"enquirer" poems
I've been collecting ear wax
Since the belly button lint dust fire went bad
I lost all my dignity in that fiasco
So ear wax is all that I have left
Believe you me, it's not easy
Coming up with another scheme
After burning the whole town down to the ground
To get a single soul to look or even listen to me
But that fateful day that I dug deep
And pulled a replica of the Eiffel Tower out of my ear
I knew that fame and fortune lay before me
My time had arrived, my time was here
Who should I call first over my artful discovery
The Post? The Enquirer? The Times?
No I would call The Museum Of Modern Art in NYC
For the Art World would soon be mine
I knew I had to ratchet it up a notch
One piece of ear wax art might be a fluke
So I got out my brush...the Q-tip
And removed a portrait of John Wayne AKA The Duke
Since I live in a hippie commune in the woods
Little furry creatures would always stop by
To gaze upon the artful process
Squirrels can be the best of critics...no lie!
Which gave me the idea with all the left over ear wax
I sculptured a mini-amusement park with mini-arcades
And charged the woodland creatures nuts and berries
Which helped feed the hippies with whom I stay
It wasn't long after that I received the letter
Stating that art had a need for me
I've become known as The Andy Warhol of The Art World
With abstract ear wax being my specialty
Now I go to all the major "Who Does"
Where everybody knows my name
As I create masterpieces right before their eyes
Just don't hold it to close to the flame
Who would have ever thought that ear wax
Would be the perfect medium
To jet propel this Simpleton
To Art World stardom and beyond
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 8:25 AM UTC
Oh my word, I remember
every little part of that weekend,
right down to the three-piece outfit
I had purchased at Bloomingdale's
the evening previous.
You know, ya hear stories
left and right about people
winning tickets to this n' that,
but ya never imagine actually
being the nineteenth caller!
When I revealed the occasion
this baby blue ensemble would
be worn in, the cute little saleslady
paused, looked up, and said,
"Why bother seeing him anymore?"
And I tell ya, there's plenty
other, less Christian yearly
Graceland attendants who woulda
flipped their lids had they heard
such malarkey!
Still, I just couldn't deny it.
She had a bit of a point.
This was mid-70s Elvis,
mid-50s Elvis' drunk uncle.
He had gone from Rolling Stone
to National Enquirer in nothing
flat, it seemed.
So all I could muster was
an understanding smile, because
she couldn't help but join the
bandwagon, especially when his
gut got larger and the rumors
became more outrageous.
Still, their loss!
I say that to this day,
because what Little Miss Shopgirl
and the legions of non-believers
did not think to consider
was the charm in "has been" Elvis.
A week before this legendary
concert experience, I had been
forced by circumstance to purchase
my very first pair of bifocals!
It was also around the time,
I'm sure, Harry left me.
So, the main event, I'm there,
third row from the main stage,
seeing Elvis for the first time
since our crazed youthful years-
a bedazzled jumpsuit walks on stage,
and I'm on my feet before I know it!
There was a little less swivel in his
hips. He looked a little tired, too,
all those years of singing do that.
How did it feel, then, to see the King
make his way across a cheap fog
machine, mutton chops and
love handles galore?
It felt like two lifelong friends
growing old, losing all those
frivolous people together-
"Are You Lonesome Tonight"
was still asked with the same
dreamy passion in 1973.
I've still got the handkerchief
he threw to me that night,
**** near lost it when I
caught the thing.
It's blue with polka dots,
ya wanna take a gander?
Sep 28, 2010
Sep 28, 2010 at 5:21 AM UTC
-The best way to fight the fear of terrorism
is by turning off your TV screens.-
TV Terrorist.
Ladies hide your burkas!
the 1st amendment ain’t gonna protect ya
because for as little as an ignorant comment...
-YOU can be a TV Terrorist too!
Racist slurs, misinformation and greed
are 1/2 the price of what they used to be
ACT NOW so they can see!
-YOU can be a TV Terrorist too!
Don’t let the sirens of the fashion police disturb ya
we’ll wiretap your mosque from the city to suburbia
just grow that beard Osama style!
-And YOU can be a TV Terrorist too!
After your Morning Joe just head over to CNN
they’re about to have some Baklawa at Fox & Friends
let’s keep feeding more hate speech to the talking heads.
