"claptrap" poems
grade my writings in magenta,
no red arrogance for me teach,
blue note jazz margin comments,
unacceptable marginalizing pithy succinct notes,
always cute, hard hitting,
even in day to day black or Bic blue,
refused!
give me ochre, amethyst,
give me the colors of a new born morn,
give me words of encouragement
next to that nicely writ,
without a self-serving
high faluting exclamation point,
astride my D, my F,
a polite professorial funk you
in azure gold
leave me,
write me in colors of hope,
even claptrap deserves
a nice funeral
because gentle teach,
this thought I preach,
what color would you like me
to grade your students in,
your writs,
when next I look
twenty years from now?
will you not leave
me,
be,
in
the color of better days
enthused?
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 3:56 AM UTC
Here
Is a timely
Noun to consider
From the Merriam-Webster page.
"Trumpery."
Note (at bottom) the list of near-antonyms;
what is the opposite of trumpery?
[Popularity: Bottom 40% of words]
trumpery
noun trum·pery \ˈtrəm-p(ə-)rē\
Definition of trumpery
1
a : worthless nonsense b : trivial or useless articles : junk <a wagon loaded with household trumpery — Washington Irving>
2
archaic : ****** finery
Origin of trumpery
Middle English (Scots) trompery deceit, from Middle French, from tromper to deceive
First Known Use: 15th century
Examples of trumpery
<claims for weight-loss products that are based much more on Madison-Avenue trumpery than on bariatric science>
Related to trumpery
Synonyms
applesauce [slang], balderdash, baloney (also boloney), beans, bilge, blah (also blah-blah), blarney, blather, blatherskite, blither, bosh, bull [slang], bunk, bunkum (or ******** claptrap, codswallop [British], crapola [slang], crock, drivel, drool, fiddle, fiddle-faddle, fiddlesticks, flannel [British], flapdoodle, folderol (also falderal), folly, foolishness, fudge, garbage, guff, hogwash, hokeypokey, hokum, hoodoo, hooey, horsefeathers [slang], humbug, humbuggery, jazz, malarkey (also malarky), moonshine, muck, nerts [slang], nuts, piffle, poppycock, punk, rot, ******* senselessness, silliness, slush, stupidity, taradiddle (or tarradiddle), tommyrot, tosh, trash, nonsense, twaddle
Related Words
absurdity, asininity, fatuity, foolery, idiocy, imbecility, inaneness, inanity, insanity, kookiness, lunacy; absurdness, craziness, madness, senselessness, witlessness; hoity-toity, monkey business, monkeyshine(s), shenanigan(s), tomfoolery; gas, hot air, rigmarole (also rigamarole); double-talk, greek, hocus-pocus
Near Antonyms
levelheadedness, rationality, reasonability, reasonableness, sensibleness; common sense, horse sense, sense; discernment, judgment (or judgement), wisdom
By: Robinson Bolkum
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC
That's
Nonsense!
That's
beans!
babble!
bunkum!
bogus!
baloney!
blither!
blather!
blah blah!
********
balderdash!
blarney!
********
That's
crapola!
claptrap!
codswallop!
That's
drivel!
That's
fiddlesticks!
flapdoodle!
frippery!
folderol!
That's
guff
garbage
gibberish!
gobbledygook!
That's
horse hockey!
hocus-pocus!
hokum!
hogwash!
humbug!
hooey!
humdrum!
That's
jibber-jabber!
jive!
jazz!
That's
malarkey!
mumbo-jumbo!
monkeyshines!
That's
Nuts!
That's
poppycock!
piffle!
prattle!
That, sir, is
******* and
RIGMAROLE!
That's
trash
tripe
and
twaddle
That, sir, is
NONSENSE!
