"flimflam" poems
She was gooey like maple syrup
& marshmallow s'mores,
stronger than a mountain lion
protecting her cubs,
wore prescription rose-tinted
sunglasses with GPS,
she'd been around long enough
to see through most of the
flimflam and negativity,
was agile enough to laugh at
her own cheeky caricature,
wouldn't put up with the travesty
'neath debauchery's cunning
still, she wondered as most do,
what was to become of a world
so engrossed in the overthrow
& disparaging mockery of others
she bade her time waiting to grow
older and wiser in hopes
she'd be around long enough
to experience a sunrise view
in universal accordance
before her own last sunset
ultimately bit the dust,
burning in all-inclusive ashes
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 9:51 AM UTC
Passing judgment is subjective,
it’s in the eyes of the beholder.
You know it, don’t do it.
It goes something like you point a finger at someone
& they're four pointing back at you.
Like who makes anyone a judge & jury?
That’s right, arrogance.
It’s usually themselves,
spilling volumes about how righteous they are.
They’re what some label a smokescreen character,
a ******* flimflam artist,
holier than thou, you know the type.
They wouldn’t last ten seconds in a firefight.
Bottom line: trust no one, not even yourself.
I saw family members
give up their relatives
to make a buck.
That’s right, greenbacks.
A regular family-affair.
Imagine selling out blood for paper.
We called it a war on terror.
They called it Jihad.
It didn’t matter what anybody called it.
There was no God involved.
Just human nature & people pointing fingers.
The same old show,
the same old ****
dogs & ponies
one upping each other.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
When people ask what I do for a living,
I respond
“*Listening to my heart ******
as my mind garden blossoms
incandescent indigo constellations
humming the songs of nature’s entirety.
I sensually embrace the entirety’s
divine lips kissing my spirit
with sacred words
merging into me—
a blissful osmosis of neurotransmitters
waltzing with my consciousness
flowing liquid electricity
and molten rhythms of oxygen
in kinetic unison through moments
of subjective apocalypses
slowly returning to yugen.*”
When asked where I see myself in ten years,
I respond
“*Copacetic contentment—
having surrendered my life
to more than just the digital currency
of likes and retweets
and the constantly dissolving paper coins
because I chose to see people
as breathing pieces of naked art,
in progress,
stripped down to their thoughts
jettisoned through this spherical time
of infinite space and possibility
slowly accepting there is more out there
beyond traditional political religical flimflam,
beyond abnormal logicality,
beyond nirvana.*”
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
Salty tears
Slither like snakes in summer
Meandering moments of madness mused
Ratchet heart and rabid tongue retorts
Flimflam fluke fisticuffs fought
A mirrored mirage manically manifest
A parade of psychosis fevered pitch
Easy the embryo erased eternal
Gods grace given gone
Sanguine souls stand sequestered
A pitiful penitent they plead
A song of Solomon heralds
Cherubs on chariots
Carrying chalices crafted of gold
Seeks repentance refrained from sin
All souls suffer life myriad interpretations
And all
Must answer
In
The
End
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 10:21 AM UTC
Sidestepping shadow-plays
boxed in bonus-sized portions
for garden-varietal religions,
I've had these scuzzy intimations
great big (voids) lie behind
most altruistic inclinations
and the biggest news is,
we're still expanding
with-in-exhaustible potentials
to be eternally filled greater.
Now I'll admit to being
hampered in my cognitive
capacity for meaningful
pattern recognition
by my debilitating
predisposition toward
concentrated forms of myopia,
ergo, I can't shape
a formless mess into anything
but incoherent flimflam.
I've tried alleviating this
condition with meditative
concoctions and palliatives
of sensory deprivation,
yet I fear I'll need
a silicon-chip-enhanced head
before I can glimpse
the cosmic legerdemain spinning
its paradoxes of endless
surfaces but no top.
If I finally do, I'll smile big
as a great-white gull winning
his first demonstration hand at
the three-card monte of not-to-be
reconciled contradictions.
May 15, 2010
May 15, 2010 at 9:41 AM UTC
Our falter, whose art is Heavy,
Halloween be thy name.
Your kingdom’s numb
your children dumb on earth
moldy bread unleavened.
Give us this day our
wayward dead.
And give us our
***** as we forgive those
who *** against us.
And speed us not
into wimp nation
nor bequiver us
with needles, for thine
is the flimflam and the sour,
and the same *******
story in leather
for never and ever.
