"gook" poems
Goth Child nursed his mother's tattooed *****
Snapped **** with teeth
Then grizzled grin at me and spit up
I poked at my chile relleno
Twisting hot cheesy sludge off prongs
Tour jete with fork finishes in arabesque
Between my own fangs
I spit back scalding ****
Goth Child points, says, "Pawpee, that man is scarewee"
Pawpee turns his tattoo tears to see
Flashes his gleaming grill
I sink in my seat behind sightline of salsa squeeze bottle
Chattering ivories
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
Enemy training, one, two three
Is notable for its simplicity.
You just arm yourself thoroughly
And shoot people with alacrity.
Don’t worry about being wrong
Or whether an action is right.
That they don’t want you to shoot
Is enough to start the fight.
Please take this as truth
That this is how it is done
If you see someone as enemy
You cease to see a human.
The fact that they are armed
And don’t like who you like
Is enough to create words like
**** **** ****** and ****
Enemy training, one, two three
Is notable for its simplicity.
You just arm yourself thoroughly
And shoot people with alacrity.
Line up the opposition forces
Against a bullet-riddled wall
And shoot them many times
And see how many will fall.
The ones who do not die
Must be minions of the devil.
They are the enemy, you see.
That’s all. That’s on the level.
Don’t worry about being wrong
Or whether an action is right.
That they don’t want you to shoot
Is enough to start the fight.
And those people that don’t
Believe in your own form of Jesus,
Like Aerabbs and Jews and such,
Shoot them as much as it pleases.
Because they won’t go to heaven,
And are just heathens anyway
Like them Buddhist dingdongs
Like them ****** lesbians and gays.
Enemy training, one, two three
Is notable for its simplicity.
You just arm yourself thoroughly
And shoot people with alacrity.
And people in foreign countries
Well, you can guess how that goes;
Take a look and easily compare
Canadanians to them from Mexico.
The French are Frogs, Spanish spics.
None as good as us Americans.
And nothing good can come out
Of any **** place that is African.
Don’t worry about being wrong
Or whether an action is right.
That they don’t want you to shoot
Is enough to start the fight.
Now if you find some of this offensive
And if this is revving up your motors,
Just bear in mind, this is what goes on
In the mind of the average voter.
Want to change this, make life better?
Drop your representatives a letter.
Tell them you are on to their villainy
And see them as supporting the REAL enemy.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 8:56 PM UTC
sit down, pen and paper scrape together,
come up with something clever.
blank mind
stare at the paper-don't doodle!
holding your head in your hand is not writing-
supposed to be writing
all of these skillfully woven thoughts that should be
bursting forth, but aren't.
stop spell checking, do it later. maybe that's the answer:
automatic writing
OK go into trance let the pen and hand dance.
don't think, let the ink flow from the inside to the surface,
you're thinking on purpose...stop it! OK this is obviously not working,
it's just jerking off and it doesn't even feel good, although it should.
Come up with a subject, not abstract thought...wait...thought has no
place here. where is the Muse? I'll blow a fuse if I don't get to use a
clever phrase I turned today. what about childhood walks in the woods,
first love, real love, not in-puppy-love with Jody Foster!
during the day all the stuff that's enough to fill a book gets wasted
and lambasted. I'm mad as hell and here I sit
broken hearted did my time and only started three hours ago.
could have taken a tour by now and, holy cow!, the Tao probably took
less time to write than this night of the living dead man
with two pinky and the brains.
where the hell am I going with this clap trap? this is out of hand, out
of mind-otherworldly. is this all that i am:
meaningless gobbeldy-gook
I'm getting spooked. it's time to stop and drop the needle on a different track,
stop the attack sit back relax choose to lose my senses, dulled and lulled into
false pretenses, mend some fences with myself, or else.
Or else, what? Not contemplate, deliberate, speculate, ruminate, investigate,
radiate...KNOCK IT OFF! Just put the pen down, get up, walk out of the room.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 3:29 PM UTC
Is anyone real out there?
