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Michael Kusi Nov 2017
Wannabe wrote to the judge and said he wanted to proceed pro se.
The judge replied back and said that it was okay.
Not knowing that Wannabe knew less about law than most lawyers forgot
When Wannabe was looking on Amazon, he had an amazing thought.
They said if you wanted to hide something from a black put it in a book.
But he replied to himself, They did not figure that this black would look.
Wannabe figured that he could teach himself the law like school.
He didn’t know that both the professor and the student in this case was a fool.
Finally, and most amazingly, the day for the trial was here.
Wannabe was confident he would win, he did not fear.
He say that the landlord had at his side appointed counsel.
But Wannabe thought that the case hinged on the stronger will.


Wannabe held on to the podium as if he wanted it choked
There wasn’t a single rule of opening statements he hadn’t broken.
Wannabe said To my friends, my enemies, and my haters.
He thought this is my chance to say what wasn’t in the motion papers.
Then Wannabe looked up at the judge and said May it please the court.
This should be both a property dispute and a tort.
Because during my time there, he made me very distressed.
He was both a menace to society and an enemy of progress
The landlord’s lawyer did not object because he was so shocked.
That the law could be so abused, battered and mocked.

Then the landlord’s lawyer called his witness to the stand.
And asked him a very simple direct question.
Wannabe shouted out with a loud cry, “Objection”
Then he said under his breathe for all to hear, “I am not the one”
The judge said that Wannabe’s objection was overruled.
Wannabe said, “Im not a lawyer” and the judge replied, “No one was fooled”.
Wannabe continued to carry on until the judge called him for a conference.
And told him that if he did not behave, his case would be dismissed.
Then it came time for Wannabe and Wannabe said, “I wish to direct-examine me”.
The judge said No you cant do that, and very angrily.
Wannabe had to sit down because he did not have a witness or expert.
Then the judge said that he lost, and Wannabe was especially hurt.
Michael Kusi Nov 2017
Wannabe claimed from a young age he was meant to play pro basketball.
Even though he wasn’t strong, couldn’t jump high, and couldn’t go fast at all.
He tried to shoot foul shots at the park but he just shot foul.
When someone would bump him he was mad he didn’t get calls.
Wannabe would flop so much people watching said he was trying to audition.
And he would shoot the mid range jumper as if he was going fishing.
See, Wannabe played on the varsity team in high school  but his uncle was the coach.
And he would not listen to people who told him he had the wrong approach.
Wannabe attacked the basket like it stole something, but he would miss the shot.
His shooting form  on the basketball looked like he hurt his wrist a lot
Because Wannabe  would shoot the ball almost from his side.
And when Wannabe did not make it in it was like someone had died.
Because Wannabe said the rims was tilted and his friend said his shot was tilted.
Now Wannabe doesn’t talk to that friend anymore because he felt jilted.
Rebounding was a foreign concept to Wannabe and defense  did not know his game.
So when he had to guard someone it was like a free basket because there was an open lane.
Wannabe did not get steals or blocks, because he said that those were not points.
And when somebody scored on him, Wannabe said it was because of his aching joints.
But Wannabe is in the park, because he thinks one day he will be in the NBA.
But the time that he would get signed seems like an eternity away.
Michael Kusi Nov 2017
Wannabe tried to contact companies to tell his life story.
Saying that his struggles would make for an interesting biography.
When Wannabe would watch gangsta movies, he told people that it was based on him.
He shouted on street corners he moved bricks into this hood, but he wasn’t building mansions.
Wannabe said he had more money than athletes with shoe deals.
Because he said emphatically that money laundering was the new skill.
When people asked him where this money was, Wannabe said it was off-shore.
Because he did not want the federal government to mess with it anymore.
Wannabe claimed that the product he sold was so strong it made people cough.
Listeners shook their heads, telling him that if it was true then something was off.
They said that it sounded like he had bad product that was painful.
He then retorted that Columbians called him the Snow Angel.
But Wannabe could not even point to Columbia on an atlas.
He said it was because he had a girlfriend there he had catfished.
They called up people who Wannabe had said were his henchmen
And those men were confused when they said Wannabe ran with them.
He looked frantic until he said that those men had memory loss.
And that rival Columbians revered him as an enemy boss.
He kept talking, but eventually people stopped paying attention.
When Wannabe was brought up in conversation, he didn’t get a mention
Northern Poet Jan 2019
Look at all these wannabe gangsters
Terrorising our streets
That one's wearing camouflage trousers
Just wait till you hear him speak
'Dems bear skills mate'
'Can you lend me fifty bar?'
He sounds like he's from Los Angeles
Doing time in the yard
But he's not
He still lives at home with his mum
And his pregnant girlfriend
And he's under the thumb
You see them outside Tesco
But they're not shopping for pesto
Let's go
They've seen the old bill
He's known around this town
For selling dodgy pills
Guns, knives and slang
That's what you need
If you wanna be in their gang
No education
Just a stolen Playstation
And don't forget the ****
Even on a school night
They're out doing speed
You'll see 'em in the park
With a bottle of cider
Then they'll start
On a poor old-timer
Tracky bottoms
And a Burberry hat
Chav fashion
Cause they think they're all that
But the funny thing is
They don't have a clue
They don't think like
Me or you
They think that they're rap stars
Dreaming of fast cars
But they're just wankers
More like 'wannabe gangsters'
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
.you can never really write any poetry by not covering the "heartbreak" the loss of your own "printed" words: how much different is the internet, from "real" life? just asking... since: internet banking & internet shopping... to lose a poem / pre-scriptum is not exactly the same as losing a person to mind: father's day... i cooked the dinner, i took out the trash, i wrote an invoice... i guess that's much better than leaving a card of greetings... and, come to think of it? why are we the sort of people subjugated to nostalgia, with but also "without" a history? aren't we subjugated to nostalgia and a history as a "fiction"? the beginning of the 21st century, the end of the 20th century... the 19th century germans associated themselves with a nostalgia for ancient greece, we're the only people who have an inbuilt nostalgia "safety-mechanism"... the only people in time who are nostalgic about the life surrounding their own existence slot, which doesn't have a trans-temporal dynamic... i remember times when we would be teenagers... spitting on people from car-parks on imaginary tonsures, buying *****-magazines from indian cornershops, or belgian freebies of non-insinuations, white lightning cider while sleeping over at youth centers playing snooker throughout the night... even at school: attending a catholic school with the irish east enders... uniforms, sure... a chequered shirt: blue, red, white... tag? made in canada... and if only capitalism worked as it once did, made in canada? lifetime of a shirt? 