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Brandon Navarro Aug 2014
Why is it so cool to hate on a group
for their fashion sense?
Or that they like to be off the mainstream?
You are doing the same thing that
people were doing to the
grunge
goths
punks
hippies
beatniks
flappers

and they all did something with their counterculture.
Ever think that
ours is the hipsters?
Not really,
they've been around since The *** Pistols
actually
they started them.
They made it cool to go to a thrift store
and buy things out of comfort
then rip it up
change it so it looked brand new.

Punk
that made Hipsters.

But now they are just some fad
that people hate on.
Just because they like to talk about
indie bands
knowing them first
wearing band tee's of bands they listen too
wearing vintage and retro clothing
likes reading
being in a cafe
organic food
vegan.

Stereotyping a group is all people did.
Now I can't wear things or do things
because some ******* is going
to say
"Ha you're such a ******* hipster!"

Why don't we stop hating people on what they wear
because how do you expect to get past
racism
homophobia
sexism
ableism
fatphobia
transphobia
preju­dice
if we can't even get past how people dress?
Jazz, women, and the start of a new era.
Gambling, drinking, the illegal actions
That gave everyone a thrill.

They are doing it, so why can't I?
Parties, drinking, music, recklessness.

A bit of freedom and women run loose like
They've never seen the light of the moon,
They are the flappers.

Moving pictures like magic,
Lets go to the movies,
Lets go see the stars!
The drama!

The machines! The wonders of
Mass production and a gas engine!
Speed and toxic smells of factories.
Geno Cattouse Sep 2012
Hip hop. Equals art stop. That crude **** stopped musical fusion
Right in its tracks.
When it first landed, it was still music with a lotta spittle flying.
Not naming names. I listened to a lot of it.
Then Gangsta rap hit. Oh ****

Cant accuse me of blind judgment, I still check it out from time to time
How do you say.Get diverse mud flappers. Know the history.
learn to play an instrument and read it so you can write it. Then come back an see me.

Who am I?.
John Q public.
Pavlov's dog.
Tin Pan Ali.
Long Tall sally.
Sachmo. Scratch less.
Yard-bird.
Donald Bird.
Stubborn ****.

Stuff out there is weak as thrice used tea bags. And cost more to get unless you  got
a peg leg and a parrot ******* on yer shoulder.
Lyrically, man my six year old says more about less with **** left over. What?

Flame out digitized No talent constructs that make me wanna hurl, url give a dog a bone.
Tin eared, tone def hoochies and synthetic cool cats. Not to mention the rough neks.
Looking like they pooped their pants six times and forgot how to belt up.

There are some real deal talents out there but it is like pickin peanuts out ****.

After disco died. Yes I said disco. It has been a circle **** in the cemetery after dark. Naw mean.

But I digress.
  .
was up late and goofy
Layla Mar 2013
We do not compare to one another.
My skin is the coal the people used. 

Your skin is the powder the flappers adore.
My soul is deep and my heart is pure.
Pure as white!
Your soul is shallow and your heart is dark.
Darker than the skin my people hold.

We may not compare, but you are my brother.
Not by blood
or by class. 

We are fused-

Fused by lives we live and the past we lived 

We are connected forevermore. 


There was a master and he was cruel. 

The crackle of the whip was the electric shock of my greats. There was no hope for the slave that cried.
There was no voice for the slave that remained strong.
Flight was the tantalizing thought.

The slave hadn't a chance to live in flight or freedom.
Their was only the need to fight. 

Fight to live and fight to breathe. 

Those greats so far down kept on fighting. 

They kept on preserving. 

They had their beauty that could never be touched. 



White Man, White Man listen to me. 

I was the coal that was used. 

I was the coal that was taken from its home. 

I was the coal that was discarded and given freedom. 



The flappers are young and they love their powder. 

You will be used and you will become the slave. 

I am the coal that is free. 

You are the powder that is used. 


My beauty will never will fill a white mans body. 

Too much has been seen and too much has been lived. 

No white can hold my strength and no white can hold my beauty. 

They are mine and forever will be.



My soul is deep and my heart is pure.
I shall not be condemned to this life no more.
This is a historical poem.
Harmony Sapphire Jan 2015
Dream Catchers, egg hatchers, baby Snatchers, **** wackers, lip smackers, online hackers, ***** slappers, hand clappers, exotic flappers, lazy slackers, suitcase packers, & back stabbers.

Hate & defeated, cheat & feel the heat. Too weak & petite. Tales of hell, wishes on a well, thoughts are things you can't always sell. Sometimes words can be lies liars tell. One day to your death to you fell.
Pass it on. I don't belong. Some people are wrong. Die. I won't cry.

Pakrat hoarders, pro choice aborters, two faced home wreckers, voodoo curses, retired lazy old nurses.

Deaf & Blind, racist & unkind, poor & unemployed. Broke & exploited. Dumb, old, ugly, & fat. ***** stinking rat. Piles & piles of crap.

College professors, real estate investors, coaches, cockaroaches, poachers, perverts & ******, meat eatting caravores. Bums & addicts drunks & fanatics, obsessive compulsive, stalkers too possessive, insane aggressive.

Author Notes :

Partially true, could be your family.

