Boop boop, boop that snoot,
meow, meow, boop that snoot.

Fuzzy wuzzy was a cat,
fuzzy wuzzy booped like that,
snoot snoot boop boop,
boop that snoot, happy cat.

Let’s dance, wiggle wiggle wiggle,
wiggle wiggle wiggle, snoot snoot yeah!

Meow like a cat.

Now wiggle wiggle wiggle,
cat ***** be a wiggling like that.

Zoom! Cat be zooming
faster than lightning,
superkitty be frightening
quick and oh so fluffy.

Cat, boop that snoot let’s
dance.

©️ 2021 By Amanda Shelton

Boop de booboop
Scloop beep boop
Brun duh dee doodee
Do doot scloop boop
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrroo (roll your tongue (if you can(I heard not everyone can roll their tongue)))
Dut dut digga digga yut doo
Bigga Bigga
Doot zoot beeboop
Boop de booboop

Parody of A Red, Red, Rose" by Robert Burns

"A *****, ***** Cat"

O my Boop’s like a *****, ***** cat,
That was newly born last year;
O my Boop’s like the father’s fear
That’s constantly exposing her rear.

As cute art thou, my pillow case,
So damp in ****, am I;
And I will throw thee far, my pet,
Till a' the sheets air dry:

Till a' the sheets air dry, my pet,
And thy heat melt wi' the embrace;
I will ne’er sleep still, my pet,
While I rest, her **** frozen in my face.

And spay thee soon, my noisy Boop,
And spay thee soon tomorrow or now
Yet I will forget again, my Boop,
And be cursed with thy deathly meow.

Rolling in late, Mr. Movie sits on his roll-y chair and is
entranced by the glittering star and butterfly beads
inside the walls of his magical kingdom.
He's having a think.
He's taking a journey, tuning his frequency to the
Centre of the Earth
beep boop boop boop beep
and then stares at me waaaaaaaaaaay far out.
Okay, look, listen to me....
The ground, did it broked and the dinosaur fell into the
shadow like Balrog?
I look at him.
(We discussed the death of Maleficent a while ago)
But Trevor didn't fall into the shadow just like Gandalf.
Uh uh. No, he didn't.
He shakes his head.
That is a good thing, I say.
Yes, okay, now look, listen to me...
He lowers his voice to a whisper.
(They want him to stop talking incessantly about these movies)
But the lava's going to blow and let Trevor out, yes.
He nods at me, waiting for my approval.
I agree.
Okay, and now...
He returns to inside the magical kingdom.
Chattering away, he travels to the Serengeti.
beep boop boop boop beep
He turns to me, worried.
An elephant graveyard is no place for a young prince. Oops!
Oh no! An elephant graveyard is no place for a young prince! Oops!
Oops is right.
Grabby is less impressed.
He's all giggles today but not impressed with me.
Slaps me in the face and pours tea all over my stuff.
Oops is right.

Beep.
Beep.
Boop.

Beep.
Beep.
Boop.
Boop.

Beep.
Beep.
Bebop.
Bo­op.

Beep.
Beep.
Boop.

Ticktock ticktock
Says the lazy clock.
Kring-kring-kring
Hear the morning sing.
Wake up! Wake up!
No more time for dreaming.
Zzz-zzz-zzz
Bees? Snore?
You're still sleeping.
Beep-beep-beep
It's your boss calling.
Bang! Hurry! It's 8 a.m.
And the world keeps spinning.
Ting! You're late.
Prepare for screaming.

I wish I were a robot
Beep boop, beep bop
Robots can't ****
Beep boop,  beep bop
Just thinking and processing
Beep boop, beep bop
No emotion!
How disgusting
*Beep boop, beep bop

Boop boop,
Boop boop,
Now that I'm a grownup,
I su.ck at writing poems.

I poke my cat square in the lips,
And a giggle bubbles past my own.
She throws herself down beside me,
Purring madly.
I lay my face against her soft, warm belly
Thinking how silly to learn patience from a cat
Not realizing
As soon as I turn out the lights
She won’t bury her ****
On purpose.