-So YOU can be a TV Terrorist too!
Replace your Quran with the National Enquirer
so you can be as American as they are
Muhammed is not a match for Uncle Sam.
-Just wear that robe the way Jesus did
and YOU can be TV Terrorist too!
You see, turban rhymes with Taliban
therefore you’re all the same so pump our gas
brown skin clashes with the red, white & blue of our flag.
-Just make sure to look angry!
And YOU can be a TV Terrorist too!
Sensationalism in the media is worth more than your beliefs
your good morals and spirituality is not for us to say
as long as that red dot across your forehead turns into an infrared.
-Look up Hassan! And YOU can be a TV Terrorist too!
From the cities of Iraq to the caves Afghanistan
ride your camel and dignity right through an EZ Pass
watch the drones drop and the ratings soar!
-And YOU can be a TV Terrorist too!
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 11:30 AM UTC
long after these thousand days of
passing years, the eyes will feel a
sparking, I will remember you,
my dear old friends, reviewing
the where, the when, which will
flush, outing the whys
from my
memories
more than the poetic liturgy composed,
but what felled me to my knees,
yearning,
for the soup of love and passion,
pain+no gain, euphorias rising at the
trenching lows of depths
newly explored, hope returning after a
long time abandonment, the
excruciating ecstasy
of creating, the killing tedium of
months of no inspiration but the
glint of a possible tomorrow
but you knot all this,
so come to tell you,
long after the poem
encased in yellowing
emerald unwrapping
aging megabytes, more
than any old poem itself,
I wil remember what you
wrote in return, with insight
all we are, we are an interaction
a petrified yet living petri dish of
creatures re/anew,
r e n e w e d, and I am
young again
and the tears of yore no more,
fresh flowering droplets of
a longer than believable age,
factuals of the sweet,
you will move once
more, remaking me
your lover devotee
and I wil stumble;
the woman enquirer
am I ok, whimsy
respond never,
never ever better
my darling
and I lift a tissue
to erase the evidence
of my happy melancholic
existence, and start another
conversation with you, but no!
one of us long gone, name
erased, poems left behind,
orphaned children, them
and me left alone while
I will be remembered,
by remembering you,
our second of union
as it
reverberates, our amour
reunion is a wetting,
giving forth a burst,
a fluid sac,
again
Sep 20, 2024
Sep 20, 2024 at 7:51 AM UTC
What happens when a hoarder marries a minimalist
I'll tell you what happens, chaos, pure chaos
One tries to hang onto everything, Everything!
The other secretly removing items from their home keeping order
Old copies of The National Enquirer where the truth can be told,
not like the hundreds of Rolling Stone Magazines passing for news and entertainment did they ever change from a one-time underground press they started as.
The minimalist is always throwing stuff out and this purge is not taken well by the one wanting to hold on to everything, and not things that serve a purpose, she is like a magpie collecting shinning little bits as well as old and worn vehicles, cluttering up the yard surely making the neighbours smile... yeah right.
I can't keep doing this, he says, not only to himself but also to her.
Was God a hoarder. I think not. Everyday things go away. Species die none stop, Stars explode releasing boundless energy.
Space expands, more room, the sky looks cluttered but is so vast.
The hoarder and the minimalist. They oh so love each other nothing will tear them apart, they stand their ground, they love each other to the end of time, time and space. This life isn't a race it's a challenge. So they continue to give and to take. Love, it's love.
Nov 9, 2021
Nov 9, 2021 at 1:40 AM UTC
A recent discussion about the obsession with Hollywood starling divorces
has got me to wondering if love is still something that anyone ever endorses.
When grocery stores peddle the Hollywood gossip of constant unfaithful behavior,
The Star and the Globe and the National Enquirer all sell like they’re offering salvation.
No wonder its normal when people don't notice the pulse of their marriage has flat-lined.
So when did it start that 'in love' is a prison and the moonlight brings nothing but lonely?
And why is the suffering in silence accepted and all of the torture seem normal?
If the one whom you live with is hit by a bus do you howl at the loss as horrific?
Or is death a fulfillment, reprieve from the anguish of all that you worry eternal?
To be honest with self, I must simply confess that the latter was always my longing,
then longing got lucky while she was out walking,
a bus hit that ***** and kept going.