© Harmony Sapphire . All rights reserved,
Shawn Jul 2012
the only time we care about the poor
is in disaster,
there's been freedom for decades,
but we're still owned by slave masters,
incorporated trademarks
branded on our spine,
the american dream,
might as well be bovine.
flagpole sitting flappers,
never expect to fall,
'33 til infinity,
greed affects us all,
and it's more,
than a disease,
there's no atticus,
instead, great gatsbies.
and boo radley,
aint gonna right these wrongs,
all we've got are our words
and the will to stand strong,
and it seems we're just monkeys,
launched into orbit,
in spaceships,
that only fall once reality hits,
and i don't see any solutions soon,
we consume and presume,
that this is all a cartoon,
asterix fiction,
we lack conviction,
we lack the diction,
to speak our mind,
we are confined,
to the roles,
and the moulds,
and the holes,
that are made for our souls,
we stay out of the spotlight,
even when the times right,
allergic to great heights,
like madden going to superbowls.
ice cold,
a wise man said was cooler than cool
but these fools aint never heard of ice-nine,
it's the right time,
got the right rhymes,
who cares about these thugs,
i'm set on madoff crimes,
who cares about the dealers,
follow the money like the wire,
we're civilians in vans under apache fire,
and the cover-up is comin,
the cover-up is comin
the cover-up is comin
the cover-up is comin
the only time i'm hostile,
is within,
when i gotta smile
at these businessmen,
that are tearing us apart,
and ******* on our soil,
tearing out our hearts,
creeping like the mcboyles,
i've toiled in the trenches,
for most of my days,
as have the majority of those i know,
and we can't just quit,
we gotta get paid,
materialstic societies depend on dough,
so we dream of being on boats like samberg
the only threat to our fatasses is the hamburg
-ler, there's no cure, there's no care,
there's no health, it's not fair,
but if you keep on dreamin, one day it'll be there,
simply stare at the sun, things'll brighten up,
keep buying that product, trust me, they give a ****,
fall into place, stand in single file,
and whatever you do, don't forget to smile.
Johnny Noiπ Feb 2018
queens, u rule, I don't
mean man-nish men dressing in woman's
attire like Avon ladies shaving
his chest hair w/ a full beard;
calling himself Mary; no, that's not
what I mean; I mean, u, muse
who does this to me; u make me
dizzy cuz u caught me in ur eyes;
& held me quaking like a black widow's
mate; here we go around the world
in a few steamy days & nights
postmodern @ dawn until hot,
humid sundown; light glinting
off ur flexed tanned *** & legs
ice cream colored make-up &
bee-stung lips; muscled pecs,
tight quads & an all-American girl's Saturday
evening postmodern hips
Purcy Flaherty Feb 2018
Hot Jazz, subsonic blasts!
My whoopee cushions deflating fast!
Rumble squeaks, the but kazoo,
cheeky flappers 2 by 2!
So toot your horns and raise a glass,
for trouser dancing's such a gas!
At the soggy bottom dew.

(   )*(   )

https://youtu.be/iSGzMaSgws4
Farting is deemed undesirable!
Vikshipta Jun 2017
Bolted junkyard
and the absenteeism
flits me winding up..
Counting the preumbra of Columba livia
on those marmalade hue of maudlin chillness..
As it commixes up onto wafting airborne:
drifting over the scattered cumulonimbus.
Far flocking flappers .
80° collateral to peeking atomic number 10.
Oh crystalline form of pure carbon..
All mighty massif .
All parallel to 180°.
99 sometimes .
69 and 36 degree.
minus the 13, it sways...
the oscillating stripes.
And the vivid blazing heap of splitting cotton-***** ..
metamorphosing into some voodoo like
Magical. magnetic. amethyst horizon
Devouring the fading dodger wide blue .
Then restoration again.
The alter coequal to dreary cawing
And these paranoiac utterance...
The phantasm.
The illusion..
and
eye..
skidding off-track the reality.
Detaining every grasp of it.
Keith W Fletcher May 2019
Why do I think
it's okay to lie to people
first of all I live in the real world
not a building with a cross and a steeple
be that as it may
I guess you could say
I lie to people only to avoid the truth
that may sound stupid
that may sound hubrusistic,
comatosly mystic,
patreonystic
anyway but how I see it ...as...
Yes...
.. I'm going to say it...
altruistic !

come with me if you will
to a place where truth lives and lies collide
like a frantic manic,
about to reach the high score and more
on a pinball game
just past that quarter slot
where deep inside
like echoing chamber
sounds
of  quarters hitting quarter
Reverberations
the Mockingjay sound
of flippers flapping
All just past the signpost
flashing... tilt
to the place called MyLieAtZone

Up to a point I tell only truths
like some cackling clown
bobbing up and down
in a sideshow booth
or maybe more apt
is the clown that sits
Upon the slat
Just above the water tank
goading you
into sling sling slinging
baseball after baseball
as each and every zing
He chooses to string
seems to ring
closer to the core of who... You... Are...
But as you never wish to be seen

The angrier you get
trying not
to just get him wet
but to drown the clown
the farther you miss!!!
the closer he is
to seeing how close he is ...to yours
and that is what gets you the most
how to the crowd around you
he begins to boast
then he stops reading you
begins leading you ...
...into the house of horrors
and to think
all he did is watch for you to lie
in order to deny
that you are or could be...
those things...
... you hope no one else may see

But you are... They are... The clown perched upon the slat ... People in church ... Synagogues... Libraries... And the guy at the local bar... Me... And you we all go through... The tunnel of horrors

And all I can say is....

So ...freaking ...what?