Rage against the sadness
***** it if your poetry is badness
Hello! Poetry isn't for your complaints!
beep boop beep boop paints

Just remember - When the situation is dire,
(and this is from the king of the mire)
'What matters most is how well you walk through the fire'

My fingers
Worn
My wrists
Tired

I can feel the energy leaving my arms
As if there's nothing left to write.
It can't be true; however,
that there's nothing left to write

There's got to be something
Mermaids
Unicorns
Rainbows
Flowers
Life
Death
******
Ab­use

That got dark fast.

I could write something,
I think I have the energy
But what to write about?

"Beep-beep.
BANKERS TRUST AUTOMOBILE LOAN
You'll find a banker at Bankers Trust"
Advertisement in N.Y. Times

When comes my second childhood,
As to all men it must,
I want to be a banker
Like the banker at Bankers Trust.
I wouldn't ask to be president
Or even assistant veep,
I'd only ask for a kiddie car
And permission to go beep-beep.

The banker at Chase Manhattan,
He bids a polite Good-day;
The banker at Immigrant Savings
Cries Scusi! and Olé!
But I'd be a sleek Ferrari
Or perhaps a joggly jeep,
And scooting around at Bankers Trust,
Beep-beep, I'd go, beep-beep.

The trolley car used to say clang-clang
And the choo-choo said toot-toot,
But the beep of the banker at Bankers Trust
Is every bit as cute.
Miaow, says the cuddly kitten,
Baa, says the woolly sheep,
Oink, says the piggy-wiggy,
And the banker says beep-beep.

So I want to play at Bankers Trust
Like a hippety-hoppety bunny,
And best of all, oh best of all,
With really truly money.
Now grown-ups dear, it's nightie-night
Until my dream comes true,
And I bid you a happy boop-a-doop
And a big beep-beep adieu.

Boop
On
Run fun not.
Eak peak
Doof
Oof
Maloon

Verse 1 (Honey *******):
***** I'm Honey *******, bout to bring em some pain.
All my haters like a choir, they all singin my name.
Ain't got a heart for a broad that's the rule of the game.
Now you a fool if you aim.
Ill put a tool to ya brain.
I'm bout to get it and spend it.
If I said it, I meant it.
#FuckYoFeelings. ******* weapon.
Act like a ***** Ill raise your blessings YOW
You are not familiar with me.
If you come makin a move, ***** yo visitor me

Verse 2 (Tyga):
Its that drop top phenom chop.
All gold rolly top.
**** yo fans, **** a cop.
All my ******* Betty bop.
Betty boop, ******* out.
Gangsta **** punch you in yo mouth.
***** I don't know what you talkin bout.
Flossin now you need dentist now Augh AUGH
**** around and Rodney King the beat.
Bout that war like Vietnamese.
Feelin froggy ***** leap.
I'm that *****, you obsolete.
I'm in that game you know P-T
R-E-C My Swa A-G. Only way you copying me ***** Augh

Verse 3 (Honey *******):
Asian ***** on another degree.
Give me some space, move out my place, ***** I'm just tryna breath.
Now if you, see me around your way don't holler at me.
I just can't waste all my time cuz I be eatin these beats.
Listen you rats here just a captain me.
You ain't me homie you just act like me.
Well you should watch yo actions please.
Cuz there might be some casualties Augh augh
They about to witness it. Last Kings but I'm still on my Queen **** SCHWAG

Verse 4 (Tyga):
Aim aim at yo membrane just for sayin
I'm insane and your girl give me neck, Hang man.
I ain't playin, I never did lie.
Lay around and open yo thighs
****** gon pop like fish gonna fry
Nggas talkin greasy like the sh*t got slide WOW
High 5. Clap yo face. Change yo disguise, I work hard for the money. Money don't ever come in yo life.
A ******* right. When you lie, everybody wanna be just like.
******* to the middle of yo eyes.
Young young Ty T-Raw need a Heisman Aaaahh

blip bleep beep boop
santas gonna watch me sleep
slip sleep seep soap
mommy wants to have a feast
avocados, bathrooms, teaspoons, menthol breath
so very special to watch you seek
bread, seven elevens, toilet paper, adjectives
the way you'd never see.

“Please leave your message after the tone.”

Beep

“I just, needed to remind you that I love you and I think of you constantly, and I’m having a deja vu, but, I- I don’t know if this one will end badly, but the last one did.”

