"bombast" poems
Too long this rot has run its course, too much the damage done
When men deflect acknowledged glance, they know that wrong has won.
Across this land and far afield the wrongness seeps within
And pride becomes a memory through distant halls of spin.
How can we bow to tyranny, how can we shy away
From that which causes eyes to slide.... and coaxes will to sway?
To tolerate the bombast, the bullying, the lies
Succumbing to a hopelessness, which, both we despise.
Division in the nation, uproar in between
A man and wife’s contention-ness beyond what should be seen
Brothers loathing brothers, silence in the room
Where a word uttered wrongly can erupt to screaming soon.
Allies left in tatters, trust is cut to shards
Tariffs injudiciously, imposed to **** the cards.
International uproar, industry in strife
Teetering disastrously when NATO flees the knife.
Putin sits and rubs his hands, hilarious the show
Disorder and disharmony to lubricate his glow.
Beijing sits inscrutably, always opportune
Manoeuvring judiciously, in place, to call the tune.
America, the isolate, sails away to sea
Blondini, at the helm, wears smirk indulgently.
M.
The White House
HAMILTON NZ
12th July 2018
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 2:17 AM UTC
Sprawl of the nazarene toothslayer,
Nucleotide bombast explosion;
***** of the eftsoon soothsayer,
Pyramid galaxies implosion:
Breathing quintuplicating matrix
Somersault to ceaseless meiosis,
Goldbeating phlanx initiatrix:
Amphimixis apotheosis.
Lifen gyrovagues aerolitic:
And fixate Atlas telescopic!
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 10:55 AM UTC
My personal déjà-vu-time memory-prompts that frame
The blurring patterns of today’s hubcap-wheels, spinning
Kaleidoscope flashbacks of bathtub playtime.
A gaggle of giggling girls babbling about
What used to matter : umbrella-popping chewing gum
With gallivanting jargon laced in crushes-hushed : boy-talk.
Pillows : Comforters morphing, swarming like
Womb-entranced, half-cupped palms calmed
Palpitating mouths motoring off self-pitying rumble-grumbles.
How the clopping ball of opted-birr was a bent-mouth birdcall
Over-relished, over-zealous imploration : a round robin
Jumblemix of a jejune bombast for slap-sticked power.
By-and-by polysyllabic buds bloomed, baked, and wrinkled
Past-Gas’s long-gone jokes : those balmy snug-hugs guarding
Doltish vulgarity among the begrimed-glitch and old-grown-boring Jive.
Apr 7, 2011
Apr 7, 2011 at 11:49 PM UTC
So you think you are a master of techniques of persuasion?
You shallow pips-squeak, mediocrity is your mastery
the obsequious hoi polloi that surround you are the pitiable averageness of conciliation
Sophistry and subterfuge are your game of compromised facts
syllogistic arithmetic conceptualizing doesn't make anything so
your addition is flawed by your bungled bombast of banality and guile
fortunately for you, your crowd will never study logic
fortunately for you semi-literacy is de rigueur
You pompous swollen grandiose mass of hyperbolic gas
Fear is what you offer, lies are what you sell
your rhetorical flourish is as the stench of a waste dump
fetid, corpulent, fallow and febrile
toxic
half-truths, innuendos, ambiguities, conjecture and asinine aspersions comprise your specious fare,
fostering rumours, manipulating facts, you are the purported Biblical brood of vipers so extensively reviled against
Your relevancy is attributable to the dull stupidity so profusely prevalent today
Your "success" is the stuff of taint and treachery
You'll probably choke to death on a stuck piece of poorly masticated flesh
so appropriate and befitting the demise of a professional liar
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 12:44 AM UTC
Finding symbolisms
that connect you-
to me
scents and sights
that set my heart free
Baby,
my love is not a bribe,
nor my body or words
or my compassion
or played-out verbs…
What drives this force-
to me, is un-known
and these feelings
have done nothing but grown.
