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The Camel’s **** is an ugly lump
  Which well you may see at the Zoo;
But uglier yet is the **** we get
  From having too little to do.

Kiddies and grown-ups too-oo-oo,
If we haven’t enough to do-oo-oo,
  We get the ****—
  Cameelious ****—
The **** that is black and blue!

We climb out of bed with a frouzly head
  And a snarly-yarly voice.
We shiver and scowl and we grunt and we growl
  At our bath and our boots and our toys!

And there ought to be a corner for me
(And I know there is one for you)
  When we get the ****—
  Cameelious ****—
The **** that is black and blue!

The cure for this ill is not to sit still,
  Or frowst with a book by the fire;
But to take a large *** and a shovel also,
  And dig till you gently perspire.

And then you will find that the sun and the wind
And the Djinn of the Garden too,
  Have lifted the ****—
  The horrible ****—
The **** that is black and blue!

I get it as well as you-oo-oo,
If I haven’t enough to do-oo-oo,
  We all get ****—
  Cameelious ****—
Kiddies and grown-ups too!
Pikachu Oct 2015
**** Day is the very best day of the week,
at least, if fun is what you seek.
It's the day where camels come out to play,
so let's all give a cheer for **** day!

But there is one evil that lurks within.
It smells alot worse than a trash bin.
It is a day where everything is gray,
it is called Over the **** Day!

Wendsday, ah Wendsday, the nick name of humps,
you make us not feel not at all in the lumps.
But Thursday, the nick of the core of all evil'll,
destroy you and claw you and eat you yes he will.

So let's all give a cheer for **** Day, why not,
even if it's on the day that we hate alot!
**** Day is great, and that's just so true,
so join the fun on **** Day, if I can do it, so can you!
Hey Mike Mike Mike Mike Mike, what day is it mike?
It's **** DAY! WOOP WOOP!
laura Sep 2017
happy **** day, **** me
**** you, humpback **** front
don't stop, follow dotted lines
until you find the little treasure spot
get a little wierd with love
get a little wierd with me

you aren't safe out there, kiddo
just stick with me, too much
talk in the office about us
make out behind a filing cabinet
stuck on the phone all day telling
everybody we're going
to be alright, happy hunting
there was once a little camel he had great big ****
and  it used to wobble went he hit a bump
the camel got a pump and laid across the floor
pumped till it was hard now it dosent wobble anymore
Robert Peck Sep 2015
Everyone thinks they know the story about Mr. Dumpty but they only know part of it
Humpty sat on wall Badu had it right when she said it is 10 ft tall
This wall was meant to keep the savages out
You see Humpty was standing on guard because his job was to protect her heart at all cost
With her help is how he got up there at all
In the back of his mind he knew there was a chance he might …splat
Pieces of a man everywhere
At least that all the others can see
His boys tried to get him back to the old **** and quickly dump this girl
But to Humpty she was the world and without her there was no planet to live on
Only meaningless lives floating in a vacuum
No one has ever witnessed Humpty in such a state
It was so bad he wouldn’t go anywhere apart from her estate
He fell in walls  now he’s trapped in her love
Gary L Dec 2014
**** day freestyle nonsense


Light a candle and burn the canvas
as I take advantage of my madness
I'm about to knock the planet off of it's axis
just the facts, I dont preach what I practice

the high point, the max, the vastness
bad habits like a back sliding Baptist
hail Mary, masses like a catholic
fast to put a fanatic in a casket

pass the tray to the congregation
time to pay the raging Caucasian
no need to pray, just face the creation
as we embrace this greatest occasion
Dr Zik May 2015
Jump, Jump, jump, bump,
Heaven to earth, jump

Bump, jump, bump, jump
Trip, slip and bump

Like ****, ****, ****
Don’t pile money jump
KILLME Feb 2014
I don't appreciate
bleeding for nine days straight
Flow so heavy I wanna die
at the silliest things I start to cry
the annoying things never made me twitch
but now I just go full *****
I just lie around like a lump
And everything, I want to ****
Simply, I have no motivation
Golly Don't I hate *******
Philip Kirwin May 2017
To the USA, a travelling circus came,
They elected a brand new President,
And Donald was his name.
Over-night, and it's such a crying shame,
He's divided American Politics,
To advance his wealth and fame


Donald the President waved his hands,
And pointed up with his finger,
He said to the world 'My name is Trump,
Trump, Trump, Trump!
Donald the President's building a wall,
To keep out thousands of migrants,
The USA is becoming a dump,
Dump, Dump, Dump!