Beep bop doop don beep boop boop

Ringing

“Please leave your message after the tone.”

Beep

“Hey, I don’t know what good it is to tell you I’m sitting on a corner, alone, in the rain just, shivering. But, I miss you. I miss you like a flower misses the sun. Like an ear misses sound. Like a heart misses lo-”


*Love.

Getting ready for bed
can be an arduous task.
There are things to turn off,
some to turn on.
flips and clicks
beep beep boop

A roommate of mine
used to say,
keep noisy things
out of the sleeping chamber:
computer,
radio, loud brain, tv

Only the necessary:
bed, clock, book, loved one

I picture my heart
like a cartoon character
with Betty Boop legs,
tapdancing around,
shuffling off to Buffalo

How many times must I learn
that I cannot elevate anyone
above God?
That I am not to worship idols?
My heart has no place with them

God and I are not that different
after all
He is a jealous God
and we are all made
in His image

So why would I
trade Him
for some wooden idol
or absurd image
that cannot compare?
Why do I let my heart
wander off
when it really belongs to God?

jump, skip, hop, then POP!
August 2, 2011

So here's a playful tune
to make your body swoon.
Shake and bake those hips
pucker up and lick your lips.
Because tonight, we're dancing!

da lada dee da daaa laaa la laa ohhhh

I love the way you move like that
jumpin' 'n jivin', you're one cool kat.
So now we're getting down
laughing so much, are you a clown?
In our serene meadow, together, we're prancing!

Lemme catch you off guard, sweep you off your feet
this is the most romantic way I could think of for us to meet.
Now don't get me wrong, I mean I dress to impress
but girl, for you, I'd much rather wear less.
If you know what I mean, hiding my eyes glancing!

Excuse me mam, but I don't mean to be rude
or have you think my humor is too crude.
But for a special lady, lady, lady, oh so cute
I'll give it my my all, gotta take aim, then shoot.
Gotta get, gotta gotta, give you my all, all my romancing.

Boop boop be doop buh bahhh tra lalalahhh

Baby, so I've got you now forever maybe.
Squeeze you so freaking tight, 'till your soul leaves.
Enters my body and we intertwine, as it mentors.
Me and teaches how to be we.

koo koo cuh cahhh shoop doop la lahhh
Jump, Skip, Hop, then POP!

To physiciologicaly love some one
Do you have to talk yourself in to it?
Can you one time open your eyes
From a blink
And realize i dont love this person
I need this person to feel how i want to feel
How i think i should feel
To live directly from the heart
No thought more powerful
Than the systematic thought
Comprised as a future setting
The mind in the motion of
Calamitous decent
Into the distant abyss
A following into sympathy
A brightened bliss
Of a systematic reprograming
Of why do i always think of you
When a star burns out
And a fire does settle
A distinct remeberence of
Hey
This burning in my body
When i let my mind
Drift away from. You
Is not anything but the universe
Humming the wind through my ears
The way things should be
Hearing how under the love you give me
Without even knowing it
I am complete
Even when im. Alone
Snd youre alive
Happy
Even alone
With the figment of imagination
Of other people
Being able to handle you
Why wont any other mind perceive
The distinction between
Me chemically loving you
The way you insist your ways
And dont see my own
Because youre so worried about your body
And i frown but inside smile
Because i am the same way
And. You are far too scared to admit it
I am what you wished for
Because youre body was
Either wishing your mind wasnt
And you always decided

But wait. A minute
I wander into the desert
And all i can think about it my band
Hidden some how from the stars
Not there viability
But their influence
Since their pull has way more vibe
Than we would ever think
and so would other people to you
The way i lose pull of the world
And you notice
But only like it for a second
Untill you grasp back
At the blanket you call time
And the way i make it skip for you
Would you even hear all of this
Read into it in your own respect
Because. I love you and i wish you were but only because spirtually i wanted to fill the pop boop bebop
Biochemical rap once
Response
With the fact that you are the best thing that could happen to me
I have no idea why
But you are all i want baby
This is from the heart
But logically i can not depart
With the fear
That you will never love me
The same way

Sister.
The wind dies down untill i mention
That it is all we have in common

But the embers
Oh the embers
1122

You're beauty
I'm the beast
I wish you would come save me...