What a horrible question to tear
Apart this life,
Which always rhymes with strife
Because there's a limited number of ways
To say we're running short of plays
To fill these broken days
I don't think I'm better than anyone
I don't think I'm magically The One
But I also don't feel real
And here's the whole spiel
Maybe these bones are made to rust
At the intersection of fear and trust
'Cos all this pain is just reflection
Every fear is just projection
Insanity - I cannot condone
If we want to be free, do we have to be alone?
Whatever else is true, whatever ways I'll rot -
I truly love you; words are all I've got
The 4's attachment is being broken;
All that's expressed is just a token
I can only show the 2d shell
And so I Truly wish you well
But I'd sooner save you from this spell
Hey broken one: are you reading yet?
This is for you, so don't forget
The rhythm doesn't matter
All words will fade, left in tatters
And though this path we can't condone
I swear to you: you're not alone.
You're somewhere amidst the thought and ****
I bid to you: please stop and look
The slightest difference between we:
I'm a permutation of thee
I know the things you cannot say
I, too, seek each shattered Way
Combing The NeverNever every day
For another reason to stay.
I know you fear you've fallen wrong,
But there's meaning in your song;
Long past the end of time,
What's true will shine through every rhyme.
Feb 21, 2019
Feb 21, 2019 at 2:20 AM UTC
My book shook and look!
A crook which is sure to hook
onto some **** which doth
hang out randomly
like a dress out your car door.
I am shy with my
high and dry status
the why? I am not sure
But I vie and cry and
Lie and try to
Do more.
This will kiss the
Enterance pages of its
inspiration: Bliss.
Titled, this **** and griss miss
Priss diss this list and hiss
Like snakely Chris
Who is in Fresno
Hiss.
Hiss.
Kiss.
This is my bliss....
BLISS POEM I.
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 6:59 PM UTC
The conservative element in DC
Has something else as priority.
It sure is not you, nor is it me.
It’s a much more powerful constituency:
Those who pull strings do not care
Unless you are a multi-millionaire
And contribute to their greedy cause
Like some kind of Santa Claus.
They keep on doing what they’re doing
******** who they were ********
I would explain it all if I could
But sometimes words do no good.
Behind all the gobbledy ****
Someone is not playing by the book.
Winning with lies is what they are trying
To make the true facts look like lying.
They keep you so confused that you
You believe what they want you to,
So you won’t see behind their wiles
To bring their larcenous ***** to trial.
Dignifying public rumors of buggery
You look away from skullduggery.
A few insignificant happenstances
Eclipse treasonous circumstances.
You ***** about gays and abortion
While conservatives commit extortion
And persecution in Jesus’ name.
To them it’s all a ratings game.
If you don’t care what people feel
You lose all track of what is real.
You turn into a tool for deception;
A dupe of sleight-of-hand misdirection.
As long as things are as they are
We’ll get run over by the clown car
Which is the Congress currently seated.
And as long as they remain undefeated
The rules will leave the deck stacked.
Nobody in DC will have our backs.
Why should they care about our whim
When the way it is benefits them?
We need one item, one bill rules
Or we end up the same beaten fools.
We need campaign funding to be equal
Or each election becomes a sequel
To what happened with Gore and Bush
When backdoor politics bit us in the ****
The only way change will ever come around
Is to take the loopholes from these clowns.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 11:07 PM UTC
quarter tunes and squirt bottle bafoons
fooling loons out of cash money bank statements
complacent in textile original files
factual ***** in their feather capped heads
circumcising oatmeal kids. Picture this,
bits of fish in outer, not inner, space.
Dr. men manipulating through card tricks
leading to their pent house, fenced out from fresh air.