People from many nations,
Tried to intervene,
They shouted and marched,
And waved their signs,
And made an ugly scene.

But Donald the President waved his hands,
and pointed up with his finger,
He'll have his way,
He's taken the ****,
****, ****, ****!

Oh, what a to-do,
He's surrounded himself with fools,
Firstly they blame Obama spies,
and then it's GCHQ.
His travel ban
has been thwarted in Maryland,
Then the repeal of Obama care,
Has been grounded where it stands.

But Donald the President promised the earth,
To all the American people,
'We'll make America great again',
Pump, Pump, Pump!
Donald the President hates the Press,
They're 'Fake News' creators,
They're pedlars of lies,
They're all the same,
Grump, Grump, Grump!

From Iran to NATO,
The problems start to swell,
From Syria, and Israel,
To North Korea as well.

But Donald the President's borrowing cash,
to try and save the Republic,
How will they ever pay it back?
Slump, Slump, Slump?
The president may be a Billionaire,
Who wants control of the Senate,
But some said Putin was pulling some strings?
Chump, Chump, Chump !
Can also be sung to the tune of Nellie the Elephant.
Written by Philip Kirwin.
WARNER BAXTER May 2015
Owls say who
cows go moo
ghosts say boo
nothing new
horse goes neigh
but what does the turtle say?

bird wings go flip flap
fish fins go splish splash
horse hooves go clip clop
snake belly goes slither
Santa Clause says ** ** **
but what's the sound of the *******?

What day is it?
Everyday Is **** Day
Mike T Minehan Jan 2013
She is equipped with sensitive *******
and those other secret places
that ladies give out as prizes
to deserving guys as long as
they adopt the right disguises
of gods, gurus, intellectual giants,
goats, children, father figures, macho brutes,
sugar-daddies, supermen, seminal vessels,
house-repairers, jar openers, jocks, hate objects,
handy shoulders to cry on, emotional support systems,
sensitive, intuitive, yet strong silent types
who can also pay the bills,
tall dark and handsome total strangers,
toy boys, clowns, jugglers, jokers, millionaires,
wood choppers, ******* removers,
bottomless reservoirs of reassurance
or just plain spunky studs when the moon is right.
In fact, anything but woffly wimps.
Oh God, no.  Anything but woffly wimps.
Yes, but what about stoic, steadfast SNAGS,
you know, the Sensitive New Age Guys
who won’t face-shift for a ****?
Yes, well, let's try to sum all this up here right now.
I think that the woman is dripping
with a brimming reservoir
of luscious and sensitive resources on tap for  
the man who can figure out her cosmic kaleidoscope  
of swirling dreams and desires,
which is definitely not to say she can’t be totally independent.
Although please don't be confused.
Friendly boy-next-door types who are handsome,
aren't too hairy, who like to laugh, who have a boyish braggadocio,
who are students, who appear to be intellectuals,
who are not nerds,
and who can **** it in the kitchen, who  can be oh, so cool,
who can convince a maiden that she is in distress,
and is in need of rescuing, while he has
a swaggering hard-on will do, too.
Oooh. You devil.
And if you think this poem is misogynist, misanthropic or myopic,
well, I’ve been around and by now, well,
I really should be panoptic
because I’ve seen all the fads,
and really, it’s sadly too bad
about those poor old
earnest SNAGS.
But you know what?
I don't think I understand anything, because
I'm really a victim of worshiping women.
I'm bedazzled and as blind as the next man, and
yes,
I'm just happy whenever I'm with them.
Yes. A complex topic, this one...
Terry Collett May 2016
Anne wheeled herself out
of the nursing home,
and out onto the lawn,
almost knocking Cam
(a young boy) over
in her path,
she was followed
by Sister Paul in flight,
her black habit flapping
as she walked.