Inflow
Ex flow
system

positive feed back
in a negative loop

hyper sped on the electric boop

beep .

awoken to car horns and sirens wail
Odysseus could no longer feel his left foot , right...
is that the one where they sing those songs and the mermaids eat them up ?

is that the sphinx in scuba gear?

freediving?!!

You boop my nose,
and kiss my mouth.

You hold my hand,
and put my mind at ease.

You leave bruises on my neck,
and make me happy.

I do these things for you too,
and it makes you happy.

the charming figment of a man stood against the wall with hands in pocket

"feel drained, my love?"

"Lost in the fog, I'm afraid"

her eyes grew and drooped to cartoonish proportions

grammar and spelling amiss

she sighed and hunched

typing typing typing

the ever secretly questioning robot

going about it's robot business

"Want to run away, my love?"

"very much so... away from my mind... very much so"

now that i'm relistening to this track, i remember the sole reason why i worked that dead-end night club job: to earn enough money to buy myself a mandolin... which i did: i entrusted myself to earn the money than to pocket the money out of my student loan... never mind picking up ****-filled bottles from the bathroom: being sexually assaulted by some ****** who thought that long hair was something akin to women and not to old-school metal-heads: which i was back then... you know: getting groped by the *** by some man who later thrusts himself at you while you're picking up ****-filled bottles of beer... oh sure: with retrospect he would have said fellow to my forehead... how times change... well yeah, i worked that job to buy myself a mandolin... which i did... for the sole purpose of learning the mandolin part of Rod Stewart's Maggie May... which i learned and played it for Fiona beneath her kitchen window in the student flats... she giggles blah blah... but... Maggie May soon turned into that other favorite song of mine: And One... Military Fashion Show... perhaps the music is sort of Disco Polo... but the lyrics?

cutest girl behind my door
everybody's hiding in love from war
the beauty broke down their chains somehow
who's gonna living on my body now?

a growing pain within my pop divine
will I ever regret the line?
switching on the light
i will not reassign
girlfriend's girlfriends never could be mine

drop her white pants wide open warm
now she's slipping on her uniform
and every second would become so mis-defined
girlfriend's girlfriends never could be mine

nope, i never had any luck with women, maybe i should have picked up gambling: but then again i don't like testing luck when it comes to being lucky with bus times... i like waiting for a bus for a minute... but with women, i sometimes observe my parents and then realise: ah... that's why i'm not married... makes perfect sense... the idea is lovely: i can never get over the idea of loving a woman, but then i realise a woman also has an idea what it implies to love, hardly a man, hardly a semi-automated thing, something that's offensively useful, from time to time activated but altogether sterile... hell: if it didn't take me playing the mandolin to a girl outside her window: Romeo is ****** as hell... Romeo is gone gone gone... the only luck i've ever had with women were with prostitutes, that realm of evidence where the transactional is up-front... there's no looping of paying for meals for cinema for celebratory self-congratulatory pieces of doodle / jewelry... there's just the up-front "rent" of a body... job done... let's get other aspects of "plumbing" worked on... i'm not even bitter... i'm just sort of: on a snooze button mentality, sort of sleepy... sort of disappointed... that? the men who wrote about love from the 19th century are antiques in the 21st century: not even 19th century folk: antique: pre-historic mentalities of the current zeitgeist of insomnia and over-burdening libido being frozen in a frenzy of self-doubts and self-appeasement of pleasures not met... by the other... i just feel disappointed by having invested so much time in Stendhal in Kundera... seems rather pointless...