Nocturnal ****** pressured into dieting
shedding their skin and coughing up black sticky debris
recently I've found more comfort in scolding hot teas
then in eargasm speed dating or mango flavored cough drops
office cops crop pictures of rundown Puerto Rican shops
sloppy kissing gets me wishing for brass buttoned bell
bottoms
televised ****** questions. Sectioned off sidewalks
body shaped chalk talks for motherless kids to gawk at
steeples crease the clouds spreading rapid growth of ingrown
hairs
I pair myself against bears that tear me limb from limb
I'm figuring on pinning up accomplishments
on the egg white walls of my first apartment.
tarped floors and fluorescent glowing ceiling tiles
riled up mice relentlessly fussing with nests throughout
the night
typing taxidermists chat next door
I'm more ashamed of my basement floor
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
My book shook and look!
A crook which is sure to hook
onto some **** which doth
hang out randomly
like a dress out your car door.
I am shy with my
high and dry status
the why? I am not sure
But I vie and cry and
Lie and try to
Do more.
This will kiss the
Enterance pages of its
inspiration: Bliss.
Titled, this **** and griss miss
Priss diss this list and hiss
Like snakely Chris
Who is in Fresno
Hiss.
Hiss.
Kiss.
This is my bliss....
BLISS POEM I.
Jan 22, 2011
Jan 22, 2011 at 6:59 PM UTC
I paddled and glided along the current
Of the St. Clair,
To the west bank of the serpentine river,
And portaged to the ash tree,
Known as Ching-ach-gook,
Waving noble limbs in full relief,
Offering respite from the meridian sun.
Leaves fluttered in the north current.
Beneath I lay in cold comfort
Envisioning the bows and bats that once propogated:
The unborn of an endangered species.
This is a dead tree growing,
Seeds, like Uncas,
Rotting above the roots:
This native treasure
Waiting for the emerald bore
Like an imprisoned pagan.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 8:50 AM UTC
slick white tile
I crash again
water droplets run from my hair
to my feet
and swirl down the drain
in one last hoorah
No matter how much I scratch
rub or claw
the **** that surrounds my skin
will never come loose
down the drain goes
my love for people
my trust in you and
thoughts and feelings
that used to make me smile
someone cleanse me this ick
make me pure again
remove the soil from my heart
and start anew
or turn me into something beautiful
where the dirt remains in my chest
make me a garden
water me, give me plenty of sunshine
and I will forever devote myself
to living, breathing and existing once more
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 5:37 PM UTC
Hello poetry is under attack
it's a very sad tack
but yet I have faith
that there is a trace
of mad computer skills
and the will
for the programers to save
our special page
of wonder
before it is torn asunder
by gobley ****
written by insane crooked kooks
I truly have faith
hopefully I don't have to wait
(As for the attackers be ashamed)
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 1:51 AM UTC
I can no longer
run and hide from this
this love,
so pure and crystiline
There's movement here
in my chest,
where my heart used to be
when it was new
and beating
I sweat and sin for this
drink my baby gone
and bleed for it
this sweet and sticky thing,
they call happiness
It's addicting
and I've always been a fool
for drugs
a sucker for a hit
strung out on kisses and sweaty palms
I'd be new for this
get clean and pray for it
for a chance to be new again
my feathers unruffled
and my hair untangled
No more make up smudges
black **** covering my eyes
waking up with tears
because that girl is gone
and this one's newly forming.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 10:21 AM UTC
My dear, my love..
Were you sent from above?
I swear I saw you
Float down to the ground
And laid there until I found,
You in the midst of the night
Covered in moss,
Your eyes glossed,
And skin like thin glass
Hair as fine as silk,
Now filled with filth
And body smeared with ****
You cried and you shook
Wailing, with no intention to stop
Not saying what made you sob
You remain silent still to this day
And I just want to wipe your tears away
Your beauty is substantial,
Your mind so fine,
But you wont speak to me
So you can't be mine
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 5:31 PM UTC
***** Nip,
Slope, ****
Towel Head:
you call them
whatever
allows you
to ****** them
comfortably;
the terrible
dark side
of the power
of words.