20 years... now? made in china... not exactly real cotton, is it? 2 years... before ironing the shirt *****... once upon in gants hill, st. valentine's park, and the pub, recently closed, decent karaoke... in the park? golf, basketball, rowing boats in the large ponds... when the jews were there... gants hill roundabout... the hanukkah torches... jews scuttling wearing trainers come rosh hashanah: jews can't wear leather on rosh hashanah (judgement day)... shy like rats... when the jews were there (gants hill, ilford)... the park looked great... tennis courts... now, when neo-Bangladesh moved in? ****** place. what else do i remember from my original pre-scriptum that i lost? oh, that once time in gants hill... walking into a kosher bakery with ****** knuckles, having tested them on a canvas of a brick wall, buying some dough-fused-sweets? with the girl selling the sweets bewildered by fear? i like the look of fear in people when tested by uncertainty, and bleeding knuckles? later? climbing over the park fence, taking a **** while squatting in the darkened palace of the park, walking into a brothel, having my wallet stolen, not reacting in what would have been justified... high school... we wore uniforms... so no high school h'american culture trap / culture... school uniforms are the best idea, there's no chance to "shine" in telling apart the rich kids from the poor kids... there's only the standard... walking to a supermarket, past a thai surprise... sports bra, short hair... walking back... she's still there pretending to talk on her mobile to someone... you take her home with a few beers... play her some jazz... take her into the garden, the moon is a beauty... you **** her... hand in her underwear and you're still gambling... before the emergence of the nag hammadi library and the whole androgynous vogue, the thai were already readied with the lady-boys... when i reached in and found nothing but oyster... would i have stopped finding a wink-wink slouching worm? slap a trans in the face? no, not really... a thai surprise is, a thai surprise... i would have considered doing my first ****... "lucky" for me she was a she... a girl... ****** her in the garden under the moonlight... gave her my hoodie, which she drowned in... finally... the level of interaction where the female is not a mantis, i.e. a female larger than the male... she drowned into my hoodie as i walked her home... i like the familiarity with the mammalian, not resorting to insect superiority of females... these days... i find that males are strictly mammalian... while females? they are borrowing insect-esque ontologies... well, darwinism allowed the time-frame... males are mammals... females are insects, behaviour-wise... two time frame i do not appreciate the english for... darwinism is prime.... cultural-marxism my ***... what about cultural-darwinism?! no?! that doesn't exist?! cultural-darwinism is as real as cultural-marxism, and, in the former sense? it really does belong to the conservative right-wing politico spectrum! might i add? isn't psychology merely pop philosophy? i find psychology riddled with rubric cohesion, it's all oh so "self"-evident! i abhor psychologists... these gypsy philosophers... medicine-men with no pharmacological shadow of power... to prescribe drugs... arguments, persuasions, but no dialectics... psychology will forever be, for me, a philosophy primer, short-cut... pop philosophy... psychologists can treat people who have never read a philosophy book... r. d. laing... i remember this one instace... me and a fwend of mine travelled into central london, went into a bookshop shy of trafalgar sq., i spotted an edition of: the scarlet and the black by stendhal... i told him: i will trade you linkin park's debut album, if you buy me this... the transaction was made... the one book i read after seeing a film adaptation starring rachel (rakhel) weisz and ewan mcgregor... ra-kh-el: not ray-chel... we used to be humans once... at high school getting bullied back... putting pins on chairs once we got up, sitting on them... playing bulldog in primary school, slap-ball, tag, playing cards at lunchtime... 16 fatty boy... one summer in poland, comes back aged 17... the irish girls take an interest while eating a pomegranate... what was the success of your diet? don't go to the gym... excess skin, an aesthetic surgeon is not what you need... there are only two ways to lose weight... either via swimming or by cycling... cycling is the best... lose weight by also toning your body... gym is a bad idea... by going to the gym you are straining exclusive parts of your body, either the torso, your hands, etc., jogging? unless on soft ground, bad idea on concrete, arthritis... cycling or swimming... lose weight... tone at the same time, the skin is allowed the required time to adapt to shrink, and forget what propped it up in plump form with all that excess flab... ugh... i hated being attractive to the opposite ***, i never used it to my advantage! imagine... an irish lad comes up to me, on behalf of some girl while i'm donning a french braid: you look just like johnny depp in blow, impersonating george jung... 14 year old girls walk up to you asking what shampoo you're using... herbal essences... i never used my looks... *******... now i'm a heavy drinker... so much for looks... first girlfriend? a fwend had to call me telling me she called him that she felt butterflies when i dropped her at the train platform after a day's worth of dating: tate modern, edward hopper exhibitions, cinema: troy, starring rose byrne (briseis) - honestly, a man can go crazy over curly hair... and then a restaurant date... that **** just flew over my head... i wouldn't have noticed... honestly though... i missed the whole h'american cultural excavation genesis in high school... catholic... uniforms... jesuit army-esque formation... now, i'm ageing... i'm starting to find the company of cats to be: clingy... my shadow included... i once thought that dogs were needy... i'm starting to think that cats are worse, esp. the maine **** breed... "lonely" or "loneliness" doesn't really resonate with me, esp. when thinking something "feels" like a variation of claustrophobia: hence i write... without a dialectic in place, ever since plato wrote his dialogues... what is philosophy, primarily? isn't it an off-shoot of "claustrophobia"? we write because we are seeking escape from congested thinking, a variation of "claustrophobia"... now imagine a schizoid character... having to focus on an imaginary dialectic, actually... having dialectics enforced on him, with no clarifying exodus to posit a gensis with! now, a clingy dog i could understand, given the overpowering status of the leash... but a clingy cat, when there's no leash involved?! shoom! right over my head... gone, somewhere into the distance!

what, this is the part...
were i cite...
   the weimar ******
critical condition...
       a daft punk troop
of a song,
  end of line....
blow-up a hot air balloon...
worth of blaire whire...
play the tambourine
like a ******* video...
there are,
quiet, simply,
no nazis coming...
fashionista faux pas
examples...
i'm alive,
but i'm dead,
i just forget to don
a strap-on...
  "oops"?
   that **** go down well
with
the "in"-crowd...
usual... metropolitan...
verbiage surge of answers....
   many a fetish after...
we arrive at the sensible
aspect,
"toxic masculinity"...
when guns n roses wasn't,
and nirvana was just plain
gay...
              and then...
whatever that happened,
happened..
                 and people were like:
come to the "new" tomorrow,
there's always a yesterday,
in a dream,
in some phil collins
wannabe
studio...
or... some other random ****
that
excluded peter gabriel.

                 i died:
and just about right:
my harvest had come.

great book reviews...
"toxic masculinity"...
so all masculinity is
about a clockwork orange?
   if it is?
can i be pro abortion
anti mongolian horde?
yes? no?
  which is it?!
neither...
   **** me... that's just bad
luck...