i finally picked up my Trek mountain bicycle today
from the repair shop...
i came in talked all giggly and bubbly with
the owners... ah... Hemmingway got it spot on
in that novella of his of short stories:
men without women...
play cards, drink, tell terrible jokes...
make loads of oaths sparingly beginning
with the letter F...
i was told £75... but the guy comes to me and says:
the cassette has been worn down?
your advice? what's to be improved, how will
this affect my cycling?
blah blah this blah blah that... o.k. i know you're
trying to milk me... milk me but don't waste my time...
if it needs changing just tell me...
'oh, but we don't have the parts'...
o.k. ask your supervisor blah blah blah...
he comes back to me and says: oh he have the parts:
SUDDENLY... no no... not suddenly:
the customer, i.e. i... am willing to pay...
how much and how long?
£35... 15 minutes... great! do it! i'll go for a coffee:
which was a lie... i went for a pint
of Guinness and sat by myself like
some ******* portrait of an absinthe drinker
by Degas... they should do one of a Guinness drinker...
a person who sits alone and drinks a pint
of Guinness watching a table of about 5 men
and 1 ****-ugly woman drinking merrily enjoying
each other's company...
with the solo drinker lighting up a cigarette
and lighting up a smile on his face thinking:
oh thank **** i'm alone...
i used to drink with "friends": with people...
i soon realised... they're as much things as much as
i am a thing: sure... dehumanizing...
but so much of philosophy and of medicine
is infuriatingly dehumanizing in achieving
the pinnacle of objective-reason, no?
tell me, am i wrong?
            
i can tell you my favorite quote of mine:
i don't hate people... i just hate things...
it's not my problem that some people behave like
things rather than as people...
reality simply states: some people, simply have not
depth to them, or around them,
they are worse than thespians and thespians
are the worst: since thespians are the most eloquent
of thieves... they steal people's shadows...
they steal other people's soul... essence...
i hate actors with the same passion i abhor
the sceptics... add that to my list:
given these two strands of being and thinking
are the most popular in the current zeitgeist...

so i drank my pint of Guinness and walked back
to the cycling repair shop... picked up my Trek...
listen: i've been cycling for the past year solely on my Viking
road bicycle... neat handlebars...
i used about 4 maybe 5 gears to climb
elevations... or cycle harder: faster...
but neat handlebars... trim... a sense of a tuxedo smart...
neat: for moving between traffic... like all road bicycles...
he gives me my old Trek mountain bicycle back...
**** me!
i was riding a Lamborghini for a year...
now? i'm given a ******* SUV... Royals Royce!
my god... it's a Behemoth!
the handlebars are wide... the brakes? so easily accessible!
**** me for ****'s  sake...
too many gears... i must have been trigger-happy
when it came to gears... must have changed them
about 30 times... three gears by the peddles
and 7 at the rear... wheels... don't get me started on those...
with a road bicycle you have a width of about 23cm...
these ******* where thrice if not more at that...
so wide that they made a sound akin to
me thinking: where's the train? they made this weird
sound i couldn't possibly express with letters
to combat an imaginary words...
the closest approximate is a SHOOM / WHIZZ....
what does a thick rubber tyre make on
a pavement, rotating, that's not insulated
by a frame of a car? what?! exactly...
then add the elevation of the wind...
i simply can't write an onomatopoeia for that sound...
it's not as easy as meow or woof... or bark...
or howl... or coo... or the crackling grr of crow...
gurgling of a crow...
impossible...

tyres one aspect handlebars another...
hands out-stretched... which means? too much
availability of a manoeuvre...
that's what happens when the handlebars
are less restrictive... wide...
you have too much manoeuvrability potential...
you're like that guy inside a London black cab...
you can practically do a 180-turn...
become a dog chasing its own tail...
i used to love mountain bicycles... now?
i ******* hate them... i don't know why i spent
£500 on this piece of junk...
unless... i try it out on some dirt road...
fair enough then... but compared to a road bicycle...
a... kolarzówka... (road bicycle in ******)
no... not going to happen...
i though i was going to be happy to own two bicycles
and change from one to the other...
it's such a beast to ride... sure... it's aesthetically
pleasing to look at... even when school was out
and the boys were coming out of school:
one spontaneously announced thinking-aloud:
that's a nice bike...
yeah... nice to look at... yeah... sure thing mate...
great to look at... but a ***** to ride it...
compared to...                              exhibit (a)
a cheap £125 road bicycle with the right sort of
handlebars... mountain bicycle handlebars are
all wrong too wide...
you just can't handle such a beast on a long stretch
of road... you require something more
gravity driven / prone...
at least with a road bicycle you get to steer
with slight details of force going towards
the intended direction...
i think you must learn on a mountain bicycle...
to then explore the road bicycle...
but let me tell you... one you have mastered
the road bicycle... going back to a mountain bicycle
make-up it like going from Einstein to ******...
i was becoming queasy with too much maneuverability
in my hands and not centered in / with
my entire body and bicycle attached...
i know i'll think differently when i take
this beast into its proper environment...
i know that's what will happen...
but mountain bicycles don't belong in traffic...