Like a thief in a bank-
my thoughts are more tempestuous
than the Devil driving a tank…
though nothing destroyed
will satiate.
And no words, no gifts,
nothing I can create
will be enough to show
the colors you make me see
-and the melodies in every key
that manifest with-in
every time you are near.
I don’t mean to over do it
or create a sense of fear
nor do I worry
that you may disappear.
circumstances and situations
of many assortments and arrays;
with or without you
will not hinder me
living through the day.
I just simply wish
I could write
the most compelling lines to you,
to move the world-
move the soul
-to make you proud
and feel completely whole.
To bombast all senses,
and knock down fences,
to alert the universe:
that you are in my heart
- to stay.
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 3:33 PM UTC
The great gaudy flage is screamin' blood in the streets
loose yawn of a gob on him
all bombast n' swagger
he makes a barrage of nuisance
channels through the public
and scatters a juggler's performance spot
lobs away his change hat
then, roughly over the cobbles
he hoicks a resuscitation doll
and stamps down a posing boot
on the 'defeated form'
an unprepared scoop of tourists
a pause for silence and begins a rant
a great performance
of well harassed combustion :
"i smear to god all the phalluses
[he roars, all saliva]
i smug to god
a full jug of uglies
tug on [makes the hand gesture for male ************
i **** off the forger
would slug it in the mug
if it ever did form a tissue oath
took a plug at some drunk straggler
called the baffled *** 'god-father'
and spate spume on his fallen anatomy
[with one hand he indicates the mannequin at his heel]
amen ************ !"
he bows
a long quiet
some people clap awkwardly
two police officers appear and hook him by the elbows
(it has been this show before)
Mar 11, 2022
Mar 11, 2022 at 11:38 AM UTC
My personal déjà-vu-time memory-prompts that frame
The blurring patterns of today’s hubcap-wheels, spinning
Kaleidoscope flashbacks of bathtub playtime.
A gaggle of giggling girls babbling about
What used to matter : umbrella-popping chewing gum
With gallivanting jargon laced in crushes-hushed : boy-talk.
Pillows : Comforters morphing, swarming like
Womb-entranced, half-cupped palms calmed
Palpitating mouths motoring off self-pitying rumble-grumbles.
How the clopping ball of opted-birr was a bent-mouth birdcall
Over-relished, over-zealous imploration : a round robin
Jumblemix of a jejune bombast for high-brow, White-men polemics
By-and-by polysyllabic buds bloomed, baked, and wrinkled
Past-Gas’s long-gone jokes : those balmy snug-hugs guarding
Based-vulgarity amongst the begrimed-teeth-sucking and homegrown-Jive.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC
How I hate to be a dick havering ire and vitriol
But with great bombast I must barbily insist
That you stop that ****
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 2:50 AM UTC
I did errands today
and I was confused
Something was wrong, astray
I mused
I settled into the evening quiet
And my disquieted soul shouted
"The flags were not at half staff"
As the West Wing staff and Cabinet was trimmed by half
Yesterday, Congress was sieged by riff-raff
45 egged them on
Congress counted the Electoral votes
but our troubles are not all gone
Today, I needed to see that flag half-mast
My grief begged for a symbol against the bombast
And yet the flag waved, full staff, as if nothing and no one mattered
And no one has said a word
Jan 8, 2021
Jan 8, 2021 at 12:36 AM UTC
We hide behind words and rhymes
All along wondering what's on each others minds
So it is with this poetry
I romance her with cajolery
Windy blowing the silk sails from the mast
Over the little man in the canoe waves will crash
Then it's bombast
And bomb blasts
Down the halls of this woman
On the walls of this woman
(To take a ride on this carriage
It must undulate during marriage)
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 12:11 AM UTC
Hearts sparse in this carpark,
the wind feeling rowdy, biting like a
small rabid animal with no collar
wandering the city alone at night.
The car is making me claustrophobic,
I've spent far too much time with the heat,
too many minutes burning cigarettes and
my hands near-numb from the caffeine.