                               sundbeds,
sunflowers,
tulips,
sunglasses,
    plenty of staged
eager nights...
boring political affairs...
and...
         when gaming was
more about the narrative...
and never,
ever, about the microtransactions...

point being...
it's a game within a game...
time, is the prime concern...
you play a game,
by waiting...
you wait: by playing a game...

  microtransactions
are...
you ever move a sim3 avatar
to a computer,
and make it play a computer game?
what's on the macrocosmos spectrum?
you....

               "back in the day"...
you'd spend a saturday morning
engrossed in a gaming narrative...
metal gear solid,
tenchu, final fantasy solid...
20 quid...
and you played the narrative...
and a game became equivalent
to the worth of a book,
resident evil,

            you paid for a month's worth
of gaming,
you exchanged tips,
you sometimes bought a cheat book
because of the homework,
and that was your saturday morning
before hitting the shopping mall
or, whatever...

the current dynamic of
microtransactions in gaming?
i never, ever, do...
i'm an old gamer type...
i see the potential of extending
the life-expectancy
of a game...

   as long as you don't buy into
the microtransactions gambling habit?
as long as you play the "game"
within the game?
the game is an assured classic,
akin to chess...

              you have to play
the waiting "game"...
             time...
                           that's all it is...
whether war robots,
    or dawn of titans...
        comparison...
  you know that the best fruit,
is fruit, allocated
to the geography of it being sourced
seasonally...
you can't actually get better
strawberries,
than english strawberries...
from england, come june / july...
no ******* point sourcing them
from spain in late march / april....

    same thing with gaming...
the modern games haven't made any
elaboration...
apart from dislodging the player
from the concept of narrative...
**** me... that's almost an improvement...
given that now: time is the counter
measure, and the gamer...
   is having to invest,
in a narrative, outside of the confines
of the game,
once upon a time,
games had time-narrative
constraints...
     now: there's time,
and there are gamer narratives,
excluding them from time-narratives,
of a game...
         it's almost a faux pas...
more like a wet-*****...
****** pinky lodged into an ear,
an april fools' day scant...

        if you hacked passed
the microtransactions hype...
and didn't?
and instead took to patience?
it's free...
   where once,
a game would cost you 20 quid,
and a month's worth
of narrative,
back then, when games
resembled books,
when the gaming industry
was heavily influenced
by literature...
and now?
   the game's free...
sure...
it's "unfair", it's biased...
when you don't engage
in imported gambling
of succumbing to what, this is the part...
were i cite...
   the weimar ******
critical condition...
       a daft punk troop
of a song,
  end of line....
blow-up a hot air balloon...
worth of blaire whire...
play the tambourine
like a ******* video...
there are,
quiet, simply,
no nazis coming...
fashionista faux pas
examples...
i'm alive,
but i'm dead,
i just forget to don
a strap-on...
  "oops"?
   that **** go down well
with
the "in"-crowd...
usual... metropolitan...
verbiage surge of answers....
   many a fetish after...
we arrive at the sensible
aspect,
"toxic masculinity"...
when guns n roses wasn't,
and nirvana was just plain
gay...
              and then...
whatever that happened,
happened..
                 and people were like:
come to the "new" tomorrow,
there's always a yesterday,
in a dream,
in some phil collins
wannabe
studio...
or... some other random ****
that
excluded peter gabriel.

                 i died:
and just about right:
my harvest had come.

great book reviews...
"toxic masculinity"...
so all masculinity is
about a clockwork orange?
   if it is?
can i be pro abortion
anti mongolian horde?
yes? no?
  which is it?!
neither...
   **** me... that's just bad
luck...

                               sundbeds,
sunflowers,
tulips,
sunglasses,
    plenty of staged
eager nights...
boring political affairs...
and...
         when gaming was
more about the narrative...
and never,
ever, about the microtransactions...

point being...
it's a game within a game...
time, is the prime concern...
you play a game,
by waiting...
you wait: by playing a game...

  microtransactions
are...
you ever move a sim3 avatar
to a computer,
and make it play a computer game?
what's on the macrocosmos spectrum?
you....

               "back in the day"...
you'd spend a saturday morning
engrossed in a gaming narrative...
metal gear solid,
tenchu, final fantasy solid...
20 quid...
and you played the narrative...
and a game became equivalent
to the worth of a book,
resident evil,

            you paid for a month's worth
of gaming,
you exchanged tips,
you sometimes bought a cheat book
because of the homework,
and that was your saturday morning
before hitting the shopping mall
or, whatever...

the current dynamic of
microtransactions in gaming?
i never, ever, do...
i'm an old gamer type...
i see the potential of extending
the life-expectancy
of a game...

   as long as you don't buy into
the microtransactions gambling habit?
as long as you play the "game"
within the game?
the game is an assured classic,
akin to chess...

              you have to play
the waiting "game"...
             time...
                           that's all it is...
whether war robots,
    or dawn of titans...
        comparison...
  you know that the best fruit,
is fruit, allocated
to the geography of it being sourced
seasonally...
you can't actually get better
strawberries,
than english strawberries...
from england, come june / july...
no ******* point sourcing them
from spain in late march / april....

    same thing with gaming...
the modern games haven't made any
elaboration...
apart from dislodging the player
from the concept of narrative...
**** me... that's almost an improvement...
given that now: time is the counter
measure, and the gamer...
   is having to invest,
in a narrative, outside of the confines
of the game,
once upon a time,
games had time-narrative
constraints...
     now: there's time,
and there are gamer narratives,
excluding them from time-narratives,
of a game...
         it's almost a faux pas...
more like a wet-*****...
****** pinky lodged into an ear,
an april fools' day scant...

        if you hacked passed
the microtransactions...
       and didn't have the chance...
microtransactions are like
the old school cheat hacks...
but not quiet, but somehow quasi-,
       a modern microtransactions,
would be a cheat magazine
thorough-through
a game like final fantasy VII...
you have homework,
but you still want to complete the game...
modern games...
modern games...
there's an "end gole"?
  what modern game is worth
"completing"?
    
   again: tron, ready player one,
back to the future...
star wars just became dead
to me...
   sick people will plague hard-working
people, with a quasi-gambling
addiction,
needing to make microtransactions...
and they will,
my father was plagued by
an impostor, claiming to be a
tax office official:
and what if, that person had
an authentic position at the tax office?!

when gaming was for gamers,
the games were bought...
there was a narrative...
but now... now games don't have a narrative...
why would they?!
   who the hell plays games for
the narrative these days?
i know that on the crapper,
i need a game that allows me
to experience live-stream
interaction with non-bots...