Anne stopped wheeling
at a white table,
and turned
to face the nun.

The nun approached
out of breath,
you must let the doctor
see your leg,
the nun said.

Not if the Kid isn't there,
Anne said.

The doctor doesn't think
it ethical,
the nun said.

No Kid, no looking
at my amputated leg stump,
so it's up him,
Anne said.

He needs to see
how it is healing,
the nun said,
standing over Anne,
hands inside her
black and white habit,
and you ought not
have shown your leg
to Benedict,
it isn't ethical
to do so.

He was interested,
so I showed him,
Anne said,
and he helped me
get in the bath and out,
and he's my best friend,
and ****** ethical.

Sister Paul winced
at the lewd word,
and tried to push it away
from her mind.

He's a 10 year old boy,
the nun said.

I'm a11 year old girl,
so what?
Anne said.

The nun closed
her eyes momentarily.

Anne looked past the nun
towards the nursing home,
and hoped Benny
would come out,
and see what
was going on.

The doctor will not
allow Benedict to be there;
he said it would
not be ethical,
the nun said slowly.

No Benny, no gawking
at my stump then,
Anne said firmly,
what, you going to get
the sisters to hold me down
while that medical clown
touches my amputated leg?

The nun gazed at her,
and sighed,
why do you need
Benedict there?

Because he's my friend,
and I feel safer
if he is there,
Anne said,
anyway he'll only
be seeing my leg stump,
nothing between my legs,
Anne said,
eyeing the nun
for her response.

Anne that is being
crude and rude,
Sister Paul said.

Anne turned around,
and gazed down
towards the avenue of trees
at the end of the garden.

No Kid, no quack
seeing my stump.

The nun walked away,
visibly with the ****.
A 11 YEAR OLD GIRL AND A NUN IN A NURSING HOME IN 1959.
One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound
except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember
whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve
nights when I was six.

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky
that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in
the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays
resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.

It was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero's garden, waiting for cats, with her
son Jim. It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland,
though there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we
waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they
would slink and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and
moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their
eyes. The wise cats never appeared.

We were so still, Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen in the muffling silence of the eternal snows - eternal, ever
since Wednesday - that we never heard Mrs. Prothero's first cry from her igloo at the bottom of the garden. Or,
if we heard it at all, it was, to us, like the far-off challenge of our enemy and prey, the neighbor's polar
cat. But soon the voice grew louder.
"Fire!" cried Mrs. Prothero, and she beat the dinner-gong.

And we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, toward the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring
out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and Mrs. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier
in Pompeii. This was better than all the cats in Wales standing on the wall in a row. We bounded into the
house, laden with snowballs, and stopped at the open door of the smoke-filled room.

Something was burning all right; perhaps it was Mr. Prothero, who always slept there after midday dinner with a
newspaper over his face. But he was standing in the middle of the room, saying, "A fine Christmas!" and
smacking at the smoke with a slipper.

"Call the fire brigade," cried Mrs. Prothero as she beat the gong.
"There won't be there," said Mr. Prothero, "it's Christmas."
There was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero standing in the middle of them, waving his
slipper as though he were conducting.
"Do something," he said. And we threw all our snowballs into the smoke - I think we missed Mr. Prothero - and
ran out of the house to the telephone box.
"Let's call the police as well," Jim said. "And the ambulance." "And Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires."

But we only called the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men in helmets brought a hose
into the house and Mr. Prothero got out just in time before they turned it on. Nobody could have had a noisier
Christmas Eve. And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt,
Miss. Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would
say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets,
standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, "Would you like anything to read?"

Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel
petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt
like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the
English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the
daft and happy hills *******, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: "It snowed last year, too. I
made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea."

"But that was not the same snow," I say. "Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it
came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow
grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely -ivied the walls and
settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards."