Why do I lie when a truth would be better?
I don't - I won't -
At least not when the truth
( As you say)  would be better
I lie to not be honest
I lie to not expose
personal details best left private
I find a lie , a flat tire , a traffic jam
much better than
to say I'm exhausted
near catatonic
From having an all-nighter an argument
with my significant other

OH BROTHER  come closer
and let me tell you of a sinner
yep an all-nighter
an argument
about how to end a fight
That's right

It's better to go with a flat tire
A traffic jam late babysitter
before I would tell the truth
and hope to feed the boss
a misadventure into
MyLieAtZone

sometimes you are the pinball
trying to keep moving
staying away from the drain

sometimes you are the wizard
Slapping the glass with flat palms
slapping the flappers
6 ***** bouncing off the walls
and just 10,000 points
From insane

So then ...
..I lie only when or actually spin
a truth
Like carnival flopping cotton candy
When..simply put
People will believe a lie
before they will believe...
or accept a truth !!

And so ...I leave this tale
as I cross the veil
To pass on through
MyLieAtZone
Beyond the signpost up ahead
that once read
TILT

To rejoint you with
the most truthful grift
I've heard in quite some time
I said to my good friend...
... just before his end !

"why do you drink so much ...is it to forget something ?
and he said "yes I do !
I drink to forget the reason that I drink!"

and I tell you the truth
To tell you the truth ...really tell you the truth
I thought about this that he said
for a long long time
then I got it !
I understood ...
...exactly what he said .
unfortunately it was one day

One day after he was dead !!

Yet I consider it a gift ...
From beyond the rift

Just ahead past that signpost
up ahead
The one that
No longer reads ...tilt

Just beyond a place I call ...
MyLieAtZone...
Johnny Noiπ Dec 2017
Burlesque, Jazz, painting and literature
In the golden age of stripping
Four different golden ages converged---
The golden age of burlesque: Gypsy Rose Lee, Blaze Starr, Tempest Storm---the beats; Burroughs, Kerouac, Ginsberg---
The golden age of modern art; Pollack et al---Motherwell, etc.---the golden age of literature, the golden age
of music after swing’s drop dead ghosts,
hiding in fur dyed hot bebop---
the ghost of the roaring twenties, flappers’ ghosts
and beat girls smoking cigarettes,
casually *****, the dawn of the atomic age
came late---strippers come early,
dancing in like Flora Dora girls showing their garters---
Hot Hot Hot---the origin of swing in her sweaty leotard---
Martha Graham and St. Vincent Millay and others---
Stripping has come down to Dita from Lily,
U know Betty’s in the kitchen w/ her cookies---
Her: Barbara the nurse, the cookie dealer,
What’s-her-name---the woman who is still rich,
I can find her on Match.com where Mary-Ann Mobley found her British soul mate---U know her puppet lover, Miss America 1959 Miss History, June in Paris---her Barbie,
Troy of the broken boulders---
Johnny Noiπ Jan 2019
Every generation of young girls considers
themselves the new Flappers & proceed
to do just what their mothers did at their
age; every generation of young boys think
of themselves as the new Beats, going on
to do exactly what their fathers did at that
age; this has been going on since Greek
philosophers & temple prostitutes, from
wizards & witches to ******* & selfies.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
and in all - who deranges the work of thought? no one - in its weaker endeavors, it merely deranges itself th(r)ough the false desire for public validity.

and has not all anglophone intellectualism
been nothing more,
or become nothing more:
than a case of validation?
it just seems a validation for a sorry
case: of a club of plum kidneys
poached in punches...
  ******, you cry one more time,
i'll add another worth's of harvest...
oh, i'm not apprehensive of
violence, i sometimes punch myself
in the face to test the mercedes glee -
might as well, it's worth the wait.

they, these people talk so much,
can i make a suggestion?
the the 1st 2nd amendment?
i.e. you are free to speak,
but you're also free to get
a leech knuckle punch -
  can i introduce the freedom
of thought, as the higher
prioritised base concerning for law?

it's what kierkegaard wrote
as the antithesis for the american
constitution:
people complain about a "freedom"
of speech, yet so little managed
to concern themselves about
a freedom of "speech":
that ambiguity, that's thought.

am i really the one to care?
      we talk as much *******
as we think it,
   who cares about hearing the raw
herring flappers stinking with
ultra-caviar perfumermery?
    cheque please!
i'm this close to about to: puke.

oddly enough i'd revive a state of
politics with:
      you have the freedom to think
what you want...
oh right... the claustrophobics...
apparently thinking is a congested
place, or some sort of claustrophobia
hell..
       were americans claustrophobic
to begin with, feeling their egos
and thoughts couldn't fit
into their heads?!

   priests always, so far, always derail their
train of believers with their sermons,
does that matter?
  it matters on the grounds of secular
terms...

and yes, my life is like an art gallery
with only one painting in it...
     i have a canvas,
              i have a painting,
i have an inanimate object either side
of the painting,
      there are the inanimate objects within
the pain-taking (painting) observation,
then there's the observer, who also
looks like a whooped hoping pigeon
on one leg pretending a tango -
        only if in your life does there
emerge a canvas, can you start to form
yourself into a true observe -
  a true observer in that you paint:
by being the unobservable unobserved -
"telekinetic" in the sense of:
                        the unavoidable change -
taking place, without surprise or
warning...
           then again i live in a telekinetic zoo...
i change without want or will,
  on the carousel of seasons...
                a *work of thought
, as ever,
is hugely undermined,
      since this "work" does not eventuate
in the zenith of telekinesis...
           and as any fancy -
     psychology fakes "progress" by attaining
telepathy - psychology is just shy of
attaining telepathy -
  but it does so, nonetheless, by its rainbow
of pathologies exhumed from the crypts
of the unconscious;

summa summarum:
psychology deems to call telepathy -
         dialogue,
                a one sided case of
      the psychologist being the narrator -
and the patient, as any patient,
       only a julien sorel in stendhal's work...