       and these old gamers,
who still invest their money
in literature-esque-games?
so i was the sad one,
investing in vinyl?
   aren't the classic ******* gamers
just as bad,
investing in prepackaged
narrative gaming
experiences?
             a game with a narrative...
yeah... me buying vinyl
is: b'ah b'ah bad...
       what sort of game is alive and well...
when there isn't a crowd pushback
for the currency of microtransaction?

the narrative is time,
   the longer you endure the inadequacy...
the more you realise:
you're basically playing
the same game,
but in your scenario:
it's free...
   in some other ******'s scenario:
it cost him 70 hundred quid...

personally?
   i love this microtransaction dynamic...
concerning the people who
do not engage with it...
it's the perfect antithesis
   of what ruined the music industry
with genesis: napster...

you really are, playing the ultimate
game,
time...
         the one sort of commodity
that games,
without a clear narrative construct,
"forgot" to mention in terms
of them being exploited...
to their full capacity
of the one "commodity"
they "forgot", or rather,
couldn't "sell"...

              a tenchu PS1 game could
have lasted me a month...
now? a free game,
like war robots...
with absolutely no NPC?
hell... i'll be 90 and still be playing it;

what else? applause!
SexySloth Jun 2013
I want to be a psychopath.

It is so thrilling, the thought.

One day I'll rule the world

And **** people and never get caught.
Steven Covert Nov 2014
I'm a wannabe thief.
I want to steal things from you.
Like a sweater or a shirt.
A glance, a lighter, your glasses.
To steal a kiss would make me the happiest man on Earth.
But most of all I want to steal your heart...
and never let go.
But I'm just a wannabe.
Tiffany Marie Dec 2014
Alright this poem is ***** but heee goes nothing (inspired by stop don't talk to me loser lamo or lameas* wannabe)

Stop don't talk to me Loser Lamo Wannabe like o totally
Stop don't talk to me your a:
Loser
Lameas
Wannbe
You make me scream
I hate you your
Killin me you
This its impossible
You don't listen you just talk talk and talk
You just don't stop
What happenin to me
What about those dreams where's the key
I think I know where its up your as

Stop don't talk to me loser lamo wannbe like o totally
You
This
Its
Hard
To
Say
Aloud
But
I
Will
Say
It
Stop don't talk to me loser mother ***in lameas wannabe
Stop
This *****
You don't think you say you better think before I say
Stop don't talk to me you little loser lamo wannabe like o
Like O
Like O
Like O
Like O
*TOTALLY
Comments private suggestions reposts and likes welcomed
David Burster Feb 2014
Ice Ice Ice
Ice Ice Ice Ice
Capital I
see eee see eee
Ice Ice Ice
Ice ice ice ICE
Ice ice ice iceice
Ice Ice
ICE

Cream cream
Cream Cream Cream
Cream Cream Cream Cream
Cream Cream CREAM cream
CREAM cream cream CREAM
cream cream CREAM cream cream
krrr eeem krrr eeeem krrr eeem


Ice cream I love you
like a love song baby
But Ice cream is lovely
Cause it's such a wannabe
Cause ice cream is cream
who pretends to be ice
What say you ? Let's roll the dice
For my chocolate Ice cream PS: I love eating you
Get me high
Get me drunk
Give me drugs
**** me up

Make me forget
How I feel
I'm here aren't I?
So what's the deal?

I want ****
I want ******
I want *****
I want ***

They all sound sweet
Like my best friend
I wanna be crazy
Until this ends

Get me high
Get me drunk
Give me drugs
**** me up

I want ****
I want ******
I want *****
I want ***

Acid tequila
Whiskey LSD
Go find me a party
I wanna be free

Fetch me some crack
I'll drink my liquor
Let me shoot up
I wanna get sicker!

Get me high
Get me drunk
Give me drugs
**** me up

It's quiet, I'm bored
I'm lonely, I've had it!
These are the confessions
Of a wannabe addict!
I wrote this. I have never done any drugs ever. I am very anti-drug. Drugs are stupid. Please don't steal this and PLEASE don't post this elsewhere unless you ask me first.
Carlie Sims Jan 2018
She opens her front door only to find the works of god twisted and held under the hands of the devil
She opens the door only to find a wrath screaming and ******* making her unleveled
A wrath from her father who sings in pain and her mother who lost her sane
She tried to open the door yet each time turned her away
Her back is against the wall
She starts to collect dust and soon she starts to fade
Behind it lies insanity yet she knows that that is just humanity
She can’t see
So leave her, wannabe
Swimming pools of tears
Collected from all of these years
She wants to go outside
But her world may just collide
So the door is still kept closed from her soul
For if opened the front porch may swallow her whole
Francie Lynch Mar 2016
Here's a few legitimate refugees:
political, poverty, drought, war, and religious.
They're right in the top drawer zone,
But who gives a flying Whoopi
That Miley will claim assylum in Bali Bali;
Or Rosie will fly over camps on her way to Switzerland.
I hope Cher,
Doesn't apply for residence on Cape Breton Island:
We don't want you, Babe.
These are the celebrity refugees,
Bailing out on the touted
Greatest Democracy on the planet.
****, if you don't like what you elect,
Look to history,
Stove pipe hats,
And the wonders to be achieved
Before the end of this decade.
They got enough cash for space,
For Mars!
I didn't mention all the others, like Stewart, Rosie, Samuel, etc. And please, don't send Bieber back.
Jae Elle Mar 2012
he said he writes
like Bukowski





he doesn't even *drink
What can i serve today for a lovely miss
Humanity and you mister World?

Eee...
Hm!

I would like to see the menu, please!

Oh, yes, the menu ... just a moment. . .

Darling, I would love to have  
Weatherwise Mushrooms with Weepy weightless Asparagoses
served with those fantastic moral dips.
They are phenomenal!

And you know what:
The other day lady Greedy ordered light lush - a delightful dish. . . and after having this goergous revelation of supreme tastes. . . she was becoming slimer and slicker. . .and thinner. . . she had enjoyed it so much! It was incredible! Her skin became purer, translucent, laced with
amazingly glistening diamonds and then. . .
she. . . can you believe that! just dissappeared into thin air
saying with blissful tears within her eyes:

Humanity - I have never told you, that in fact. . . I have always loved you more than your luscious husband. . .  you are a real darling. . .      
sweetie pie. . . so long. . .
I'll miss you tremendously!!!

And pufffff. . . she was gone! Can you imagine that!?!
And luscious... why on Earth, would she use such a word?
Strange:
And you, honey?
What will you have?
Are you listening to me!?