May 10, 2011
May 10, 2011 at 8:16 PM UTC
To be sung to ***** Laundry"
by Don Henley
We have a little story
That we could tell
We have a little poison
In our inkwell
Let's be a gossip
Let's be a shill
Give us the 'ol Pulp Bitchin'.
We peep through the windows
And listen at doors
We buy the "Enquirer"
And "The Star" at the stores
"She ***** herself"
And "She's a *****
***** little minds galore!
Give us the 'ol Pulp Bitchin'.
Have a li'l "lady"
Who's fast and free
I've heard she's been a prossy
That she's easy
Nothin' nice to say?
Come sit by me!
Give us the ol Pulp Bitchin'
Could have been emeritus
Could have been a great
But I pound out nothing
But dreck and spate
So what if it's full of hate?
You don't really want to know
If it's real or true.
It's not what they SAY
it's what you they DOO DOO
DON'T YOU WORRY WHAT
I THINK OF YOU
(THAT YOU ALL POO POO 💩)
Give us the old Pulp Bitchin'
Kick 'em while they're up
Kick 'em while they're down
(1, 000, 000, 000 000, 000 X)
🎯 Write of Passage
***** Laundry"
I make my living off the evening news
Just give me something
Something I can use
People love it when you lose
They love ***** laundry
Well, I coulda been an actor
But I wound up here
I just have to look good
I don't have to be clear
Come and whisper in my ear
Give us ***** laundry
Kick 'em when they're up
Kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're up
Kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're up
Kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're up
Kick 'em all around
We got the bubble headed
Bleached blonde
Comes on at five
She can tell you 'bout the plane crash
With a gleam in her eye
It's interesting when people die
Give us ***** laundry
Can we film the operation
Is the head dead yet
You know the boys in the newsroom
Got a running bet
Get the widow on the set
We need ***** laundry
You don't really need to find out
What's going on
You don't really want to know
Just how far it's gone
Just leave well enough alone
Eat your ***** laundry
Kick 'em when they're up
Kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're up
Kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're up
Kick 'em when they're down
Kick 'em when they're stiff
Kick 'em all around
(Kick 'em when they're up)
(Kick 'em when they're down)
(Kick 'em when they're up)
(Kick 'em when they're down)
(Kick 'em when they're up)
(Kick 'em when they're down)
(Kick 'em when they're stiff)
(Kick 'em all around)
***** little secrets
***** little lies
We got our ***** little fingers
In everybody's pie
We love to cut you down to size
We love ***** laundry
We can do the innuendo
We can dance and sing
When it's said and done
We haven't told you a thing
We all know that crap is king
Give us ***** laundry
Don Henley
If the shoe fits...
SoulSurvivor aka
Write of Passage
2022
Nov 22, 2023
Nov 22, 2023 at 10:24 AM UTC
In the wondrous story book of night
I eagerly absorb and fall in to contemplation,
You were the one omnipresent,
across light years and flickering flames near.
As orbs of light in many intensities and hues,
the rays of infinite grace that envelop me,
what feel like the caresses of lotus petals
was your love,my eternal beloved.
Soft,frothing moon beams has been
my true consolation at times of deep pain,
the swishing comet, my constant wonder
takes me to you in my imagination.
I was an enquirer,eagerly searching
for the meaning of my existence.
transforming from one to another
formed by dust gifted by unknown stars.
Enshrined you are in the diamond
temple of my still mind,
making you my lover eternal,
I honored my yen for the sublime.
The story book of night tells,
about spirited mornings,noon and dusk
your benign presence was in each step,
of the motions of galaxies.
I see your quick moving eye brows
in the tumult of the black rain clouds.
your intense eyes flash love in lightening
when I feel starved of your love
In waves one after the other, your hands
embrace me,I am reassured once more,
mountain wind from afar bring
your songs, a lonely nightingale sing.
I am a living monument, that breathes
your love from elements to live on,
like millionaire,that's ready to sacrifice
everything for the ecstasy of your presence.
There isn't any other lover who cares,
like you who brings such grace to a beloved.
you've the very same eyes of my mother
that wouldn't miss me wherever I am.
like her whenever I fall your hands
seek me pulling up my mind
you are a presence constant
I haven't missed you ever anywhere.
In days I move within a dream
having created it,you know where I am,
as I turn the pages of the story book of night,
whenever I want to feel closer, you are there.