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 7:09 PM UTC
You're choking on a Jigsaw Puzzle
Cardboard claptrap
Caught in this riff raff
Pieces of hate
Which gets the last laugh
Ending gets its gift wrap
Let it circle the drain
Let it drip through the faucet
No anguish here, no pain
Nothing can be flawless
Ground it up to sausage
Feed the dogs that garbage
That morsel of mental carnage.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 3:46 AM UTC
a shredded bath mat, a Dead Sea salted bath, and a cold root beer
you want vino veritas vignettes,
color commentary, stray dog thoughts
time lapsed into a ****** single poem wood,
ha ha ha you can't handle the falsified lies
that constitute a sad man's disfigured truths
nobody cares that failure contretemps
inhabit every other thought,
his own sounds of silence sung repetitiously,
every severed second a new verse
coughed up and cursed,
emptying your verbal purse,
snorting with disgust
at your own claptrap vetted pomposity,
who gives a ****
what I got is the ability
if you can call it that,
to cerebralize verbalize
every eye picture, inputted impulse,
knowing in the fullness of the unwell
that hash for breakfast ain't
suitable for mass consumption
a shredded bath mat,
a Dead Sea salted bath,
and a cold root beer
begat a poem of knowing nowing
a pretend poet meowing what he seen,
what he got temple pounding
Fogelberg sings Auld Lang Syne,
swig down the root beer,
thinking that is one freaking good song,
a life reviewed on the HP stage,
his lyrics modified
with only a tune he can hear
no one will like this,
as it should be,
don't like it me neither,
double negatives for rule busting emphasis,
the only point, ending circumscribed,
curcumsized by children who don't love,
an ex wife hateful ***** man-enslaver,
this close || to losing your job,
*** is the new ***
ain't it pc
to singalong
standing on a shredded bath mat,
fresh from a Dead Sea salted bath,
and having drunk a cold root beer,
Crosby Stills & Nash chiming in
*teach the children well
their father's hell
will slowly go bye*
and this is a poem
that I didn't write,
just reported the here and the there,
and the nothing in between
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 7:47 AM UTC
Religious zeal and explosive prowess make incendiary bedfellows
searing calculating moralism where all fall short and deserve to suffer
self righteous corrupted calumny put forth in a sally of sectarian selectivity
your ilk is heading for Hell and I'm (already there) not
fanatical zealots marginalize intellectuals with their mythical mire of mucked up claptrap and copious lack of a priori specificity
a glorified preposterous plethora of pompous pontificating platitudes
the sins of others they deplore but of themselves they don't keep score
Sunday's best is Sunday's worst
you sanctimonious ******** just can't leave people alone
who elected you to point fingers anyway
Jesus was born in a barn to an unmarried woman
And your mommy got shtuped when you were conceived too
you don't walk on water you insolent impertinent fool
the brain police can't wait for Sunday's
oh the satisfaction of a mutual admiration society
knee-jerk hackneyed pavlovian dog speak
Is anything anymore real if you jump around and shout about it
recipients of adulates get accustomed to sycophants
fawning complacent obsequious kiss ***** and Sunday suck-ups
pass the plate
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
madmen fools and nothing,
the mien — brazen, stupefied glance
and hungry for light, our words gutted
like our enemies in our ill-thought.
this road dredges, the aporetic line
sifting through new divisions, something
an equation forgets the dividend
and almost always a salient permutation
of men and women and the "takatak" boy
peddling cigarettes to claptrap ***
of metal envoys,
reciprocating some chances of restive
dreadnaught, diffusion of sweat in
scalding heat of 12:41 afternoon sun
and smoking with bystanders
unaware of the doldrum and the ennui
it was a fine day in Ortigas.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
I remember when
I first read Bukowski
I thought he was a
joke
his poems weren’t even
poems
they were just a bunch
of lines
and sentences
strung about like flimsy
washing telling
mundane stories
about insipid things
who was he to venerate Cummings
(as if he had any of Edward’s
profundity)
and who was he to write
poems about poets not
writing poems
or his simple lines propping
up grossly defective and out of
date words
like jeroboams
or how he’d drink
(four-fifths a gallon of wine)
then write more derivative
lines
who was he to live so long
and write so much
drivel
and
claptrap
to other poets’ literary
athleticism
our darling Chuck was a
pedestrian
he was born a pensioner
but never received a
pension
his poems flow
like a river
to
no
where
and after reading them
the first time
I withdrew
my poetic concern
but then I read them again
and then
again
and I
realised
I was in his poem’s
stories
and that foolish girl I knew
that dense and brainless
denizen of triteville
was the heroine of
his ‘splashing’
and his love for classical
his love for wine
and even his love
for Edward
matched even mine
but most of all
and here
my rhetoric ends
the moment I sighed oh yes
when I read his poem
yes
you guessed it
‘oh, yes’
if not for his whimsical
words
or his misaligned wit
love him for his
grasp of regret
and the sheer sentiment
he can emit
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 2:08 AM UTC
A passel of rascals;
The cause of the hassle,
Guilty of the catcalls,
Would normally have pratfalls.
Never suffer from blackballing;
Their ethics are appalling
But greed is calling the shots.
In the end what have we got?
We have a den of thieves
Rolling up their sleeves
To count the loot they stole
Fulfilling their roles of criminals;
Not the least subliminal,
But right out front to be seen
And pictured on magazine covers
With their blow-dried lovers.
Hair and ******* by Mattel
They perpetrate their hell
On all but their rich buddies
And fool the fuddy-duddies
With their rancid ballyhoo.
Yes, they rob some rich too,
But some never knew it;
Rich, not smart, they blew it.
Every generation, this nation
Sires a new batch of vermin
And we have to determine
If this is the new litter or a loner
But instead the fools get a *****
Over some new crook or other
That can afford jet planes to fly
But claims he is a regular guy.
