fires back , “Well, I thought Karens were all females.”

18? That’s the new *******  rhats what that is ?
. You're not an adult at 18,  !
you’re some kind of… a larva with three points on your driver’s license.

50 is the new 30? Yeah, my ***.
And my Pinto is the new Learjet.

50 is the new 30, huh? You know, I don't remember needing so many ***** pills at 30.
But, you know, then again, I AM 50. I don't remember too much.
Cept  for  I aint  really lookin  forward  to bangin a 50  yr old  even if  she does  try and  act thirty....  just  sayin ...

Then what the hell does that make 80?

   You  do realize  ...  That means my great-aunt Edna must be the newest pin-up girl.  ah  jeez

Somebody put a lock on the nurseries—***** about to get weird.

  Seriously  though  HOW   is it   supposed to be like the new 30 anyway?
What are we talking here mentally? Is that supposed to be a compliment?
The new roller derby champion?

great-aunt Edna, posing with a feather boa  a long cigarette  and a  triple olive martini,
suddenly the height of “saggy” ****  now ?

Oh God, please tell me that's not a thing.
Please tell me we're NOT  doing that.     Am  I right ?


tip  your  waitress ,  try  the  fish  ....  I'll  be  here  all  week .

The rain gave the matt green leaves a glossy look as if dipped in natures varnish. The green dazzling in my mind, even after so many years.
The sound of the rain unmistakable as it roared it’s delight in the early evening air.
Not another sound could be heard above the noise of rain drops as they ended their decent.
And then I saw you, you stood, soaked below the tree.
Steam rose from the road that passed between us like wisps of smoke from a dampened fire.
The road warmed by scorching summer sun that had been cast away by the sudden storm.
I did not know you, but in a heart beat I loved you.
I watched, enchanted, bewitched with your smile as you laughed at the storm.
I had to talk to you, be in your presence the torrent no deterrent.
Indeed I wished it would rain forever just to keep you there.
Then my world fell apart as you gestured to the sky, laughed then raced to the car that pulled up alongside you.
You were gone.
Many years have passed, I have moved far away but I had cause to return.
The tree still there, cast a spell that stopped my steps but ignited my mind.
I saw you again, laughing, still wet with that summer rain.
I was young once more, for a moment I fell in love again.
You, a stranger I never met, you stay warm in my memory.

Before the profit of the prophet,
He tried to fit into a prophecy,
Living like furniture wrapped in plastic,
Always waiting, never too honest.

As a kid, barefoot on the stone,
Toes split rocks he called his own.
Didn’t matter, he never kept score,
Tears skipped like pebbles, lost on the shore.

Teenage nights taught him to choke,
Lungs full of secrets, lungs full of smoke.
Coughs hidden deep in a pedestrian bush,
Dreams of riches, but so broke on a hush.

Exhaust from his mouth, he claimed the street,
Pretending that silence was something complete.
But silence was clothing, handed down rough,
Trauma sewn tightly, never enough.

Now he walks past mannequins, frozen in glass,
Faces like lessons too heavy to pass.
Breathing was something he learned to fake—
Lungs filled with pressure he couldn’t escape.

So he asks in the dark, was he living at all?
Or just holding the smoke longer than them all.

Chasing attention in stride,
everyone seems concerned with
empty things half the time
flourishing in every room at the center,
we speak out and judge
from perceptions that don’t matter,
pushing bad behavior like shills;
are we all climbing the same endless hill?

It is circumstance laced with denial:
we will get tired of being so busy
of spinning in mindless desire
and artificial normalcy,
tired of looking outside ourselves for
what will induce today’s new ecstasy

It’s easy to forget dry land
when you’ve always been at sea,
maybe there is still common ground
in living out our wildest dreams
and holding onto authentic truth:
don’t lose touch with this search for
the fountain of youth