You've been the mirror reflecting my candor,
you are more than anything I've ever yearned,
the river that carries me, that I am one with,
a flow we are to the ocean of consciousness.
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC
At the bus station
grizzled men eat Milkyways
watching
runaways squeak around
in too-tight jeans
and babies cry to Jackson Browne
while we all read the National Enquirer
and wait.
On the bus mothers shift
bags and kids around in messy piles
the empty wrappers tell stories
while Willie Nelson competes
with static to sing in rhythm
with windshield wipers
and cigarette butts
tally the miles.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
The majority consensus is,
We are average.
Eyes behold beauty in tabloids,
But the Elephant Man was on the screen,
The exception.
We are not ugly or stunning,
Spending paper dreams on blemishes
That are all too human.
We are the common denominator
With assets and detractions,
Additions and subtractions,
Sharing invisible property lines,
Crossing borders, unnoticed.
On the scale, Einstein was above average,
With a handful of others.
We can read, that's what the average needs.
If Darwin is correct,
We'll all end up on the cover of The Enquirer.
In the meantime,
I'm comfortable with average.
Average health is above average,
Anything less is unacceptable,
Like living without an epiglottis,
Yet doable.
We spend less than we earn,
Yet the average person wins the lottery,
Then blows it all.
Isn't that true, Joe? Jane?
We're in the middle class.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 9:45 AM UTC
The fridge droned between the sound
of her impaired footsteps across
the 600 grit linoleum floor. She ran
my palms against the cave-like walls.
Eroded paint bubbling like balloons
before bursting, flattening beneath
her touch. She felt the key rack
with more keys than a piano store,
cork board with porcupine thumbtacks,
and the thin edge of the Disney calendar
beside the light switch. Patting the blood
off on her pant leg, she flipped the switch.
With her sleeve, she brushed crushed Oreos
from the table and sat. Scatted about
the stained mahogany was a few National
ENQUIRER subscription cards, used napkins,
and an overdue bank notice. Sliding the chair
back, she sulked to the switch and flipped it
back.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
brighter than a thousand suns...
Helicopters scud the night. Syllables penetrate deeply.
Mulch has no value. Fingers curled softly in sleep.
Style marks the spot. Weapons hidden beneath kilts.
Pinpoint errors. Know where you are. Charlie Parker got lost.
You're a little teapot. The cat ponders these things.
Glamour a kind of architecture. National Enquirer a house.
Her only idea disastrous. He entered from behind. Stealth.
Take it any way you want it. ****** distillations of poison.
Something longer perhaps? Squash blossoms lovely. Preferences.
Ferns are not intentional. He wants a mulligan. Sentences question.
Ahead engorged. The color purple. Glance. Not quite wet.
Humpty-Dumpty the primary archetype. Master Coder. Triple Helix.
If this gum be stale: do not chew it;
If you are a window: draw the blinds.
Or writhe in orgasms of meaningful.
Come along to Carthage and Burn.
~mce
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC
WAITING IN LINE
Take your place this is not a race ,soon to ask if what brought you here was worth the price
I just want to pay to not stand idle and reminisce ,that full cart & those 5 kids ahead should have been a sign of a long day
Never considered stealing but this has me reeling, rethinking my vow to always play nice
Opened the aspirin first ,now considering buying beer, my morning smile has turned to to a leer
Mom forgot something, sent head child back into the wild,biding time who am to criticize
Enquirer SCREAMS u.f.o's here,looking around that is clear,now noticing for the first time all the kinds of mints & gum sold here
Dripping ice cream has me about to scream,the quality of my dinner determined by whatever else she buys
Muzak & me are about to have an epiphany,one more note could be all she wrote ,the elevator sounds of the seventies are becoming surreal
Patrons starting to pay heed they also want speed,pacing like bulls before the race ,just waiting to terrorize
Checker changing color, her eyes growing colder while bagger acting bolder,getting a few munchies is spinning into quite the ordeal
Her order finally tallied ,cheers break out from those who rallied ,she forgot her money so quickly I pay her fare ,just to escape, not caring if it is my own bills that are compromised . R..C
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 6:36 AM UTC
The River ("Every artist was first an amateur…")
rank, rank, rank ~ a word of multivariate meanings,
too many with hints of degrading nefariousness,
know
this
then:
the river we write upon, invites from all shores, enter!