"Were there postmen then, too?"
"With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and
mittened on them manfully. But all that the children could hear was a ringing of bells."
"You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?"
"I mean that the bells the children could hear were inside them."
"I only hear thunder sometimes, never bells."
"There were church bells, too."
"Inside them?"
"No, no, no, in the bat-black, snow-white belfries, tugged by bishops and storks. And they rang their tidings
over the bandaged town, over the frozen foam of the powder and ice-cream hills, over the crackling sea. It
seemed that all the churches boomed for joy under my window; and the weathercocks crew for Christmas, on our
fence."

"Get back to the postmen"
"They were just ordinary postmen, found of walking and dogs and Christmas and the snow. They knocked on the
doors with blue knuckles ...."
"Ours has got a black knocker...."
"And then they stood on the white Welcome mat in the little, drifted porches and huffed and puffed, making
ghosts with their breath, and jogged from foot to foot like small boys wanting to go out."
"And then the presents?"
"And then the Presents, after the Christmas box. And the cold postman, with a rose on his button-nose, tingled
down the tea-tray-slithered run of the chilly glinting hill. He went in his ice-bound boots like a man on
fishmonger's slabs.
"He wagged his bag like a frozen camel's ****, dizzily turned the corner on one foot, and, by God, he was
gone."

"Get back to the Presents."
"There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths;
zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o'-
shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking
tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you
wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now,
alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not
to, would skate on Farmer Giles' pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp,
except why."

"Go on the Useless Presents."
"Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a false nose and a tram-conductor's cap and
a machine that punched tickets and rang a bell; never a catapult; once, by mistake that no one could explain, a
little hatchet; and a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that
an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow; and a painting book in which I could make the grass, the
trees, the sea and the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the
red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds. Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches,
cracknels, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh. And troops of bright tin soldiers who,
if they could not fight, could always run. And Snakes-and-Families and Happy Ladders. And Easy Hobbi-Games for
Little Engineers, complete with instructions. Oh, easy for Leonardo! And a whistle to make the dogs bark to
wake up the old man next door to make him beat on the wall with his stick to shake our picture off the wall.
And a packet of cigarettes: you put one in your mouth and you stood at the corner of the street and you waited
for hours, in vain, for an old lady to scold you for smoking a cigarette, and then with a smirk you ate it. And
then it was breakfast under the balloons."

"Were there Uncles like in our house?"
"There are always Uncles at Christmas. The same Uncles. And on Christmas morning, with dog-disturbing whistle
and sugar ****, I would scour the swatched town for the news of the little world, and find always a dead bird
by the Post Office or by the white deserted swings; perhaps a robin, all but one of his fires out. Men and
women wading or scooping back from chapel, with taproom noses and wind-bussed cheeks, all albinos, huddles
their stiff black jarring feathers against the irreligious snow. Mistletoe hung from the gas brackets in all
the front parlors; there was sherry and walnuts and bottled beer and crackers by the dessertspoons; and cats in
their fur-abouts watched the fires; and the high-heaped fire spat, all ready for the chestnuts and the mulling
pokers. Some few large men sat in the front parlors, without their collars, Uncles almost certainly, trying
their new cigars, holding them out judiciously at arms' length, returning them to their mouths, coughing, then
holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion; and some few small aunts, not wanted in the
kitchen, nor anywhere else for that matter, sat on the very edge of their chairs, poised and brittle, afraid to
break, like faded cups and saucers."

Not many those mornings trod the piling streets: an old man always, fawn-bowlered, yellow-gloved and, at this
time of year, with spats of snow, would take his constitutional to the white bowling green and back, as he
would take it wet or fire on Christmas Day or Doomsday; sometimes two hale young men, with big pipes blazing,
no overcoats and wind blown scarfs, would trudge, unspeaking, down to the forlorn sea, to work up an appetite,
to blow away the fumes, who knows, to walk into the waves until nothing of them was left but the two furling
smoke clouds of their inextinguishable briars. Then I would be slap-dashing home, the gravy smell of the
dinners of others, the bird smell, the brandy, the pudding and mince, coiling up to my nostrils, when out of a
snow-clogged side lane would come a boy the spit of myself, with a pink-tipped cigarette and the violet past of
a black eye, cocky as a bullfinch, leering all to himself.