i find that all psychologists are
psychopaths -
               they're atheists for the most part,
who deal with the logic of the pathos of
a psyche (the workings of the ailing of possessing
a soul) - they're like cyborgs asked a moral
question...
                  they deal with the pathology
of a non-existent soul - or otherwise they
try to treat asthma -
  another term for breath in grecian -
         or some other variant of the debate...
don't know, don't care, i have a dinner to cook:
meatballs in tomato sauce with rice and
beetroot & cucumber pickles; sorry.
CL Fjell Jun 2019
Loathsome little loving liars
Lying laughingly lazily

Poor pretentious puny pet
Phrasing picture perfect plays

Forty ******* fornicators
Flogging feathered flappers

Words wired without winds
Wistfully woven wrongfully

Bi-curious bitey bell-shaped *******
Bump big butts boastfully

Helping Harry's holey hippocampus
Holes he hides here hazily
Johnny Noiπ Feb 2018
Flappers were good girls; formerly Edwardians,
even Victorian, suddenly modern; driving cars
& smoking & drinking & doing the Charleston
to ragtime Jazz; gong where there didn't belong
but making their way to the center
of the dance floor; kicking up their Cuban heels
& showing off their ankles before *******
were invented; liberated gals wearing bloomers
or nothing underneath their beads & sequence;
Gibson girls became flappers & the Gilded Age
became ******* long before ******* was a thing;
Strippers coming off the circus runway
to dance for drunks & gangsters who wanted
to see more & more skin in every way
until one day Carol Doda took it all off
after decades of naked ladies stepping into
the limelight & becoming stars in their own right;
but **** women are no more, it's just not allowed;
women are accusing men of having libidos
they can't control; the women pretending vaginas
have a mind of their own
Johnny Noiπ Jan 2018
Flappers were good girls; formerly Edwardians,
even Victorian, suddenly modern; driving cars
& smoking & drinking & doing the Charleston
to ragtime Jazz; gong where there didn't belong
but making their way to the center
of the dance floor; kicking up their Cuban heels
& showing off their ankles before *******
were invented; liberated gals wearing bloomers
or nothing underneath their beads & sequence;
Gibson girls became flappers & the Gilded Age
became ******* long before ******* was a thing;
Strippers coming off the circus runway
to dance for drunks & gangsters who wanted
to see more & more skin in every way
until one day Carol Doda took it all off
after decades of naked ladies stepping into
the limelight & becoming stars in their own right;
but **** women are no more, it's just not allowed;
women are accusing men of having libidos
they can't control; the women pretending vaginas
have a mind of their own
Johnny Noiπ Jan 2018
From 1915-19
Theda Bara lived
in Manhattan making
movies in Fort lee, NJ...At the same
time young boys coming of age
left from Hoboken
to go fight WWI...
Many never returned...soon after
came Surrealism & dada,
hot jazz, ****** & flappers
Theda Bara & Pola Negri
the screen-vamps
out of style overnight...
Johnny Noiπ Dec 2017
A micro-black hole in super-infinite space,
Anne Frank preaching the Promised Land
To millennials born in exile,
Worshipping Bob Marley in Babylon
Waiting for Christ to take out the trash;
Keep waiting
She knew nothing of the Bible,
Didn’t know she was a Jew---gay, straight or terrorist,
Dialectical materialism clashing with the Holy Trinity
In the neutron stars’ collision of
What we call density in space at the end of super-gravity,
No endings anymore: the singularity is us:
the negative to the photograph---

Black holes shake the spacetime sisterhood
with bigger and bigger gravity waves
Until the universe shatters like a snow globe---
Soviet ******, Russian princess bride
designating the next phase of your honor;
She’s my Soviet sister, mister
Design your press for Putin’s world-wide wedding
Desire is divine when the world is in calamity---
Soviet mothers live in the sewer
Below Sonya’s ***, her pomegranates
On the cottage table she belongs to no man but me,
My bride from the mist---

Parmenides agreeing with Euclid in bliss with a good cigar---
The ice in your eyes may be cool
Because Elton feels it (we all feel it)
Your great-uncle was a **** spy not Ai Wei Wei’s father
Like Mao Zedong, the great poet
Of the Cultural Revolution forbidden
To write made to pull a plow
Don’t lie about it,
Proud he wanted to pound ur ***---

Soviet princess, I wish to know u like a father,
There is snow and there is now---
Riding the bride raw in a Russian tradition,
Tsunami women in boxers
With an eyeful of throat,
Candy-eyes in her waistline,
In her middle earth contours
I who am that poet whom
Is the feline shadow shape sharp as a tail of tall chords
Twisting in the gravity shifts
The wind is shallow now, who looks like that---
Her American-Turkish mother
Who began to fish behind the lines
Her fat *** in boxers a woman:
Pin-uposophy the science of hummingbirds
And the dramatic decline of bees,
The saucer flips and trips through space---
Listening to Wagner, discussing Nietzsche
Glorifying white womanhood
Burning the bunny and ******* flag---
She goes where her cloned colon goes---
Ivy-eyed in Hamburg; New Zealand;
Cryogenic ******* designed for living testicles---
Glorifying wormholes and supernova---
I like that