Once the country is a toilet
They’ll keep trying to spoil it
By boiling the bones of the dead
And murdering us in our beds
Because they don’t need us
Except when they want to beat us.
They can just pay each other.
But the country won’t recover.
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 1:21 PM UTC
I’ve reached the age when most of my contemporaries have
kicked the bucket,
turned up their toes,
popped their clogs,
and other such unsavoury activities.
I take every opportunity
to memorialise their lives.
The question I ask myself is:
when I finally pop my clogs,
kick the bucket, and so on
who will provide the tribute to me?
De mortuis nil nisi bonum is the Latin phrase
of Greek invention.
Speak nothing but good of the dead.
I cannot accept this.
What good can I speak of Adolf ******
Osama Bin Laden
or even Senator Joe McCarthy?
Better would be De mortuis nil nisi veritas.
Speak nothing but the truth.
But, if I had to choose one for my own obituary,
I think I would turn to the late, great Harold Laski,
who coined De mortuis nil nisi bunkum.
I’d be very happy to have nothing but claptrap
talked about me.
after my demise.
At least let there be something written,
be it good,
truth
or codswallop
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 3:34 PM UTC
Tough as nails punk rock scream-wet dream-teen girl.
A real wild child maneater.
LIGHTS! CAMERA! ACTION- Girl.
Small town girl chaos all over the big city- long days and drunk days.
Hazed afternoons on the boardwalk- sublime shirt and a longboard.
Shaved hair and skin tight pants- creepers and two toned ***** dance,
no highschool claptrap dance for our action girl.
She's crazy as the glue she sniffs- she lives on the edge, she built a home on the cliffs.
***** spunky hard as nails, screwloose downtown headcase.
Action all day, action all night- this girl don't back down from a fight.
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 2:44 AM UTC
I am a blankhead writer. I wrote a nonsense poem. I write a pointless prose. I used to sell my 1000 words of claptrap for a one dollar bill to the low market publishers in town for a hopeless living. I used to walk on the busy street of Metropolis looking for job-flyers. I was scammed, robbed, snatched and been kidnapped. I even been tortured to death but managed to survive. I am a blankhead writer.
I am a blankhead writer. I dreamt to be a famous author in town. I imagined my scap works on the best seller bookstands in the corner of the bookstores. I tried to call myself brilliant despite of my incapabilities---mind incapabilities to be exact. I am a blankhead writer.
I am a blankhead writer. Like how I used to be. I wrote a nonsense poem. I write a pointless prose. I usually forget the goals along the way. I always choose raw emotions over witty decisions. I always make a plan for everything and give up. I let every little opportunity slides on my hand. I wonder how I called myself a writer. Maybe because, I am a blankhead writer.
I am a blankhead writer. Alive but barely living. Trying to keep up on everything that was left behind. Dreaming but can’t find the urge catching up. Losing tracks continually. Lost determination, inspiration, everything to keep myself moving. Yes, I was indeed a blankhead writer.
I am a blankhead writter. I loved and been loved. I leave and was left behind. Was hurt just how every human named it. I cried, so hard that I even want to **** my eyes out from it’s socket. I starved just how the poor lost child felt along the busy street. I fought and I lose. I have been bewitched and have never been reclaimed. I am a blankhead writer.
I am the blankhead writer. Yes, its me. . I wrote this nonsense poem. I wrote the pointless prose. I know nothing but breathing. I never fought for the right nor speak for the good. I never look in the eyes of those old weak men I met in the road. I am afraid and scared. I am heartless and brainless. I have nothing but dead conscience. I have ... I have nothing because – I am the blankhead writer.
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 8:56 AM UTC
Walk under no ladders and step on no crack,
carry some salt in your pockets
and do not look back.
If you see a black cat, jump out of its way,
today is the thirteenth and
it's Friday all day.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 2:05 AM UTC
Don't talk to me about rules of Engagement
What's knowledge, wisdom and Truth
nothing but a tag on a Robert Grahame shirt
What do you mean decency, fair-play and Justice
was your God fair and just when he landed me in Goebbels
and give me to that drunkard thief and his street gal wife
Oh no, I don't deserve a silver spoon and a dad in Stockbroker belt
yeh, no Private School, no allowance, no frigging ski trips in Gstaad
Bollinger sounds like a gun, pink gins and cucumber wedges foreign
Don't talk living harmoniously with all classes and races
I live my way and make my rules as I go along
the first law is do it to them before they do it to you
education is **** if God wanted me to have a mind he forgot
what he gave was a gob full of **** and a Doctorate in telling lies
in our world telling the truth means you're blind, slow and stupid
I ain't a mug but a mugger, I ain't a fool,I only live to fool the fools
Am a hater and proud of it, why was I assigned to the Losers section
What made God decide my gob is not good enough for a Silver spoon
Don't you dare give me that glib 'That's Life' shit'
keep your philosophizing to your bleeding self
we ain't buying claptrap anymore, it's war now, revolution
it's them and Us. no quarter given, everything taking from the rich
what gives you the right to live better than me. Mr High an Mighty
who brooker your deal with God for all the privileges you enjoy
swanning around thinking you're better than me in your Ivory gaff
hate burns relentlessly, my frustration unabashed I join satan's lot
Yes, it's not a frigging fair world so don't talk to about Justice an love
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 3:39 PM UTC
when i look at you
to say something in pace of rafts
on rivers,
cadencing
claptrap swerve of wording
in tongue's avenue
is its nature—
spreading contagion of ill pride.