Poems are less like action movies and
more like action paintings exploding
in suspended motion. I'm sure we all
remember when art felt new. I can't
recall when it didn't feel so lived-in.
(*And of course this poem is merely
a memory of feelings, which is not much
of anything to me or you because the past
is dry and done and does not intrude.*)
Lincoln, Nebraska is a livelier city
than one expects. It is like going to an
art exhibit expecting Rothko and getting
Basquiat, bombast and immediacy.
My favorite poet is Craig Morgan Teicher
because he and I may ramble but he is not
afraid to sacrifice accessibility for
feeling. He could find the beauty in the
image of Lincoln, Nebraska in January.
I will soon need to devise another way
to keep myself entertained so let us
say this CD spins one more time and
maybe I can go for a walk, clear my head.
I do not intend this to be wrought with
sentiment, but there are times I am not
as cold as this city. There are times
the mind must scream
so the heart stays safe.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 2:07 AM UTC
We are slaves
to the techno-autocracy.
A faith of subscribing,
of retweeting,
of liking things
we never loved.
We chant into the feed
and call it presence.
We echo to the void
and call it voice.
The liturgy is noise.
The sacrament is scroll.
We kneel before timelines
like altar rails
and take communion in pixels.
We have traded prophets for influencers.
Revelation for reposts.
Scripture for screen time.
The holy ghost got a firmware update,
but still can’t answer support tickets.
We stare at our gods,
glowing in our palms,
and ask to be known—
but only if it fits in the caption.
There is no silence.
Only the dull roar of monetized despair.
The din that keeps us deaf.
The bombast of uninformed certainty.
The drivel that drips down our chin
while we think we’re being fed.
We are full of nothing,
and still we chew.
Apr 17, 2025
Apr 17, 2025 at 1:16 AM UTC
*“But nobody really cares about how a poem has done! The only thing worth talking about is
what is the next poem”*
<>
how brief are these pleasures
that are oft tendered to our senses,
sunrise, sunset, eclipses
all ****** too quick,
yes,
a slow read, a leisurely walk amid
the bombast of colors falling extraordinaire
even the denuded trees
are blinked away too easy,
even though they longer linger,
our body clocks knowingly admits
that even the still of snow covered lands
or the blanketing grating grays
of a Midwest Great Lakes winter sky
goes on and on
too **** long,
they too to can be, are,
imagined away without too much difficulty
so too,
the next poem
can be hounding incessantly, crying out for
your undivided-under-god,
for attention to be paid
and paid again
but more likely
be a desert away of unwatered vast eternal spaces, and inspiration is only a mirage
that searingly teasing you for relief
from can’t get go satisfaction
for that next poem
is perpetually around the
next corner,
moving faster than your heart’s beating,
the words that need believing,
need bleeding for
they come at great cost,
never simple, never flawless,
just raw unpolished
that is always the
next poem
Nov 24, 2024
Nov 24, 2024 at 7:46 AM UTC
I don’t give a **** who runs the world
Just so long as they keep their anonymous women out of the picture
And don’t knowingly, crash cymbals on Sundays.
Whilst I’m ominously left of centre and kinda’ right of everywhere else,
I can’t help but watch the political circus perform.
Polititians everywhere, particularly, currently in the USA, are flexing their muscle, using the tools of their trade to the best advantage:
Coercion, persuasion, exaggeration, the blantant use of unsubstantiated facts, manipulation, outright lies and even overbearing bullying.
I hear them rant, I see them strut.
Their egos blooming like peach blossom,
Projecting themselves on the populace.
Preening their image with self serving eyes, loving themselves shining brightly on the podium in the morning sun.
But here today, gone tomorrow.
Their words hang, resonantly, like loud vapour suspended…then vanish.
The believing crowd gathers, sways, roars, disperses…and promptly forgets.