The neutron star exploding you can feel it
Men have been ****** children since time began
In what appears to be human nature---
Transgender crime boss turned informant
Gunned down on the operating table,
Transcendental Idealist Plato invites Diogenes
Out for a drink in the Golden Age
With Bunny Yeager, the beginning of ugly beauty queens,
Not the first, Russian history going far back in time...
Ask Vartuhi about Pushkin
She will tell you abstractly,
*** trafficking and harassment are one thing,
New York, London, Milan, Tokyo, Paris
Guilty of ****** assault against men and women---
Heartless tgirls getting plastic surgery to become
Teen ****** and slutty wives looking hot
In 1920, the year I took the Polish girl in the ***
And saw her future,
The scientist moonlighting as a shocking stripper
known throughout Europe
What is unknown to the aliens
Is I will move to Bulgaria or Bagdad
And close the windows on
Naked neutron **** flappers
and other strippers of long ago;
The Nazis have never been forgotten
For good reason---
The myths they made were picked up in the street---
This thing just talks and keeps talking
With no time for ******* ****---
A poem is not a song, a poet is not king
Or president or Aung San Suu Kyi
Or Robert Mugabe or Kim Il Sung
Or Kim jong Un or Carl Jung
Or Sigmund Freud or Joseph Stalin---
Playing sports in a warzone,
Not a figurehead or martyr,
This is not mathematics or a game of chance;
Your AI is smarter than you are---
The Golden Age of Anarcho-Nihilism
The vocabulary of ants and giants,
Say u saw the 7 stars and pray---
Absurdo-Futurism blah blah blah
U know kids are on drugs
Ur heroes alcoholic predators,
Nothing goes unchanged, it’s human nature
U can’t arrest someone for being human;
Do not cast moral aspersions
When you cannot defend your own actions---
Ur father was a ****** *****,
Ur mother god only knows---
Mayakovsky and Whitman met on the pier,
Rupaul's liquor bottles floating in shark infested water
Although he doesn’t drink or smoke---
Do you know him? Mao Zedong, Adolf ******,
Donald Trump lacking essential brain chemistry
Producing a brainless sadist
In an American cultural revolution,
An open attack on intellectual history;
In the future there will be no ideas, LGBTQ-etc.
Christian Conservatism left or right---

Which one are u? ****** harassment does not exist
When anyone accused is guilty---

Christian intuition says there is a paradise,
That is, paradise compared to this dump---
Now science is telling us the same thing,
The Infinite Singularity of Eternal Paradise

Growing flowers in a tin-can
In the shadow of the black hole and sky’s end
I have no interest in Magic Realism
And completely reject Surrealism---
I want to write floating prosody,
That is prose that takes place
In heaven and/or hell, not this world;
Anyone who can comprehend Cubism
Can grasp the multiverse---
Futurism, Suprematism,
Abstract Expressionism,
Constructivism, quantum theory---
Things working along the lines
Of the Higgs field,
Wherefore the mind can transcend
Mere three-dimensional
Thinking like Einstein, Freud and/or Dylan---
Something about YHWH---
The abstract One a Neo-Platonic concept
Derived from Plato’s ideal forms; Jung’s archetypes
And Freud’s unconscious (Jung’s subconscious)
What Einstein called relativity most people call reality
That can be manipulated by poetry or music.

Man and *** is like a cop with a gun;
Sooner or later they’re going to use it
***** bullet fires ****** bullet wound bleeds---
The pendulum swings
Between being and non-being and/or becoming
And unbecoming, but the wound pre-exists
The bullet in a tachyonic temporal reversal
Of patriarchy and matriarchy,
The Saudi royal family deposed and replaced
by a string of democratically elected female presidents;
Which will become the first female dictatorship of the new era;
There will be others, mothers and such,
***-camps perpetuating the politically correct species,
So cries the Jewish poet before he is ******
By the wayward women who rule the toilet-state---
The bald-headed ***** with nice ***, nameless Empress,
Spurring the underground Machismo movement;
Men with guns who want to replace all other women
With their oriental counterparts---
“I dreamed of a world
               Of only Asian women and men of every color!”

The baritone Bible banned, all men Christ---
Our women Christian not Jewish or Muslim
Our poets banned lest they speak micro-aggressions;
I am one, outlaw unlike my brothers who bow
At the feet I once scaled like mountains,
She is waiting at the top with a Bible in hand
She can’t read or understand
As it makes no sense to her female brain;
She only knows deception like the old KGB,
obvious by the accent I can’t understand---
Israel gone, Palestine soon follows.
Burqinis on the beach and in the street,
Leggings and funky sneakers,
Her pores open by hot yoga;
So cries the Jewish poet before he’s ****** to death
I heard the prophet wail like Mayakovsky
The red, white and black the colors of no flag---
Most of the ants doing nothing;
Most fascists dull-witted mediocrities,
I saw her waving the red-white-&-black
In the Nollywood invasion of collective castration
Of the male species as if we were wild animals
Women directors taking out insurance but not in Iran---
Which is ruled by an old man;
What will the saudis say
When the supreme leader is a woman at last---
The red guard will end like Quadaffi’s bodyguards
I’ll have a Russian lover, I’ll have an Indian lover,
But I won’t have a Muslim lover
And don’t want one although I thought I did at one time---
Not only priests are rapists,
The average guy is a ****
Every man is a saint
And what does that make u, *****?
A *****. ****, *****, ashamed? of what?
Nothing since u jump out of our clothes
At the smell of money;
Most people deep as mud;
Their words half-forgotten poetry
Maybe it rhymes or not,
Catholic and/or Protestant
As the sun comes up on a cloudy day during mass---
Call no man father or master or brother---
The Jewish poet is ur brother,
No man is ur master
Except Hermes or Prometheus or Pythagoras
No man is ur father dancing
To mother’s organic music,
Her milk flowing from her 1,000 *******
Call no man mother and no woman father
White noise background radiation prayer
Building a great pyramid by randomly piling stones
One atop another that fly---her father,
Her uncle, her brother not related to me---
The blonde girl running on the beach at dawn
Is not a goddess---
The witch-hunt of powerful influential men
Who can’t keep their hands to themselves
Is destroying the vulture before it can be born
As the Enlightenment and Renaissance
Went down in flames like the Roman Empire
And what is left but dreamers led by Jesus
And his angels and saints---