aha... right... i almost forgot... just before i picked up
the beast from the repair shop...
i has in the supermarket picking up a bottle of cider
to keep up my stamina of: not bored...
no no... i'm not bored...  

onomatopoeias... i'm sure as a supervisor i told
some of the stewards that i'm only doing this job
for good reference: for references that might me
apply for a job as a chemistry teacher:
since familial ties of references will not allow you
to apply for the position...
last shift at Wembley some pink haired freak
of a beached whale of a male started to mouth-me-off
about jumping the queue...
i retorted like for like: you ******* see a queue
in front of me? i'm standing in the same *******
place! you ******* fearful of being called
a racist: you silly little thing of an anti-racist?!
you ******* HOG of what could have been
a woman... you afraid of insulating the Somalis?!
we know that they're like... that's how African
queues work... people jump the queue...
they huddle... Africans are not a Mongolian horde:
they're huddling people...
they stress themselves by the numbers
they're allowed / are given...
all the Europeans follows some details of
the aesthetic of queuing... the Africans?
**** me... they just inverted the bottle-neck...
if bottles were to be invented in Africa...
they wouldn't have a neck: they'd have an entire
******* torso... and be slim at the base...
that's how Africans behave ergo: think...
that's not racist: that's a ******* anthropologist tactic....
on the last shift this one Indian looking chap
said the following lines:

'don't think me of being racist...
but what do you think of these blacks?'

ha ha... one curiosity after another...
  i love mingling with people: you never know what
you're (n)ever going to get!
i'm working with this one "creature" who's super
clingy to me... adamant that he's anti-racist...
but... oops... slip... he's actually homophobic...
just because Brighton has a "reputation"...
but a staunch anti-racist.... yet a homophobe....
me? i hate *******...
esp. if you're collecting glasses in a night club
and you're getting groped by... some ******...
come on: a man with long hair is no excuse to
fiddle with my *** while i'm picking up bottles
filled with ****... ******* ******!

about blacks? well... what do i care if i already stereotyped
the Somalis as useless idiots... not even useful idiots
of Communist propaganda...
they're like the Irish... you simply psychoanalyse them...
they're so detached from reality that
they might as well be called Moonpeople...
Somalia best be called Moonland...
no, seriously: not as a racist (although i'd love to be one)
but as an anthropologist (these days?
an ethic apologist, if?!)
they are just that... devoid of reality sort of,
sort of... sort of... a sort of "people"...
a sort of "reality" is attached to them...

never mind that... i was in the supermarket buying a bottle
of cider... a woman with two young girls was making
her shopping... some BLEEP emerged from
the cashier's desk... some... BLEEP some BOOP...
hmm... we're talking primary school aged children...
children... completely un-fuckable... although as loveable
as dogs... perhaps even more:
since? you can't exactly mould a dog...
you can't mould a little Frankenstein of your own
with a dog... a dog is kept ontologically within
the archetypical exactness of what a dog is supposed
to be: what a dog is...
but man? oh... that's a completely different barrel of
laughs!
i stood behind the trio... and listened...

onomatopoeias... once those infernal instruments
made those sounds... the two girls mimicked...
imitated the sounds ...
i would be a terrible father... or perhaps the best...
i like the cognitive-focus on the negative:
maybe that's why i adore the cynics...
i adore the cynics and abhor the sceptics...
i like negative-thinking...
i once assured myself that negative-thinking
attracts... positive-being...
magnets... blah blah...

with i have on my heart's "conscience":
something so innocent... the cure's: a short term effect
from the album *******...
no... woman! no!
that trio of curiosity...
i was going to do an in-depth Kantian analogy
of the origins of the onomotopoeia...
it just so happened that i was walking behind them...
i'm pretty good at lip-readings...
too much exposure to headphones...
NEUROTIC BEASTS OF **** UN-******...
the ugliest women imaginable:
busy-body women.... UGLY *****...
MOTH-FRENZY-MOTH-*****....
i'm good at lip-reading...
oh look... a ******* is the area...