The circus is global, playing out its’ performance with expediency, bombast, and utter disregard for consequence, collateral damage incurred in achieving their immediate imperatives…to Hell with the tomorrow ahead.…
Occurring simultaneously everywhere…you can watch the circus performing daily in Amsterdam, Washington, Beijing, Kolcutta, Canberra, Munich, London, Capetown, St. Petersburgh, etc.etc.
Watching this, with a sense of disbelieving astonishment, I’m amazed that anyone actually bothers to take any notice anymore?
M.
11 February 2016
Foxglove farm, Taranaki NZ
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 5:44 PM UTC
amongst the night scented pines
i register
with an impish partner
plugged from off a fancy tiered cake
her school dance dress
and me a lumberjack of fashion
new together
us toys two
splintered from our band of goofs
you are crow
I become antler crowned
a primer of pranky static
amongst the wooded pines
roots and leaves
rhythm extant
and a flashlight
and slunken and bravado
and hip checks and embarrass
and mischief seek
and mischief applied
and bombast
stolen alcohol and torso
spatty wind and forrest
swig
mouth-to-mouth
and pines and dark
cloud covered stars and no moon new
all the time a thing impending
romance with exposed wrists
a sick excite
glassy glances into eyes
and our mind could speed friction into flame
feel the spin of the earth
it's all just speeding up
we clutch
the pine roots hold it all together
drawn silence....
...
and she laughs
to unnerve the 'breath withheld'
then wind springs
and creaking and branches again
and we dance our feint
we dub it 'the turpentine'
one flashlight
each takes turn and spotlights the other
drunken performances
hers a showy enchant
and baiting stumbles
discarded slippers
earthy wet knees
through laddered tights
playing meekish prey
i only take a quick awkward turn
(some tribal hunter mime)
so she can clown once again
our spotlight scatters life
steals the nights light
strips auras from the trees
and we fire out the beam
in waste and hazard
as only courting humans would dare
Jun 17, 2021
Jun 17, 2021 at 1:09 AM UTC
. pękł -
reg. a balloon:
he burst,
in other languages
certain words
have no
gender neutrality,
why double the standard
for a per se fetish,
regarding neither noun
nor verb gender neutral,
by sole testimony
identifying pronouns
as gender neutral?
move to switzerland,
and you'll find certain objects
having a gender bias...
e.g. a grenade is male,
a chair is female,
a table is male...
not really:
a chair is gender-neutral,
a sleeve is male,
the sun is female,
the moon is male,
the bed is female,
the floor is female,
a house is a hermaphrodite,
as is tango.
how can you attain
gender neutrality
within the framework
of pornouns?
sorry, pronouns...
english is
looking, but rather not looking
at itself being
constrained in a straitjacket...
******* lunatics, a bunch
of ******* lunatics...
pronouns are
gender exclusive...
other european tongues?
their nouns are gender
inclusive...
to me the english
language is ********
or at least contrasting
the darwinistic bombast:
neanderthal.
and to think,
it only took the church being
truly established,
the mistaken identity of
the dead sea scrolls,
st. thomas' gospel,
and the nag hammadi library...
bunch of wanks...
sure, if the atlantic sea
is just a pond...
wanks welcome yanks...
in continental
european, a chair can summon
a male pronoun association,
while a frying-pan can summon
a female pronoun...
england was never going to
be as eccentric as iceland...
unless in never never ever land.
pękła,
yep, she burst.