Hm... just let me see the **** menu. . . first!
Planty of food in this fancy restaurant - and I'm starving to death!
Where is this wannabe waiter - Forgods sake!
We are waiting him for ages. . .

There!

Well - here you go madam. . . menu
sir. . .

I recommend to you - our daily
  well-bread tacos for starters
served with authentically homegrown
veggy  
wellbeing  
mixed with well-beloved  
well-coocked main course
: :  : :

We have also some excellent
well Vintage wine
of trust, year 5195. . .
To be continued
JR Potts Oct 2015
I wrote a book once
but every page was breakup letter to myself.
It’s not you, it’s me appeared to be the theme
yet I found those words incredibly hard to believe.
partying at the poetry slam, having a ball, oh yeah

partying is what we do, we get down and party, baby

move ya hips, and please don’t be CRAZY

and some people come to my door

and asked me, why i went to the poetry slam, for

i said, the reason i go to the poetry slam, mate

because i can party, regardless of age

i don’t care if i am a middle aged wannabe

i wannabe the host of a cool event

i wannabe a santa on stage

i wannabe a very good actor

at least wannabes are better than has beens

i party with the crowd, i go aussie aussie aussie, oi oi oi

i am cool and totally radical dudes

you see i hear voices in my head, some negative, some positive

some people like a shy family person that was too shy to muck with the cool families, i hated those *****

my poem went down, what do you think of this shy **** now, hey dudes

and i believe in reincarnation, a true buddhist

i am a partying at the poetry slam, come on down to the phoenix bar on march 18, and join in the PARTY

get the homebodies out of their homes, to enjoy life like myself
Nienke Feb 2015
stardust in a hot cup
moves like wind in water
i drink it like a stupid child
and dream that i die this way
svdgrl Sep 2014
Ignore the itch you can't scratch deep in the palm of your hand.
Ignore the morning alarms, just sleep right through them.
Ignore the sound of the coffee bubbling over, let it spill.
Ignore the toothpaste stain on your new shirt.
Ignore the voicemail notification, who listens to them anyway?
Ignore the mailman at the mailbox, he didn't really say hello.
Ignore the stare of the drunk man in your lobby.
Ignore the morning brigade of children running behind you.
Ignore the damage your heels are doing to your feet.
Ignore the whistle from the man half your height.
Ignore the traffic light, the cars are going the other way.
Ignore the loud honk from the trucker as he speeds off.
Ignore the liquor store, and the desire to take a shot.
Ignore the "Baby let me talk to you," from the **** wannabe.
Ignore the text message, don't let them know you have a phone number.
Ignore the cigarette smoke invading your lungs.
Ignore the baby boy getting slapped by his mother.
Ignore the bakery with the tres leches cake you like.
Ignore the bank, you're probably broke.
Ignore the homeless woman, she just wants to buy drugs.
Ignore the Facebook notification, just another ALS challenge.
Ignore the time, you're at work early.
Ignore the habits, listen to your conscience and speak loudly and clearly.
You are so much more than ignorant.
john p green Oct 2015
If you wannabe
Your *** will be knocked right oughta that tree
Dont you believe in me?
We'll see what shall be
Cause mama raised no wannabe!
Tabitha Sullivan Sep 2013
Sick of all the judgement and the rumors

If you want the truth about my life

Come and find me

Don’t go to the ******* facebook

With it’s lies and gossip

Each of the lies will cause somebody pain

Because none of it’s true!

Who the hell are you

To call me the wannabe?

Personally I think that title belongs to you
Gaby Lemin May 2014
I think we are all just
wannabe artists
trying to figure out
how everyone else  
managed to get famous
Effy Royle Nov 2015
Aries-
oh what have you done to deserve this?
so much hate in your heart for yourself
yet you were living a lie
I hope you're happy now

Taurus-
sweet child, what a pity that people can't help
but leave you
how many tears did you shed when he said
he didn't love you back?
I hope you find peace within yourself

Gemini-
I'm sorry he doesn't see you're the one
you're both stuck in this never ending
paradox where no one wins
don't change yourself just to please
the unpleasable
I hope you're whole again one day

Cancer-
you poor, tired soul. take a seat and look in the mirror for a change.
you are nothing if not beautiful.
please be kind to yourself
I hope you find happiness one day

Leo-
oh what a warrior you are. wartorn land and heart.
you're much more than your mistakes.
take a look at everyone around you.
I hope you realize you're not alone

Virgo-
my honey bear, my sweetie pie
your hands still shake when they call your name.
stop pretending you're okay.
there's nothing to be afraid of
I hope one day you find clarity

Libra-
you beautiful creature, how many times has someone failed to compliment you?
that number is in the negatives now and you're still on your high horse
get off for a second and ground yourself. it's only a matter of time.
I hope you forgive and forget

Scorpio-
my light, my dark, my everything in between
stop and smell the roses
can't you hear them singing for you?
your eyes always did make my heart stop
I hope you forget why you're hurting

Sagittarius-
baby bear cub, you sweet little thing
how many days have you been at sea? enough to not love them back
just remember where you came from
I hope your dreams come true

Capricorn-
my one true love affair, you're mighty small for someone who loves to talk
your nose freckles never seemed so prominent
I love your laugh, I love your cry
I hope you realize what you've done to me

Aquarius-
my life and my wannabe lover, you're drowning in regret
I can smell the whiskey on your breath
yet you're too drunk to see straight
I hope you remember who you are

Pisces-
my soulmate and best friend
I know you're still hurting
but open up for a change and let them know the real you
you can't sweep it under the rug forever
I hope you can be yourself
Jordan Rowan Feb 2016
High Priest Paul stalks them in the night
He promises forgiveness by the edge of his knife
He never stops to question or hesitates to bite
Believe in him and he will make it right  

Scar-Faced Jake doesn't like to wait
He murders Myan time and claws the hands of fate
He bullies his way to the top of the state
He wears a velvet hat and sells you ****** bait

Senator Chris keeps his lovers on a list
A check for every thrill and a line for every kiss
Somewhere, out there, far beyond the bliss
There's kids wondering where their daddy is

Groovy Jungle Jim buries his guitars
Played them like a fiddle in middle country bars
Slept with the lowlifes and wannabe a stars
His voice is the air and his clothes are in the yard

Ali of the Valley sees the starry sky is clear
Reflecting in her eyes like a cosmic mirror
Wondering if the universe looks at us and sneers
While the people on the earth scoff and call her weird

Mr. Priestess Slim puts the bottle on the floor
It's full of whiskey eyes but just a moment more
Someone is rapping on his chamber door
But when he opens it up, he starts a holy war
Paige Martin Feb 2010
Mr. Jones you’re an All Star
You broke my Achy Breaky Heart
Because you’re cold as Ice Ice Baby
I saw The Sign but
I Would Do Anything for Love
If you don’t want What I Got
Good Riddance

My Heart Will Go On
But if you Wannabe
Living the Vida loca
Play that Funky Music
Baby One More Time

What’s my Age Again?
Smells like Teen Spirit
Its My Life and I feel like it’s over
Just Say My Name or
Quit Playing Games with my Heart
Genie in a Bottle please grant me three wishes
Because my life Don’t Impress Me Much.