no... is just so happened that the trio bough
more goods that me at the store...
silly ******* agony aunt!
no! i was just going to ask
the two girls...that you spoke an onomatopoeia
without knowledge of what an onomatopoeia
actually is!
an onomatopoeia in the mouth of a child
is not actually a word...
it can't be... there's no rigid Apollonian "humour"...
when a child imitates a sound made by a
machine...
it doesn't imitate the sound with an allocation
of ascribing letters to them...
i could be the best father:
and perhaps the worst...
    i'd become too curios... i'd become a naturally
born scientist...
the mother? just ignored them...
but this **** of a THINFG threw empty accusations
into the air as if it were breathing...

i learned one valuable lesson on my own...
there are people... and there are THINGS...
me, what?
you ******* THING! remain INANIMATE!
sure... move... but remain without character!
did these girls have knowledge
of the "onomatopoeia" of an ONOPATOEIA?
too many ******* vowels..

that's Greek for you...
i'm a what? it just so happened that it's suburbia
and i'm walking behind a giddy trio....
i'm suddenly, what?! HIDE! HIDE... you neurotic *****!
you soothsayer you Satan's last **** available!
you mediocre human being!

how would they know... they're already exploring
onomatopoeias without knowledge of onomatopoeias ...
these creatures mimic... in fact: an onomatopoeia
is something that's to be exacted by being written...
these children... they are yet aware of letters...
letters beside nouns... nouns beside the concepts
of verbs pronouns and the like...

first i'll ask politely... secondly i'll ask less politely:
thirdly: don't tread on me..
fourthly: enough is enough...
but that's how life happens...
you exit the mind-set of... it's not jurisprudence...
etymological hell-havoc...
              ah! pedagogy!
and then the reality of all that's around you...

neurotic old women who think you're: an project
you're a predator;... ******* ****-less *****!
i just wanted to hear what her onomatopoeia went to...
you objectionable UGLY CUT of ****!
she was uttering her first onomatopoeia without
a rubric of letters! as a man who's not going
to be a father: i thought that rather: inquisitive...
i know you women are ******* boors and boredoms...
the more you age the uglier you become
in spirit: let alone in physical appearances...
******* hyenas start looking pretty are a while
once you peak!
no! that's the point! i'm being serious!

it only takes one false accusation: lip-read to demand
a crazy momentum of reaction...
oh no no... it's not going to stop!
best ***** assured this ******* momentum
is not going to stop! now i'm grizzly bear tooth worn
on smiling...

now... i have encountered men who encounter violence
of man against man...
i have yet to encounter men who encounter violence
of woman against man...
let's just say... it's more complicated...
i love children... some women love themselves
to the point of willingly perform... what's that name?
oh.... right... has he risen too?
the deity that's Moloch... the deity of infanticide?!
has he? so... i'm not alone...
there must be more of me...
gents! we're being redeemed!  we're going back
to a singing status of existence in the ***** of our
dearest "Abraham" of Ha-Shem!
let's put on a proper, decent, show!

then again... i might: i just might be...
a solo trick-of-treat... bellowing into the depths of well...
after all... as i looked at the whole affair from
the antithesis of Darwinism...
the strong and the smart don't really reproduce:
en masse...
the idiots do...
mammals like insects...
the ill-fated reproduce: that's why they bemoan
their fate of being ill-stocked in genes...
smart people are exploratory...
i'm exploratory...
i'm not saying i'm smart but i'm certainly not dumb enough
to have children in order for them to suffer
unnecessarily... for a per se reason
that's somehow supposed to be self-explanatory:
without... an accountable self!

there's no chance in hell these two girls imitated those
sounds in the supermarket with...
a knowledge of an onomatopoeia!
no chance! speak to me an "onomatopoeia":
onomatopeia!

     ono-m'ah-t'oh-p'-ah!

   they wouldn't even catch the vowel catches of Hs
in the plural sense without the apostrophe...
no...

write me a poem using linguistic notations:
i.e. onomatopoeia: knock knock: woof woof: .
details of some book... frankly? no book...
journalism rules...
/ˌɒnə(ʊ)matəˈpiːə/
   /nɒk,nɒk/
        /wʊf/ /wʊf/:
      /ˈdiːteɪl/ some
/sʌm,s(ə)m/
                       /bʊk/
  
yeah: that's what i like... linguistic graduates...
graffitti artists with a TAG..
children and onomatopoeias...
you want to play more and more games?
aren't we living in the most circus prone times?!

hey! in current environment of events:
hello herr besondere!
drop qords not bombs!