As the pit opens beneath barefoot ballrooms
She falls into Hades never to return
With her foreign accent she’s a ****** as am I---
How can she take the sacrament
With her fingers shoved in her ****?
When Jesus returns I want to be ******;
I’m not going to heaven w/o a cigarette;
My lover the flapper taking away my sin;
This bread this cup my breakfast---
The priest speaks to the black hole
As if it were alive forgetting the supersupernova
And neutron stars that begin spacetime
At the end of all things that shall come again;
Passing away again in timespace---
There are no more pure virgins only gods in their wisdom
***** ******* pure---
***** mothers better than clean mothers---
Money raining from uber-clouds;
Nollywood semi-virgins living with the pain
Of genital mutilation,
Everybody is writing poetry these days
Inspired by children that can barely spell
The words inspired by adults
That don’t know poetry from ****,
Who can’t rhyme without hip-hop
In the background---

The wooden poet meets the burqini beauty queen
On the beach in the rain and wind---
Feet caked with mud, swirling black holes
crashing and exploding like cars in Jerusalem
again and again until LIGO picks up the vibration
And tells the world---
What can gravity waves do that a terrorist can’t?
Gravity waves give women ****;
Have you ever seen an australopithecus female?
They are not pretty unless u love animals as do I,
even a Neanderthal woman won’t **** me;
O - I am the prophet who leapt upon horseback
and rode like fire into battle a man of war.
Women are worn-out cliches
Cries the Soviet poet who lives and breathes
In the underworld made of oak;
Do not envy evil gay men---
A prophet at dawn sleeps with men,
Army and navy and Marines---
And I pour out my spirit like flesh
remembering her earthen blood,
The moon darkened by the Christ child’s name;
A girl sold for wine to drink I will mold like clay---
Your body beaten into a wooden sword
In the Bronze Age.

Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him,
She just wants to dance and so she shall
The anarcho-nihilist absurdo-futurist cult
Of the Soviet fembot buried in the ghost city,
Don’t go there, the radiation lingers
In the baritone voice of one who returns;
Where the old women will not **** me
Like I’ve seen them do to others---
Young girls won’t **** me like their mothers will---
Anger leading to evil in the ghost city
Jonah went to Nineveh
And told the Ninevites to go **** themselves---
No Jews were insulted, no women *****,
God laughs at the wicked,
Their swords pierce their own hearts---
The wicked shall vanish and beauty shall fade;
In the field of eternity it shall be scattered
Like smoke by the wind---
All good things come from gravity waves
Women grow **** and men grow big *****
They mate and are fruitful,
I built a fembot and named her Sonya and she became a poet
And made me a lot of money; she was that good.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
you can't tell me that the sole
male fetish for womanhood
was her worth of the crop
of her hair..
              'last time i heard
it was her hips'
and you'd be right in stating
so...
             i was more inclined
by the hands...
     like, little figurines
of ballerinas...
           and snow falling at night,
attired in the hood,
static like a stone,
beneath a lithium
street-lamp...

i too wished for a trucker's
voyage with a niñita...
ah!
           pedant...
   that waving motion?
you can't put
either i or j together with
an ñ...
  unless..

       ninȷítā:
neen-yee-t'ah!
  ******* morons...
went for the hieroglyphs
like quick-bait
before exploring
their literacy
just a little bit further...

   ******* cul de sac
"explorers"...
manifest in:
by the thousand count
worth of drones /
viewers...

yeah...
let's all just pretend that...
we're all going to
be "nice" people...
while the police do jack-****!
just 4 hours ago
i could have been
a security guard
in a supermarket...

what's stopping me?
the person
who has taken charge...
useless as a *******
sprinter contra
the snail in a Zeno episode
of "paradoxes"...

to be made accountable
of all the 8+ billion
lives in this world,
to become the spearhead
for a clinging sensation
of, hopefully,
individual vectors...
    to come across
the sight of Copernicus...

did you know that
us Polacks feel
grieved by...
having to succumb to
a history that states...
it was Galileo!
no... it was Copernicus!
Copernicus was
German!
   no... and the no continues...
the idiots fathom the laziness
of the intelligent...
which...
means nothing as quiete
as what it should mean:
don't use your elbows
to shove into a queue...

that's how i imagine
god...
somehow...
the last refrain from
calling on santa claus:
or satan's, clause...
to be fed so many
"delusions"
and be woken up with one...
i don't know...
            god is a word
per se, and a nature...
   something biased...
an autocrat...
a despot...
        what if what i want
is not what i will never
receive?
              
the islamic fetish for hair...
last time i checked,
my grandmother reacted
to finding a hair
in a soup,
like some Ascot bride would
react to finding a fly
in her champagne flute...
i always thought
that the most ******
aspect of a woman
was her hands...
so... no head-cover...
just gloves...
   hair... who made up
this... hair-erotica
of monotheism?!
             i am freaked-out!
why wouldn't i be?
who has to feed an *******
via an association
with...