I’m Blue. Da ba dee.
Im Torn.
Its been One Week
And I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing.
And of course there is No Rain.
Because all my Tears are in Heaven

I think I would enjoy an Iris
Much more than a Kiss from a Rose.
Lou Costello’s
bronze semblance
dipped and danced atop
his granite pedestal
spinning miasmatic tales
of enigmatic hope and
resplendent labor

“the sweet
unbounded
expectation of
hope once
surged down
this city’s streets”
... said Lou

"I was a self made man
until someone thought up
the idea to cast a bronze
caricature of me and
bolt it to this grand rock”

nostalgia
is the boldest form
of fiction
culling from the past
the things hoped for
in the now

“growing up
here
I clipped school,
played ball,
rolled drunks
and fought
nickel ante
prize fights
to get my
daily bread,
I literally
punched my
way out
of this town”

a smith smelts a
batch of liquid bronze
pouring molds full of
a fervent wish
a madman's delusion
a priestly promise
a Pollyannaish illusion?

baskets overflowed
gushing hope, offered
at the holy altars by
honorable workers

it was said that
a morsel of labor
could feed 5000
starved families
breeding hopes as large
as a half cup of water

hope
the size of a
mustard seed sparked
recovery of 1000 sick children
dying from the Asian Flu
at St. Joe's

hope
willed an end to war’s slaughter
which ironically was bad for
Paterson's war profiteers
forcing layoffs
sparking labor actions

hope
ignited conflagrations firing
the resurrection of dead industries
lately there is a lot of hope
circling this one

miracles spring
from the pronounced
lips of trembling hearts

the hopeful amassed
slogging forth on bloodied toes
along razor thin slices
of expectation
hoping to begin again
eager to build anew

new starts sometimes
grow old fast soon
hope expires
winging back home
on broken wings of
misspent labor

hoping for the snow to stop
a lump of coal to last
the labor of a budding crocus
rewarded, breaking through
the hard crust of winters end
blooms for a day then expires

hope is a beggars wish
gods give yearnings heft
prayers earnestly chanted
willing paradigm shifts

prayers of absolution
play the angles
calculating odds
of probabilistic mathematics
a sure thing long shot
the prayers of the
righteous availeth much

we hoped for jobs
we hoped for leisure
we hoped for love
we hoped for labor
we hoped for rest
we hoped for luck
we hoped for a life
wealth health blest

laughing at our follies
crying over defeats
our city a tragic star
a comedy of schemes

our
hope and labor
is the keystone of
our self construction
cornerstone of
a grand city’s edifice
its negation our
deconstruction

tragedy and comedy
invested and spent
falling and laughing
foibles and faith

belief trumps evidence
happenstance slays surety
horror and beauty
compose a life's mural
nothing happens
by mistake

learning and ignorance
fate and chance
the risk of randomness
expiration dates arrive fast

predetermination a bold
conviction, suspicion,
intention a splendid  
kismet  

banality becomes
sublime  
laughter is ******

...the mystery is in
the loam... says WCW
...the finished product
is what I’m after...

“what the
**** are you
doing here?"
the bronzed Louis
gagged

"Hey Abbott
look at these clowns
in the yellow plastic
garbage bags!

bobbing in a sea of
midnight mist

a posse of
neon clowns
donning glad bags
on the most dismal
night of the year

twinkling under the
gloom of my playgrounds
faltering streetlamps

“twinkling targets
easily tracked,
a trained eye,
a steady hand
could pick you off
at a thousand paces
what gives?

“what the **** are
you doing here?

“what the **** am I doin
here for that matter?”

“the second question
is easy to answer,

“I’m Paterson’s
finest son....

...“Wherever he is tonight, I want him to hear me," and went on with the show. No one in the audience knew of the death until after the show when Bud Abbott explained the events of the day, and how the phrase "The show must go on" had been epitomized by Lou that night....

"Mr. Bacciagalupe
he use to live on
Cianci Street

“who’s on first?
what’s on second?
I don’t know is on third?
was a riddle one recited
to get into his speak

“his Ginnie Red was legendary
and no one was ever known to
die from drinking his bathtub gin”

the old world ways
are made new
by the arrival of
new old worlds
supplanting old Italiano

“where is all the goodwill capital
we invested in this place?”

successive generations
thought it best to export
the capital of the
expired generations
elsewhere

it was ferried
across the river,
crossed the
city boundaries,
leaving for Wayne
and the fairer lawns
of Wyckoff and the
greener grasses of
Franklin Lakes

all the old wise guys
died off or were sentenced
to life by their children,
some still doin time in
old age homes in
Rockaway

all the sport clubs
boarded up but their spirit
lingers like an espresso
ring on a post slurp
demitasse cup

“hell my body is buried
in Hollywood but here
I am, holding court in
Costello Park
talking with you
knuckleheads
a baseball bat
my royal scepter
a brown derby
my crown, truly a
King of Nothing,
Lord of All

“the soul of my city is
eternal,  like the comedy
of tragedy or is it
tragic comic?

“here I remain
omnipresent,
spinning about
frozen forever
in a magnificent
bronze age,
erected to my likeness
beholding me
to stand witness
to this litter strewn park
decorated with corrugated
Big Mac boxes, plastic
Big Gulp tops and discarded
rubbers bagging the ****
of this cities arrested
citizenry”

never actualized
never naturalized
citizenship denied
at the commencement
of ejaculatory flows
of joy

unfulfilled spirit
of citizenship
never to experience
the splendor
of yesterday’s
modernist
metropolis and
Lou’s stand up
routines

“look at that John
over there, that guy
wheezing like a
ruptured blacksmith’s
billow, pounding away
laboring to get off

“the poor little
******* just hopes it
will end soon

it does
**** he’s done

I” knew that guys
grandfather,
getting off
runs in the family
and remains one
of the few things
that draws the progeny back
to the old neighborhood

“you can still glimpse
snippets of the old ways
rising in new ways

“an Armenian
sports club
around the corner
is a new
incarnation of
the old Neapolitan
social clubs that
once demarcated the
neighborhoods

“these days
great grandsons
of once proud
Sons of Italy
come back to the
old neighborhoods
begging for hand-jobs
from crack ******