- mce
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 8:26 AM UTC
~Vietnam/ Laos 1972
Known variously as:
Indian Country,
the ****
the Jungle
& the Zone.
****** stumps,
flying metal,
charred flesh,
screaming agony,
cellular fear,
burning choppers,
dying men,
dead eyes
staring,
betrayal.
“Don’t mean ******* nothing.”
Not a place
on a map,
but a state of mind
-
my mind.
Vietnam has fallen,
but the Zone
remains
a jungle
in my head
& some things
return me there.
There I learned
the necessary.
In the Zone,
only predator and prey,
**** or be killed,
win or die,
the quick and the dead.
In the Zone
only survival matters
-
no morality,
no right or wrong
no lies,
no truths,
no fair,
no unfair.
No rules at all.
"It's **only a ****
**** it."
In the Zone
everything is allowed…
meet the enemy,
destroy him,
maim him,
outsmart him,
walk away
with the blood of others
squishing in your boots
feeling gloriously alive.
Friend,
brother,
enemy,
child,
lover,
you do not
- ever -
want to meet me
in the Zone.
–mce
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 10:53 PM UTC
the business was built on the sacrifice of others
that offering of the pennies of the soul
for the dollar delivery of modern existence
the plan was growth eternal
the interpretation of ledgers of lined boxes
page after page bearing the fruit of profit
it worked and if it didn’t, a kick of more of the same
brought results
people are meant to toil
the human machine designed for dexterous invention
where do dreams fit in ? why produce when you can deduce?
how can a concrete rationalization be formed
that causes us to drive through a beautiful morning
only to land in a container
operated by a mystery toward an easily questioned goal
of daily bread in a world overflowing with abundance
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 11:22 AM UTC
My son’s eyes have an innocent look.
Chocolate is the color of his lips.
Clothes once clean, are smeared with ****
Or spotted by an ice cream cone that drips.
I’ve seen damage done both day and night,
Of a magnitude you’d never believe,
Done by my son while out of sight.
Destruction Patton could never achieve.
I love to hear him sleep, yet I know well
When he is awake, there will be sound.
He’ll make ‘music’ with horn, drum, or bell.
My son, when he plays, you know he’s around.
And yet, by heaven, I love to be with him.
Even if snot is crusted on his chin.
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 11:44 AM UTC
Upon prima facie first blush
me mind's eye all atwitter,
sans long forgotten
"FAKE" ****** exploits
set mum (chrysos anthem) all aglitter,
boot like short order cook I hapt tubby
quickly realized trumpeting collusion,
a near fatal collision course
with Matthew Scott's antimatter
caw zing friggin insomnia
finding ma noggin scrambled
likesome lithesome cockamamie critter
whipped into frenzy
like battered butter
holy grits, alm manned in fight of ma life
cause I haint acquitter
baa (jaw edge), ah woe cup feeling
hedged hog extremely bushed 'n bitter,
this raging red bull inside me mind,
now body wheeling wickety wack,
lichen to moss elf gut seasonal litter
bitta asthma - insides
got balled into wah racket
like quietly rioting unfetter
herd plain tennis (see) hens,
gone south tub bespatter
ear rilly jawboning jabberwocky
reducing gray matter,
and all flesh sundered
into meaty platter
to pulverized, irradiated,
cremated... faux fluffernutter batter
analogous tummy Aunt
Jemima's famous flapjacks,
she fantastically fashioned better
than Betty Crocker
tossing spatulated glommed
**** suitable as bonesetter
high as the Taj Mahal,
while she merrily jabbered,
her native patois singsong blatter
all this inaudible clatter
muffled 10,000 maniacs mad as a hatter
madly clangorous dinner cowbells
aroused bacchanalian sybaritic skitter
ring jitterbugging fantasies
of barenaked ladies doth splutter
as bedraggled, frazzled, grizzled...poetry
like cocky rooster that did stutter!
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 3:00 PM UTC