             the monotheistic
fetish for... hiding the discovery
of keratin...
how about we
begin with... a woman's hands?

it's a mad mad world
and i'm not inclined
to quote a base of song lyrics
to encourage it with...

monotheistic erotica
         surrounding keratin...
involved in...
the aspect of the fair ***...
making aspect...
of long hair...

but what if i like... pixie girls...
girls with short hair?!
and what if i were
a mundane-rock stoner
who allowed himself
to suit dates,
rather than tattoos,
and subsequently forgot
the existence of barbers...
and pretended to long for...
          keratin curtains?

but this is not a win-win
scenario...
              this topic,
was not even brought up...
it vaguely surfaced...
        face-to-face...
i didn't see no more than
i did of a screaming
police officer...
shackled...
being arrested
in an alleyway
on a Friday night,
in the dark,
*******...
               saying:
i'm not getting up...
make me...
      in a country that also reads
into a crescendo of:
the easily taken bait...
   and...
if i were truly the Pilate,
i shouldn't have trouble
washing my hands
clean off the matter,
but my hands are tied...
   i still remember playing
video games...
i'm not cross-eyed!
   but no chance in hell
would the right hand perform
the inbuilt functions that
a left hand ought to do...
and likewise...
   so... a big ******* X...
schematic...
of being right-handed...
playing video games with
a keyboard in tow...
through to the late mid-00s...
arms crossed...

    the right hand doing what
the left hand was intended
to do...
while the left hand doing what
the right hand...
                                   X

age of empires...
or some other game...
one of those first person shooters...
doom, or quake...
or whatever it was...
hardly cross-eyed...
but sure as **** cross-hand...
  
                               X

no tunnel vision, no | |
           synchronißed swimming event
worth the olympics...
no flappers either side
of my eyes...

           as for all those who support
their freedom to blah blah along?
i just want to see them
pick up a pen...

       oh, i've seen Jordan B. Peterson
pick up the pen...
           it's great...
             it's like:
being woken to speak again!
any criticism of mine?
i hope it's subtle...

     meat-cleaver
and some of the plethora's worth
of a densist's attire in
slying open a:
painting of the healthy
bite...

        chisel! chime chime!
we have a winner!

writing... and those who
suppose so...
the end of death in
life being continued,
via:
a piece of writing,
discovered, posthumously,
20 years later...
or...
           the work of a wine...
connoisseur...
             yeah... had to ferment...
some drunk from
it immediately...
  some... years later...

like me...
current year? 2019...
i am mostly a necromancer...
meaning?
   i read from the worth of
the dead, being surrounded
by the motto:
don't forget that i too,
once lived...
   i can't forget that...
necromancy:
to read from the dead...
    well... like necrophilia...
but instead of *******
a dead body...
you read the mind
of a dead person...
                              simple...
i own a private library
and about two living authors'
worth of output...
i am, a necromancer...
no contemporary writing...
   i sometimes watch these
book review videos on youtube...
like... abookutopia...
right... the reader of a writer
who's still alive...
          my library?
               a ******* cemetary.

like: i ****... into a leather chair...
and pretend it's:      eau l'automne...

                fine wine...
something fermenting, obscure...
you will not find me reading
Dickens... having heard
the praise from England,
like you will not find me reading
Mickiewicz in Poland...

so... those taboos out of
the window...
        i tend to forget which
part of my body succumbs
the easiest
to being tickled.
lxvingsxdistic Apr 2019
The roaring twenties,
living life like one big party.
Everything looking Hollywood,
Hollywood starry.

Jazz and dance,
flappers taking their chance.
Till the day,
the day the stock market crashed.

Gambling money away,
money no one ever had.
Now living in a depression,
everyone looks so sad.

Families losing their houses,
men and women leaving their spouses.
Job-searching,
makeshift learning.

Suicidal men,
wish for the life they had back when.
Children dying,
families crying.

Living life jobless,
not a single day sobless.
Stale bread,
all hope dead.

Tryna remember,
remember the days of jazz.
The days back when,
this world had class.

What a shame,
oh what a shame.
When our own hometown,
loses at the life game.
I wrote this poem in ten minutes at school for an assignment. XD
Travis Green Jun 2022
Your hypnotically saucy body
Makes me wanna take a flight
To charming cosmic heartland
To holla at your hotness
Become enthralled by your machoness
Make me sweat when you check
And finesse my flesh

Rub your earthy fervent chest
Against my mad hot flappers
Carry me into crashing chapter
Bursting with erratic matchless passion
Enwrapped in your rapturously
Strapping attractiveness

Your profound muscle-bound playground is
Where I want to play at
Step into your flickering
Thrilling flame and feel your game
Hold me down and spin me around
Confound me, shake down my town
Put it down, crown me in your enticingness

Roll about in your machoness
Nuzzle up to your thugness
I just want to relax with you
Bask in a magical swagtastic splash
Slip away with greatness
So blazed and fazed
By your compelling captivating
Work of flawless hot art
Travis Green Apr 2023
I wanna be in his magical macho arms
Loving on him, copping a feel of him
Kissing his affectionate electric lips
****** the fresh, flawless fur
On his pleasantly keen and handsome face

Dark dashing eyes that forever stay on my mind
****, confident eyebrows, dreamy brown ears
Passionate crackerjack dreadhead
I crave to lay with him in pure unmatched ecstasy
So obsessed with his measureless treasured flex
His superlative debonairness and immaculateness

I get lost in his hotness, sauciness, and tallness
My heavily built whip, hella top-level machoness
In his closeness, my homoness halts
My heart and soul glow, he has me so flabbergasted
With his heavenly broad-chested majesticness
His unequivocal irresistible realness