“welcome to my
burlesque world

“since the Gumbas
moved to Franklin Lakes
the wannabe wise guys
became ***** whipped
dumb *****
making ***** of
themselves with
their painted ****-job
Jersey Housewives

“they ***** their families
out for a bit parts on
MTV and a free lunch
at the Brownstone

“their grandfathers
labored long hours
to assure the well being
of their families in the expectant
hope of a better shot at life
but the children squandered
the hard earned bequest lovingly
bequeathed by reverent forebears

“in the wee hours
one can sometimes hear
a weeping chorus
of concrete Madonnas
musing melodious lullabies
to the sleeping
Lombard's lying
in uneasy repose at
Holy Sepulchre Cemetery

“they twist in their graves
dreaming of a last dance with the
Lady of Unending Sorrows
at weddings for unrepentant
wayward daughters and prodigal sons

“its small
recompense for a
lifetime of an
honest day’s work”

the dashed hope
of squandered labor
begets a city of ruin”

at the
parks northern corner
the Salvation Army’s
rumbling bivouac rests
in a dreamless sleep
its residents
patiently waiting to
inherit this city
abandoned by
nuevo wise guys

this tragedy
is all comedy
the comedic hope
of tragic labor
buried snoring
the millenniums away
awaiting resurrection
day

Lou was getting ******...
“get outta my park

“the artists
in the rehabbed
factories across
the street
are resting

“nothing much
going on there

“if you're hoping
to find some
homeless slogs
head over to the river
you should find some there”....

Music Selection:
Frank Sinatra, High Hopes

jbm
Oakland
3/26/13
Part 5 of extended poem Silk City PIT.  PIT is an acronym for Point In Time.  PIT is an annual census American cities conduct to count the homeless population.  Hope and Labor is the city motto of Paterson NJ, nick named The Silk City.
Blade Maiden Jul 2018
I take my imaginary pen
I write down my anger
I close my eyes and count to ten
just to breathe a little longer

It's laughable really
when I see you justifying
Sure, you're all touchy-feely
only goodwill, so hard-trying

When you said that to me
where was your heart at?
Why calling me your better-half-to-be
when all you wanted was a shoulder pat?

Oh you, with your wonderful poetry,
oh, lies so beautifully written down
please just stop, you don't know no poverty
in your emerald sea everything you wanted me to believe is to drown

I never thought you would make me think
the worst of you instead
And I swear I could only stand and stare and shrink
when you didn't care to lose your head

Now you haunt me like the headless horseman
and you will forever
but I do not worry for my sanity, oh boy of thoughts turned cyan
I walked with ghosts before and a headless one is so less clever

And if you ever come back looking for this head of yours
Think twice, try a little bit harder wannabe
It might stick out of the sand at your emerald sea shores
Your love for me was never poetry
King Panda Jul 2016
oh my sister,
there are 77 dreams
I wrote in a journal
there is a glass of water I left
on some patio
there is a box of wisdom
I buried at a dusty crossroad
there is a beach where you are
I can see you in the waves
the razzle of the sand
like a billion speckled stars
and the horizon—black galaxy
next time I see you
you’ll be tan
like Cary Grant
but alive
and without the baby turtles
I asked for
I’ll ask how it went
and you’ll say
like a book
like a dream
like a starfish

are there even starfish
where you are?
if there are, please don’t
eat them
it would hurt your mouth
until then
look at the sun
she is beautiful—even I
a wannabe recluse poet
can appreciate nature
through my window

Dewy
ZT Jun 2015
I am a wannabe poet
I want to make beautiful pieces
I want to write about a lot of things
But I am stuck in the topic called “LOVE”

I am a wannabe writer
I want to tell wonderful stories
I want to write about a lot of possibilities
But I am stuck in the topic called “LOVE”

I am a student
I want to have good grades in my studies
I want to be able to study diligently
But I am stuck in the topic called “LOVE”

Words that give an impact
Stories that matters
Lessons that are important
I want to write them
I want to tell them
I want to study them
But I can’t because
I am stuck in this topic called “LOVE”

When I write
I try to write about a lot of stuffs
To write something beautiful
But I tend to write about love

When I make stories
I want to make complicated and exciting topics
To write something that grabs your attention
But I tend to make love stories

When I study
I want to study diligently
I want the lessons to sink into my mind
It does sink, but it gets drowned by the thoughts of love


I wonder why, I am stuck in the topic called “LOVE”
I wonder what great force does love hold
A force greater than gravity it has
For not even gravity can hold my thoughts down to reality
Love always makes my thoughts fly away
Love can even drive others to insanity

Today I wanted to write something
Probably just anything
Anything that pops into mind
Of course it’ll be love, ‘coz lately it’s the only thing on my mind

I wanted to write something beautiful
I wanted to make stories that is wonderful
I wanted to study diligently
I wanted to write words that has an impact
I wanted to make stories that matter,
Complicated, exciting and attention grabbing
I wanted to study the things that are important

So now I am stuck in the topic called “LOVE”
I am stuck writing about this topic called “LOVE”
Because I realized,
LOVE is
Beautiful,
Wonderful,
Can make you diligent
Love can hit you with a great impact
Then love will be everything that matters
And love might get complicated, but then it will be exciting and attention grabbing
But most of all,
In our life, the presence, the existence, the concept, the topic of LOVE
Is important

Maybe, these reasons are the reasons why
I am stuck in the topic called “LOVE”
Have you ever tried to do something else and go back to the thing you did before? Well for me, several times I find myself trying to write about other things but ending in writing about love. Hope for love, sweet love, pain in love, longing for love, love that has left. well, basically everything about love. So I wrote this poem entitled stuck in the topic called love.
sharyn Dec 2014
Hey, I don't mean any offense, but man,
your lyrics lack essence!

Walking disasters with their gang signs and excuses
of artistic freedom spit out words
and pass it off as lyrics;
with their rebellious attitudes,
rhymes from ******* to *******;
addicted, afflicted, constricted, predicted.
Please.
Words you produce
are misused, overused.
With twenty-six letters and endless combinations,
your lyrics sound more like quotations!
I've heard those stories before.
If you want to stand out,
stand up
and walk through disasters.
I want words
that stir,
that move,
that breathes
a different air into these lungs
who's tired of clones and copies,
words that no longer shake this body.
I want words of liberation,
acclamation of passions,
filtration of frustrations,
words of sensations,
plantations and gestations
of hope and light,
strength that will keep me in sight
of the goals in the Fight.
Now that
is artistic freedom.