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 7:48 PM UTC
Former CIA Director
John Brennan scathing headlines
Washington Post op-ed sharply
published critical accusations
muted excoriation slams
Commander in Chief
volcanic blatant pathological lying
spews like lava his American
foreign policy boilerplate brazenly
bastardizes by banditry blueprint,
balefully balkanizing beautiful bracketed
booming brady bunch brand,
bests best-buy buffer braking balanced
bastion, bolstered beloved benighted
bequeathed bicameral bipartisan bliss,
Baptizing bacchanalian buffoonish bombast,
betokening bobble-headed Bumstead,
barmy bartered bride bravado, bizarrely
brash brassiness, blindsiding behavior,
beetlebrowed bonehead, bafflingly baldfaced,
bankrupting, blithely bollixing,
bombastically belittling, badmouthing,
banally blasting, banana-boat baseless,
bearish blandishments, beastly boastful
boosterism, bellicosely boorish, bug-eyed,
bighearted, bigoted blathering breeding
blunderbuss bloopers, bewildering
bloodletting bellyache blight,
brazenly being bandying bellwether,
blitzing bourgeoisie balderdash,
balking but beaming barbaric
berserk ballyhoo backbiting,
backslapping backstabbing
blacklisting bromides,
besetting basic bestowed blooming,
Bobbitizing bedeviling beneficial
bulwark bereft badinage, ballistically ballooning
betrayal birthing bedlam.
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 6:06 PM UTC
i don't know about you, but ******** out
a high-fibre ****
out of your ***
feels just as good,
if not more,
as good,
as having an ******
**** when that slug slides
out?
thump! plop! ploop!
given that...
i can't imagine shoving anything
up that alley...
there's too much
pleasure easing something out
from that cul de sac....
why would i even want to
stick something in there?
perhaps having ******** allows
you to make that comparison...
taking a **** can feel
just as good as having an ******
or urinating, with a ********
but that's just me...
we know how western society
is oh so objective / "scientific"...
so... why would we need food critics for?
or wine critics?
it either tastes great...
or it tastes like ****
if we're being so ******* scientific,
do we need these scientific
differentiations to be respected in our,
so called, society?
who needs them?!
off to the guillotine with them,
alongside that ***** of an antoinette!
what sort of society prizes
itself as being primordially-scientific,
clueless ******* objective by my say,
and then champions restaurant critics,
or food critics... or critics for their own
worth...
what part of giving a critique of food
is objective, to later bombast a stance
for championing darwinism as the pinnacle
of humanity's total worth?
maybe i missed something.
anglophone wankers;
have a jerk-and-whammy on this crap!
like all of engloosh science:
robin hood, who could, but never would.
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 2:25 PM UTC
*for my father's heart i'd sever a thousand hearts,
and think nothing of your digital bombast,
in expression, and in your understanding
a careless use of punctuation,
for my father's heart i'd sever a thousand
heads from able limbs, into that tabloid care of
your to passively brush... with your
assimilated parasites, lost bilingual ********
oh scare me with your turbans and lost tongue?
scare elsewhere, you equal among colonisers!
ignore the irish, they're just like dumb swedes.*
the ugliness of the english publication scene,
the too "risqué", i could integrate, but couldn't
assimilate, i couldn't do that passive-racism of
fake brits akin to: egyptians,
indians in the highest hierarchy of the Raj..
i couldn't do that...
they integrated & assimilated
like barren ****** they basically
did a Michael Jackson of migrating;
**** them all!
and they laughed at someone who
was almost killed;
thank god i received the laughter and
not my mother & father,
for my father's heart i'd sever a thousand men
from their torsos...
and i would do more, should my father's heart
not shine in emblem of riches
akin to my would-be murderer's mother's
tongue not dripping out honeyed words:
as i read, most hate their fathers, as the old
testament says, and as christianity proclaims
the Bethlehem star proclaim the baby owner
rather than Joseph... most hate their father...
and like slithering parasites without congregation
await the Samuel fingerprint of passing....
they laughed when i said i was almost murdered,
they laughed so hard they sentenced me for
psychiatric inspection to be able to write a book,
a common monetary generator that madness was,
but look at my legion of those readied to ******
look at it! ah, i see, no more great wars to be waged...
i laugh too, at their export of values to foreign
lands then now fear to contain...
a friend in iraq just said: p.p.s.
and i retorted, what about the p.s.?
and he said: i meant your signature, you know,
write something like resembling english humour,
un-decipherable, i.e. not funny, and when funny
thought idiotic, because too much lee evans puppetry.
and i said: ah, p.p.p.s.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 11:23 PM UTC
Don't talk about it.