Ah: gin.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 2:14 PM UTC
It's just a New York night in lower manhattan
nineteen twenty nine december time
this place has been dry for over eight years
but for the last two months the bars have opened
and oh boy do they sell some crisp cold beers
There I meet my girl
her with the sparkles in her eyes
that crazy girl
who loves so well
my flimflam flapper
She is a goddess of con tricks
a purveyor of ***** play
yet she is near freedoms reach
she does not care if you call her
by her flapper name
queen *****
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
When I dream
I find myself in places
I never go to awake
Taking chances
I never take
For fear I will break
Or stumble.
So instead I grumble
That I never go anywhere
And let myself scare myself
Out of doing what I need
To do in order to be true
To the person I am
When I am awake.
I fully flimflam and take
The easy, the coward’s road.
I hop away like a toad
Then whine to myself
In my dreams.
It seems ineffective.
But it seems inelective.
It’s like I have no choice
But I still listen
To my sleeping voice.
Someday I may stop
And drop this bad habit,
Choosing to have it my way;
Me on the highway, walking
Instead of lying in bed talking
About how good it could be
If I were the dreaming me.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 2:46 PM UTC
Watching The Signs Of Aging
Watching the signs of aging;
Ultimately,
Finally
An end.
Notice, I don’t say THE end.
Not a film, a flimsy bit of flimflam,
A clouded artificiality, life imitated, intimated.
As stated:
A downgrading: witless and insensate,
Thinning at the temples,
Eyebrow hairs a crazy zigzag;
Tummy more rotund and round;
Fingers, which, however trained
No longer want to grasp or grip.
Compression of the whole foundation
Underscore the downward trip.
Aging signals watched with care –
Obviously there! Involuntary!
Glasses that you never needed;
Tender spots you never heeded.
Fragile scenes that make you weep.
Couplets which you once thought cheap
Resorted to, which you now keep.
Compensations: pensions, patience;
Many words that end in –pence
Because, and just because
All signs become a Santa Claus:
Signs of good –
That is, when you are in the mood.
Stiff fingers finding newer ways to play piano, open jars,
The mental auto-search a galaxy of syndrome-stars
Bursting unused.
No longer worrying ‘bout standards,
You’ve your own.
No need to join
The middling crowd,
The mediocre: in reality, the herd.
Small ambitions,
Minimized conditions
All good and fine, but still
Signs of aging ultimately will
Win out.
Watching The Signs Of Aging 12.5.2016
Circling Round Aging; Birth, Death & In Between II; Bath Book II;
Arlene Corwin
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 2:47 PM UTC
while soaring the heavenly heights
many hours ago
every major metropolis appeared
about a million miles below
the rarefied atmosphere
ideal composition beckoned angels,
who bustled, hustled, and jostled elbow
(which bedlam, flimflam, and mayhem
intimated Hells Bells)
wing trying (heavens to Betsy) to flag attention,
and snag coveted soundcloud Netherland Award
cap ping bulging port folio,
which hubbub charged crackled, popped,
snapped amidst light emitting diodes
with a snazzy aura, charisma
harp pulling, piping, and chiefly
paying praise (CI years post haste)
to William Henry Perkin
whose credit able karma
(and unwitting) claim to fame didst glow
purple, which jumpstarted incandescent halo
couture culture club, via constant comet inflow
of Plasmodia vaguely resembling microscopic red Jello
illuminating swath of dusky
shutter flying sky sustaining
self contained feedback instagram loop know
wing lee broadcasting mauveine staccato low
to the groundswell of chemists dyeing, Googling,
and gratefully huzzahing insinuating
killing, kindling kissing
malaria goodbye, an outlook
(nee a once in a lifetime moe
mint - je nais sais quoi) win out loud
respectably sedulous honoree, a no
bill sine qua non bit player aniline
(to conclude this short poem) about his oh
penning accidental discovery kickstarting pro
noun est contribution to the fashion industry.
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 4:09 PM UTC
The reverberations of
Sergeant Sargent’s rat-a-tat
ring in my head.
Listen up, ding dongs!
Any jibber-jabber is a no-no!
This ain’t no ticky-tacky, artsy-fartsy,
wishy-washy wingding!
You ragtag riffraff are gettin’ tip-top!
So cut the flimflam, quit the chit-chat,
and gimme super-duper!
No namby-pamby hanky-panky,
and everything will be hunky-dory.
Now chop-chop!
May 28, 2025
May 28, 2025 at 5:11 PM UTC