where and when you will, let the current carry, or with
intent serious, furious paddle along side the rest of us
permanent beginners,
because each time we start to compose, all that we we
have composed before, is just loam, soil from to sprout anew,
no prior ordering survives, we begin as fumbling rank
beginners, amateurs, starting first and then over and over again
for each start
is not a statistically significant event, difference, indeed, it is clarity of challenge, search, and the joy to destroy, in order to be of finding,
it is same for one and for all,
we all are ranked, the same, first time amateurs…
so I bid you: run, get wet, welcome disasters, crumple too many
first drafts, BUT be ready when the ah ha period!
a gasp confirms: competed, satisfaction guaranteed…
it doesn’t query qualifications for quality is
yours to discern, yours to differentiate, yours to own,
to give away freely in abundance, nor does quality be an enquirer,
doesn’t ask what are your bona fides
your good sides,
just
to
bring and borrow,
impart and deport,
take us by surprise,
comfort and comport,
leaving behind outside a
crumb trail to make us follow
you to the coveted inside of that mystery
inner tube within that brain of yours that
roundly supports all of us ever lusting
for
just one…more
12:32 PM
Sabbath
May 25
2024
S.I.
May 25, 2024
May 25, 2024 at 12:58 PM UTC
Where did time go?
It wasn't so long ago we enjoyed one another so.
Now look at us.
We acting like we unaware of one another completely.
Hope, this news doesn't make Newsweekly.
Or even People.
Where did time fade?
Just days ago you was my rage?
I could look at your photos from page to page.
Hope this isn't in the Enquirer.
Just don't have time to defend this love of ours.
But I will.
I truly will.
When they look at us.
They say this love is real.
It is.
It truly is.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 8:57 PM UTC
Some days I spend all day thinking
of ways to thank you
Just your loving did so much for me
your soft touch, gentleness
If I could fly us into space
and we could breathe here where we live
I wouldn't be leaving here
for Neptune Blue
Satellite images so photographic
You'll never see a clearer picture
Like the ones so called intelligence took
of me and sold to the enquirer
Back in June ' nineteen eighty-two
way before I found you
or did you find me, did you?
Neptune Blue
I've seen the baby blue, the sky blue
and the yankee'd
I've even seen the bedroom blue and
your buns when they were spankee'd
Imagine just one color that could change
your evening mood
Look into my eyes then, Neptune Blue
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 10:02 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Conspiracy theories abound,
They can be found everywhere
Even among Amazon’s bestsellers
But what are they doing there?
Soaking up legitimacy
In places where they shouldn’t be
And that’s how the craziness spreads
In some susceptible heads ya see
Conspiracy theories abound
They can be found everywhere
Especially on Fox TV News
That’s all they seem to air
And guys like Chuck and Harold
Buy them lock stock and barrel
And you can’t make them believe
That they are ill conceived
Conspiracy theories abound
They can be found everywhere
On the pages of the National Enquirer
There’s more than enough to spare
And though most seem impossible
To their readers it’s true gospel
So they will continue to exist
As long as they persist
Conspiracy theories abound
They can be found everywhere
Especially on the internet
That all we seem to get
And then they’re spread
Like an infectious disease
By their believers
With the greatest of ease
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019. All rights reserved.
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 1:21 AM UTC
the commercial the billboard
friends snarky comments
National EnQuirer wonders how you are
there in whipped cream strawberry land
in which yellow Strumpets and ten pences bellow
the lies become real truth truth wilts
into letters written
on every website you attend
LIberty has her arms crossed stern look under her crown
Attorneys at her call
to defend
thousands of propaganda things
and throw women with children to the dogs
of El Taco whilst
tax rewards flow
for
richer and poorer we wed
this orange *****
now unfortunately
sadly sickly
we gotta sleep
with him
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 2:10 AM UTC
I’m not satirical or political
So, I don’t belong in the New Yorker
I’m not all gossip
So, I don’t belong in the National Enquirer
I’m not famous
So, I don’t belong in People
I’m not newsworthy
So, I don’t belong in Time
I’m bare-bones
So, Set me up in *******
I promise not to disappoint you
through all my curves and lines
Aug 24, 2019
Aug 24, 2019 at 7:53 AM UTC