seeking diadems in fields of night larks
singing heavily, unapologetic, eulogizing
mornings none we could take,
whirling inside our bodies like
stirred poisons in vials. past the unreadiness of moonlight waxing
stellified are the waters now, clear
in first light,
like fish underneath our bellies.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 1:00 AM UTC
Can you see how much
we need each other?!
All this “I am a rock
I am an island”
solipsistic claptrap
exposed
cos we need Joan and John
at the supermarket
and the folks at A&E
and the techies
streaming lifelines
while we figure how to be
Now, behind our keyboards
we might not be warriors,
but worriers who realise
how close we are to crashing
and yeah, some **** cash in
but let’s not forget
so when the panic lifts
we figure novel penance
and say our goodbyes
So hugs are currently virtual,
but our care for once
is real
Maybe that’s the virus deal
Maybe we’re done with
u ok ***
so when we re-emerge
we can see clearly
**** sapiens
are one species
and switch on to each other,
sisters and brothers alike
Being nice is for life
Apr 15, 2020
Apr 15, 2020 at 7:52 AM UTC
pious claptrap of hubbub
across the room;
you are some slender bridge
over my waters
skimpy passage, bend so obscure
there is something
that i always take
away from you
and there is almost always too
something frequently given
back to me like a stare
even so you are eyeless
and still despite having eyes
and tender with movement,
our silence pointing out
the salacious clasp of shadow's muck
on the repugnant wall,
there is so much in common
to a body of sea and a headless sun,
where sometimes when you enter
my mind, i purposefully leap
out of it freely moving, hovering
in austere blankness, almost
cerebrally assassinating imaginations
and their claimed realness,
wishing you were somewhere far
yet within the eye to hold closer.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 12:29 AM UTC
Dark cloud form
Grin smirk
Emptied room is my heart
Charting
Scars like stars
Constellation:
House of mar
One moonbeam
Allowed in
Dust mote
dance that
Melo-d dance
Bleed yer heart plz plzzz
Fist open up
Reveal
White knuckles *******
Bloodtide
In
Out
In
Out
********* fate
Maw
Claw
Saw what's seen
Be what's been
Clench
Death will not die
But I am
dead and dying
Don't you see?
Silver lines bleed
Bright no more
Inky garb gab blah blah
Abstract claptrap
Trapped trapped
I
Yearn
For
Simplicity
Like
A tree in the wind
Or your lips parting
To receive mine
Salty hot winds
Us in each other
Twisting
it
But complications
Complicate everything
Meaning slips
Slivers slick
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 6:15 PM UTC
When I First Encountered with The Devil
There the weakest warriors wrathly
Flee from the farthest toes of a naughty evil
Even the roaring of a Lion wouldn't keep him healthy
Where trees dance, where the waiving hands of grass
Will be so frail to desist trampling, Where men ****
Grisly! When actually there a million of deathless Dalais
At abundance! But when invincible souls landed, Hey! Hope soar
That inevitable quest of callous chaos were quashed
That retro of hatred threat becomes clearly claptrap
That war wallows with forces that were waffled
For death! I survived those inanimate vap
From there, if for anyone knows but sonnets
They shall forever flows without dements
Mar 26, 2020
Mar 26, 2020 at 10:39 AM UTC
They came to your home to see you.
You worn a blue sari
Kept your eyes like a deer's eyes.
You did't comb your hair,
Though it was not need to be.
You were simply gorgeous.
So, comb was vain to your beauty.
You used props, lipstick, and so many things on thy face.
They surprised,especially your fiance.
He was not accustomed with your such appearance.
He knew you are pretty than queen Sheba
More destructive than Helen
More Affectionate than Mighty Aphrodite
And more prosperous than Athena.
In spite of all, you took props excepts comb of your hair.
Everyone praised you a lot.
No one could understand your claptrap but he
He smiled at you
And you returned it with a wink.
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 12:27 PM UTC