Within the whole fit
Of alcoholism
There exists a skism
Of sorts,
That exports
The deviant aspects
Of life, expounding on regrets
Future and past.
Bombast
The standing
Circumstance.
Don't talk about it,
But the though doesn't quit.
Just permit
One lasting comment
Each one out of their mind.
Each one looking to find
Somebody,
Or, some shoddy
Example of another life.
Each one is hinged to strife
And dismay.
Looking to one day
Get away.
Looking for someone else to just stay.
Or to say
Something pretty.
It's ******
Enough just being.
Each one only seeing
The bad side of it.
...
Don't talk about it.
Just one more thing...
It will bring
Absolutely nothing, but,
Remember the bite.
Like a small, lustfilled, light.
It, felt, right.
A small touch
Isn't a crutch.
It wasn't much
More.
One can deplore
Desire
But admire
The effort.
Except for...
Don't talk about it.
I quit.
I can't
I won't
It's scant
That I detract.
There exists desire
And not an aquisition to aquire.
But, I
Can't help but sigh.
Even though my
Other shifts to cry,
I won't speak.
A hand she seeks.
And I give,
With the warmth of a shiv
To touch her face.
She's come from a strange place.
I won't speak.
For once, one, is not meek.
Friends before
But for a second, a little more.
Don't talk about it.
Don't let it persist
Like it was pretty.
Remember the city
And the stars.
There was no trip to Mars.
Remember "mistake",
For it can make
Friends...
But to what end?
Why is it important
There are no memories to sort and
Nothing to find.
In this mind
It exists as nothing.
No bluffing
No feeling
No realing
Just two
Of a few
Who
Wanted
Nothing left stunted.
No whelp
No cry for help.
Don't talk about it.
Yet, I sit
And think,
And no it wasn't the drink.
It was lonliness.
What did I miss?
Placation of desires and Nothing more.
She walked out the door
And was gone.
I sang no sad song
And it wasn't wrong.
Don't talk about it?
Fine, I submit.
I quit.
This is it.
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 7:43 PM UTC
Donald Trump boasts about
A landslide victory in the recent election.
Trump and reality seem to be
Experiencing a disconnection.
Roughly 80,000 votes
Out of millions and millions cast
Determined the winner in the race,
And yet Trump keeps holding fast
To strange and absurd delusions of grandeur
And to a fancy on which he dotes
Regarding his "triumph" over Clinton
And the total number of winning votes.
Even though she received MORE
Than two point five million votes than he,
Eighty thousand in THREE swing states
Won him the presidency.
Eighty thousand. I repeat:
Eighty thousand. That's the size
Of a small Californian town.
That's all it took to win the prize.
As usual, Trump loves to ride
The glory train of Bombast and Bluster,
Refusing to acknowledge that
His victory is really lackluster.
- by Bob B (12-13-16)
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 8:26 AM UTC
Dropping like a bomb,
always missing its mark
Your echo explodes,
a sound hollow and dark
Answers unquestioned,
all bombast enflamed
Smoke drifting abandoned,
—its silence unclaimed
(Villanova Pennsylvania: August, 2016)
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 2:56 PM UTC
In with a bang out with a whimper
Gone is the bombast, the fist pumping high,
The people have voted for a country that's simpler
Fairness and decency their blaring war cry.
Obstinate tweets well may he air
While brooding and scheming for legal dog-fights,
That darkness and gloom he'll pervasively share
Will always be ******* by hope's purest lights.
We as a people believe above all
That the footsteps we walk are of giants untold,
Where no single man with bluster and gall
Will trample the feats of our heroes of old.
This not to say a man with great charge
Cannot some good things bring into our lives,
But where we do not want such man to just barge
Lies within that true heart our Nation so drives.
So as with winter where leaves fall and die
While circling clouds block the sun's warming rays,
Spring's blossoms first peek initially shy
Exploding as one to a flowering blaze.
Nov 8, 2020
Nov 8, 2020 at 2:31 PM UTC