= +- / ha;f and half...

ey yo gurl
you make me hurl
champs back to you
for a sweet alley-oop
Give xerath a boop
right on the head
he prolly shoulda read
this ain't yogi-bear
I fill caskets, not pic-a-nic-baskets


feel free to ask it
You know I got a task it-
Starts and ends with a flip
and a stun
so don't give me lip about this tent
I've got the smores, so don't get bent

Lawrence of Arabia keeps picking up his tent
gathers all his jewels and wares
and moves on up the road
and the smiling faces trail along
and there under the bright dazzling lights
he sets up shop and they all break into song
the nightwatchman nervously fingers his flashlight
while Lawrence sneaks up from behind and pranks him

the Gretchens and the weary guitar player
gather near the stage
and cast an iron mask into the flames
hoping it'll melt
but its soaked eye stares out weakly
in the ashes of all Lawrence had built
but he's in the corner with Betty Boop and a
bottle of wine getting drunk
and reliving her salad days
she carries a scrapbook of naughty pictures
she keeps all her naughty thoughts in her backpack
no reason to let anyone know what shes really thinking
her fast nasty hand
is only a reflection of her nimble mind
it reaches for the absolution of innocence
full knowing that its real intent is opposite
a fast nasty piece that reeks of rubberbands and scotch tape

We endeavor to construct boxes and file folders
This life being ****** complex
And messy to boot, so we approximate sanity
By filling compartments and writing thumbnail biographies,
And even though she packed the costume admirably
(Already forty, mind you, but nowhere near gone to fat)
Julie Newmar had already filled both outfit and niche
(And never mind Halle Berry’s turn,
Different raiment for a different time, after all,
And one suspects the next iteration of said slinky supervillainess
Will wear nothing more than feline-shaped ****** rings),
Not to mention she’d already entered our collective consciousness
With a frothy Noel novelty (unsubstantial, inconsequential
In and of its ownself, perhaps, but then one considers
The version foisted off on the populace by that woman
Who appropriated the moniker of the Blessed ******,
All phoned-in faux Betty Boop, and one reconsiders)
So this was who she was, the book closed and sealed
(English only, never mind the other three tongues she spoke
Plus three more she proficiently purred in.)
They say when she died, she did not go gently, as it were,
But screamed and yowled for all she was still worth,
And maybe it was the cancer, certainly enough to do the job itself,
But perhaps it was the notion
That her era of innuendo and intimation was all done,
That she was transitioning to the static, to becoming a legacy,
A permanence that was stalking her,
Murderous, insatiable, inexorable.

No me diga – la nena ‘ta pregnant again?
(I thought she decided no more after Tito…)
she’s almost 16 – and she dropped out of school.
(It might be the spice in abuela’s sofrito…)

There’s one in the oven and two in the stroller
Oh nubile Boricua, what gives – ¿Qué sería?
if life is the masa and birth is the bakery
yours is a virtual panadería…

Some pulse in your short-shorts, those flexible hips
under tropical rhythm of lewd reggaeton
seems to summon the ***** from your lover’s abundance
whenever you find yourselves home and alone.

Where’s your man? Who’s the daddy? Why didn’t he stay?
your gaze is unsettling, harshly pathetic.
You sad Betty-Boop: are you waiting in vain
for your man – or your period?  How unpoetic…

This life lived on welfare, entitled, enslaved
with your babies at grandma’s and you with your phone
is a taxpayer’s nightmare and teenage recurrence
(but you’re busy texting some drama unknown…)

Mamita herself looks more like your hermana
She started this game even earlier, too
When you stand, side by side, in your thongs and pijama
it’s hard to be sure who is who.

I'm over you.