Such a bright young delight
I wanna run my hands all over his flesh
Revel in indistinguishable sensual dreaminess
So addictive to his distinctive gleaming stance
His commanding salient manliness

I hanker to slither my hands all over his gargantuan naked back
Clasp his jaunty juicy rearguard
Feel him breathe on my phenomenally full flappers
Chew on my rigid nips, make me moan
As he whispers sweet nothings in my ear

Bite into my soft, exquisite neck
******* radiant fragrant gayness
Feel my fingernails glide up and down
His youthful alluring arms
Lick his intoxicating armpits

Savor the gripping depiction
Of his authentic pristine perfection
Venerate his earthy shimmering body
Of boldly succulent and enchanting art
Lick his bare and robust hips

Cherish his endless vigorous virility
With his broad, exuberant, and iridescent chest
The best sexalicious treasure
That wins my heart and mellow soul
His impeccable edible smell mesmerizes my vessel

I sink into his delectable refreshing masculineness
Moaning passionately as he devours me
Riveting the attention of my existence
He hits me like a ton of bricks
With his mad hot slickness

Irresistibly ardent and neurotic
My tender, effervescent, and finger-lickin' comfort food
My yummy velvety heavy
I am lost in his ****** macho suaveness
Wanting to bathe my body in his dreamy limitless
Ocean of dope mind-blowing goldenness
Johnny Noiπ Jun 2018
women have gone    from  
flappers to hippies    to an
army of women led      by
lesbians &  beauty queens
Travis Green Oct 2023
His masculinity is so assertive and immersive
I thirst for his shamelessly sizzling kisses
Feel his ardent, exquisite lips
His distinctive splendid beard
Stare fixedly into his charming
Almond-brown eyes

His appealing eyebrows bewitches me
I dig the equilibrium of his ****** features
His irresistibly delicious slickness
He has me walking on air
Cherishing his magically satisfying attractiveness

He renders me inarticulate
With his hypnotic chocolate drawing power
I have a burning desire
For his strikingly inviting enticingness
I worship his entirety

He devours me through sight
Captures my breath
Attracts my attention
Ignites me in a flash
My magnetic,  passionate splash
My dapper swag daddy

I crave for him to investigate
And impound my creation
Rope me into his monumentally
Magnificent machoness
So addicted to him
Like whisky on the rocks
Like ***** and tonic

I am jumping out of my skin
When I imagine his hands
Running all over me
Make me succumb to him
Drink deeply from his manly sweetness

Immerse myself into every part of him
Engrossed in thoughts of his melodic motion
I inhale him deeply into my system
Like a fragrant warm beverage
He is my treasured song
That runs through my mind
For a month of Sundays

I wish to kick it with him
At a dreamy destination
Where we have breathtakingly
Blazing ******* with each other
Plunge his monster man meat
In my affection alley

Grab my magnificently
Impressive flappers
Hold onto me firmly
Press his colossal *****
On my jaw-droppingly top-notch rear

Ram his unconquerable stomach demolisher
Deeper in my gay world
Make me yell zealously
Feel my body shudder
Hear him talk ***** to me
Rob my heart, tear me apart
Cover me in his thick, abundant *****
Travis Green Oct 2022
I wanna feel the heat rise between you and me
Feel your machoness all over my softness
Your splendidly enchanting hands
Clinging to my edible ***** mad flappers
Traverse your warmers on my juicy peaks
Glide your powerfully ripe mouth
Alongside the incomparable and delicious surface

Make me deliriously happy
While I clasp your exceedingly massive arms
Let my head settle over your grippingly ripped chest
As my homosexualness linger in your dreaminess
Take in your superlative burst
Of glittering and immersing rapture

Feel your sleek sizzling sweetness
Encircle my inner world
How you ****** and soothe me
Woo me with your hoodness
Follow the spectacular ardent curves
Of my fervently formed frame

Drown me in your timeless tantalizing tightness
Plant electric and infectious kisses all over me
Flex your supernaturally attention-grabbing muscles
Take me to the next level where you delve into my headspace
Make me so enamored by your intoxicatingly flavorful foundation
Have it away with my provocatively hypnotic star power
Johnny Noiπ May 2018
what flappers did was to wage full-frontal
assaults on conventional   western beauty;
**** is a challenge to traditional ******
roles & conventional  social expectations;
what the abstract expressionists did was to
wage a full-frontal assault on   western art
aesthetics; what beauty pageants did  was
codify the common standard of beauty in a
social context ushering other standards  of
beauty that evolved into models &  movie
stars, pin-up girls & burlesque    strippers;
what the Beats did was wage a full frontal
assault on conventional western literature;
what reality-tv does is wage a  full-frontal
assault on common sense &  sound reason;
method actors wage  a full-frontal  assault
on theater & accepted acting conventions;
what punk rock did  was wage    full-frontal
assaults on conventional   western   beauty;
feminism a challenge to traditional   ******
roles & conventional social     expectations;
what neo-expressionism did to was wage an
assault on modernism & abstract aesthetics;
what pornographic magazines      did was to
codify a common standard o     f beauty in a
social context, ushering other    standards of
       beauty that evolved into super & alt models     
*******, the Internet &  exotic dancers;
what (the Beats) do is to wage  a full frontal
assault on conventional western    literature;
what reality-tv does is wage a     full-frontal
assault on common sense &     sound reason;
big-ticket Broadway   shows wage an assault
on theater & accepted acting     conventions;

— The End —