"baiter" poems
There’s a lot to be said for this place.
A near-perfect pitch for diversity,
Diversity: a neurolinguistic term;
A quaint way to say: miscegenation.
No, just kidding; I meant the melting ***
A fine blend of Anglo, Hispanic & Indian blood—
That’s Pueblo & Plains Indian blood--
Not that **** masala, chapati & dal Indian blood.
My apologies to "Who's the White Guy?" Bobby Jindal.
New Mexico: “The Land of Enchantment.”
Where 310 sunny days per annum,
Are like money in the bank, earning
Double-plus compound interest for those
Suffering with seasonal affective disorders.
A land of sunshine without the orange juice,
But substitute chili, red or green?
An equitable offset to be sure.
310 days of sunshine:
Even the white people are brown here.
Which does a lot for my self-esteem.
Back east—New York, Chicago & Philadelphia e.g.—
People that look like me, i.e.,
People with dark brown hair, eyes and skin,
Get stopped/ass-cheek spread/& frisked, routinely.
Stop & Frisk: NYPD’s spectator sport for decades.
Stop & Frisk: Mayor Bloomberg-defended
Crime-stopping Godsend,
Getting guns off the streets.
Getting homicides down.
Everything’s cool until some slick race baiter,
Starts yelling: RACIAL PROFILING.
Forget for a moment that people that look like me,
People like me with dark hair, eyes & skin,
Commit 78% of the crime in most cities.
“It’s not racially driven profiling,”
Said Newark’s police director recently
Referring to stops carried out by his officers.
“IT’S CRIME-DRIVEN PROFILING!”
But, again, political-correctness trumps common sense:
August 2013: Judge Rules NYPD
Stop-and-Frisk Unconstitutional.
Well I’ll be a monkey’s *** ******
I moved to New Mexico to blend in.
My complexion a shoe-in for
The Witness Protection Program or
Any other public or private,
Domestic or international rendition site.
But I digress.
New Mexico: no passport necessary, Babaloo!
New Mexico: be you white or black, Hispanic or Indian,
Or even Roswell extraterrestrial,
The cops here will beat the **** out of you.
Or shoot you dead, Kemosabe.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
All it is, is just meat
Or eat it like a treat
You may think this is where my problem stands
So *** help me and give me some hands
If you help me ill catch all your traitor
Trust me im a master baiter
If you help me in the morning with the wood
Maybe ill treat you to a lollipop if you would
My **** has pros and CONS that will DOM. (Dominate) which is true
So nothing can protect you
I just may call you a **** face
So wipe the residue and smirk off your face leaving without a trace
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 10:18 PM UTC
Fear waits upon its prey
where the light is a shamefaced girl
wind is a fragmented guest
where silence fools the unwary
to chirp the birds forget
where the baiter might be the bait
the hush is not all white
as in that ever ruling night
blood is spilled without sound.
Forlorn as the lovers' lost track
meanders the creek
in moans for the lost
shedding its sighs to the tides.
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 8:56 AM UTC
Fifty five I do die
committing suicide on my birthday
oh how I love poetry
and how I will die for her
My death will be ******
yet I will not tell you how
for this poet is devoted
oh boy holy silver cow
By that time I will be a master
and not meaning a master baiter
for this is my art
from the very start
Worry not I always come back
if a young child again I be
I will tug at your sleeves
and you will know it is me
Sweet symmetry is me
with my perfect death
for I am that kind
and I follow my hero's
Always the last to die
for all wars I have survived
but I planned this my dear friends
in my hand I take my sweet good life
For my love of poetry is great
and I will not negate
that she did save me
and for her I do die
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 8:47 PM UTC
It's been a cold winter for drinking ***** dwellers of the north came forth to protest against such blasphemous traitors, lap dancers hiding pants of unwary clients, empty their pockets from coin and *** five pints of *** is all it takes, men are seduced too deeply to resist any finger tips on their zippers, wives at home left without a supper, was it not for a master baiter to take the case, would have dawn passed their untouched chests.
Pure as a crystal, poor like a ******* musketeers nor robin hood couldn't have done a feat so big, town was cheering but the foolish men were weeping, having lost their trousers, now even shirtless remain while the glory of one pales everything around them, it could have been a love story, if and only was he standing in a straight line, noodles in the *** soft and sloppy, when the temperature doesn't match, heat gets turned off, his pants stay clean and just like that he disappears, leaving behind a legend for generations to come, some who admire, others despise.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 4:05 AM UTC
They say there’s plenty of fish out there in the sea,
Shame I’m stuck without a fishing rod.
No, I’m no catch and that’s plain to see, lil’ old me,
Shame I’m so far from blessed by God.
I’m a rowboat among yachts and freighters.
And there’s no strange taste to which I cater.
I’m no master baiter,
or am I?
In the Atlantic they’re shooting me down,
In the Pacific they all only frown,
They say no man’s an island but what about boys?
And God I wish I didn’t feel so very alone,
But I’ve no shooting stars, no luck, a broken wishbone,
I suppose I’ll just drown out all this whiny noise.
Oct 22, 2017
Oct 22, 2017 at 10:24 PM UTC