*—S.C., October 2, 2014
I hope not to sound cocky when writing this. This was a quick write for a friend who asked me to critique his rap, which was unfortunately lacking in substance (but not so much in profanity :P). I couldn't say it to his face that I didn't like it, so I wrote a rap/poem (?) for him instead...haha.
Michael W Noland Jul 2013
Trayton Marvin this
Trayon Martian that

All this talk but don't know Jack

little punk got pluncked
When he stood his ground

Lil heathen went out
With a ground pound

And what?
A mexicant have a Jew name?

Your stories are lame
And all the same

Television drones
Fat and tamed

Little tike knew enough
That when you buff up
And play rough

You can get plucked
For the littlest stuff

Like showing what your made of
Even when it's made up

Even when a fake ****

Even when snuggled up
In the tug of a green heart
Plugged from the rugged start

Just another stupid kid
All skittles and *******

Lying dead
Seán Mac Falls Sep 2014
Loser, poser reeks  .  .  .
Psychopathic ego shines,
  .  .  .  Promoting himself.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
the only shame i feel: muslims hold a single book to be synonymous of a library.

apologies, this is why i wasn't fully integrated,
i hold enough respect for the English ethnicity to keep
the reins on my Slavic origin, and its ancient history,
i want to see the Graeae cauldron
of multiple-ethnicity and culturalism:
what with former slaves learning
rap to topple the slavish shackles?
no one ever heard my story under
the Germans, Russians and Austro-Hungarians,
all those to topple Israel already toppled me
to migrate and leave my mother *******
toward an an export: until the black gold runs
out you sand-******... until the oil runs out...
until the oil runs out...
you're the one abusing it because you have it...
until the oil runs out sand-******...
you gonna take the slang out of me?
what is it now? global or feminist tactic?
Chine ain't about to give Dagenham back,
like they're not giving Ostrowiec Św.:
first division in 1997.. extra-class...
yummie piggies at the trough:
money was created to pacify and let
rich boy girls' spend...
      Lwów / Lvov was still in poker hands
of Roosevelt... so much for ******* H'america...
     biker-clan-glandular-rhaps (or plural of odes):
****! i hate belonging to come or some thing...
i always thought about comedy prone enlarged *******
for the geography between left ****** antarctic and
right ****** arctic in tune with the jiggly fatty-bergs..
no... factual-bergs...
but you'd never disintegrate into a 0a.d.
given the colonial history narrative that doesn't
involve the old testament and ***-kissers and
hefty conservative ***-pleasers like the book
of Antioch proposed... made that up...
got mixed up thinking on the necromancer of
the year that was actually 1997-8
17th *KSZO Ostrowiec Świętokrzyski
, tablature
pld.     pts.        w.   d.     l.    f.      a.
         34      24    6   6 22 24 47...
piggie piggie: got the giddy giggly ***** ****-a-doodle-do...
and i know i would too...
small town Polish town, a big Russian
would-be clever-pincer attracted to ******-pinching,
and all the milky drools, down the Nile toward
Cairo, so long as you wife is an Oasis of hamburgers and
strobe-berry epileptics, i.e.: blink 182's what's my age again?
i speak the ******* sprechen and i don't even belong
here... it's like i'm apologising for something that
was coming... thankfully i'm resolved to integrate cognitively
but in the domestic realm have nothing to do with
this language...
     i don't want to speak it to my mother,
i don't want to speak it to my father,
i can't afford to rent a house and prolong a university
bachelor lifestyle, the arabs and nigerians bought
all the flats out and are renting them out...
hopefully to Somalian pirates for: essex tan orange
sake in terms of: if i figured my tongue was an
axe in the first place... i'd lace my life with
many more people applauding...
i never understood this desire to integrate without
having the right to censor what i'm about to
embrace... a contract, much of smallprint readied
on the fidgety hand...
       it's not that i suddenly chose to
ethnically suspend my origins for a need to respect,
i kept my mother tongue for times such as these,
when i can't be approached as white and as inheritor
of colonialism... if i say i'm German they'll *******
clap, i remember once they asked me as if i were
going to do an app. for the caliphate asking me:
you German? no... Polish... huh? what's that?
somewhere in between Germany and Russia...
now i can't claim the ethnicity that my's right hand
of use with tongue... and now i can't claim the
tongue that isn't the ethnicity but is otherwise my
limb-for-limb... 5p.m. tea 100 years later is
a hijab on the streets of Birmingham...
no secret... i just see why i need to be involved like
some James Dean "wannabe" schizoid spice...
there will be no news from Poland concerning
the migrant crisis, no talk of a Muslim takeover...
ironically, as Monty Python would have said:
everyone was expecting a Polish Inquisition,
or as the crowds chanted: Evangelism! not the Quran!
happily are those: seeing America involve
itself in this slogan... me? as ever, the Pontius Pilate:
i said it once, i'll say it again:
panic is worse than fascism...
   panic is worse than fascism...
you don't expect panic, hence the beasts' stampede
in urban areas... fascism? you know it's
coming, and you know it's not good...
             fascism is panic realised too late,
fascism is panic organised... you knew it was coming
and you did nothing to prevent it...
  the only thing that could have prevented Trump
winning the presidency was acknowledging an unequivocal
membership of the union... Cracow wasn't built in
one day... trigger ******* happy panic button: press!
press! oppress! that special relationship of yours?
yeah... ye'ha! rear 'em in with that quiff of yours, cowboy!
ye'ha!
please don't get me involved, i know how to
impale a turk on a rotten wooden stump, rather than
crucify a Syrian on a geometric of mahogany
amid sacred words: so descended onto a mosque's minaret
and the hippy-hair-debate, and no hair and the hajj.
i know, people are apprehensive you're not a businessman
employing 100 slave Mongolians enlisted to blowing
up 1000 helium filled balloons an hour for birthday
party contracts... and none of them are properly trained
in ventriloquist's chipmunk!
              james dean was the original schizophrenic...
who treated society as an asylum,
and the asylum as a garden of Eden...
                                       lucky him: mono-linguistic...
   i sometimes wish i had that luxury on inherent
cleansing of ethnicity, so i could be left with only
a culinary boasting akin to the Persian quote on
falafel... but then you never know who's side you're
gonna be on...
i might as well quote him akin to j. franco post-doppelganger:
you're tearing me apart!
                                   and they say people think...
nonetheless: whether thinking or not,
they are... a welcome aversion in finding pleasure in
zoos; esp. the times when they're sweating like sardines
stashed in vulvas on underground trains: ventriloquists'
suggestion? moans: foetal moans... get me out of here...
otherwise groaned? harder... mm... deeper...
make your pelvis kiss my pelvis! mmm... baby!
first your read the Marquis to get a hard-on,
then you ****-off that hard-on...
and then you do a hand-job to someone else
and pass on the Oxfam motto to some other "hungry" Afrikaan.

— The End —