I hated him on sight and sound, and would be about to put my dog whistle to my lips and blow him off the face
of Christmas when suddenly he, with a violet wink, put his whistle to his lips and blew so stridently, so high,
so exquisitely loud, that gobbling faces, their cheeks bulged with goose, would press against their tinsled
windows, the whole length of the white echoing street. For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after
dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist hands over their watch
chains, groaned a little and slept. Mothers, aunts and sisters scuttled to and fro, bearing tureens. Auntie
Bessie, who had already been frightened, twice, by a clock-work mouse, whimpered at the sideboard and had some
elderberry wine. The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port,
stood in the middle of the snowbound back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush. I would blow up balloons to
see how big they would blow up to; and, when they burst, which they all did, the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In
the rich and heavy afternoon, the Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit among
festoons and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates and try to make a model man-o'-war, following the Instructions
for Little Engineers, and produce what might be mistaken for a sea-going tramcar.

Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim
and Dan and Jack and to pad through the still streets, leaving huge footprints on the hidden pavements.
"I bet people will think there's been hippos."
"What would you do if you saw a hippo coming down our street?"
"I'd go like this, bang! I'd throw him over the railings and roll him down the hill and then I'd tickle him
under the ear and he'd wag his tail."
"What would you do if you saw two hippos?"

Iron-flanked and bellowing he-hippos clanked and battered through the scudding snow toward us as we passed Mr.
Daniel's house.
"Let's post Mr. Daniel a snow-ball through his letter box."
"Let's write things in the snow."
"Let's write, 'Mr. Daniel looks like a spaniel' all over his lawn."
Or we walked on the white shore. "Can the fishes see it's snowing?"

The silent one-clouded heavens drifted on to the sea. Now we were snow-blind travelers lost on the north hills,
and vast dewlapped dogs, with flasks round their necks, ambled and shambled up to us, baying "Excelsior." We
returned home through the poor streets where only a few children fumbled with bare red fingers in the wheel-
rutted snow and cat-called after us, their voices fading away, as we trudged uphill, into the cries of the dock
birds and the hooting of ships out in the whirling bay. And then, at tea the recovered Uncles would be jolly;
and the ice cake loomed in the center of the table like a marble grave. Auntie Hannah laced her tea with ***,
because it was only once a year.

Bring out the tall tales now that we told by the fire as the gaslight bubbled like a diver. Ghosts whooed like
owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the
stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I remember that we went singing carols once, when there wasn't the shaving
of a moon to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large house, and we
stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid, each one holding a stone in his hand
in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The wind through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant
and maybe webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house. "What shall we give them?
Hark the Herald?"
"No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three." One, two three, and we began to sing, our voices high
and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We stood
close together, near the dark door. Good King Wencelas looked out On the Feast of Stephen ... And then a small,
dry voice, like the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our singing: a small, dry,
eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small dry voice through the keyhole. And when we stopped
running we were outside our house; the front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-
gulping gas; everything was good again and shone over the town.
"Perhaps it was a ghost," Jim said.
"Perhaps it was trolls," Dan said, who was always reading.
"Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left," Jack said. And we did that.

Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang "Cherry Ripe," and another
uncle sang "Drake's Drum." It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip
wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a
Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out
into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other
houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas
down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.
Brent Kincaid Jan 2017
When I wiggle, wiggle wiggle,
People giggle, giggle, giggle.
In the middle, middle, middle,
I'm not so little, little, little.
When I jump, jump, jump,
My big old ****, ****, ****,
My rear end ****, ****, ****,
Goes bump, bump, bump.

Once skinny as a rail
I’m more like a whale.
Because of what I did
Ever since I was a kid.
Any old kind of candy
To me was simply dandy.
Follow me around and
I’d eat it by the pound.

Mom would bake, bake, bake.
By belly would shake, shake shake.
I couldn’t flounce, flounce, flounce
My gut would bounce, bounce, bounce.
Now I’m round, round, round,
To the ground, ground, ground.
I eat just like a pig, pig, pig,
That’s why I’m so big, big, big.

Once skinny as a rail
I’m more like a whale.
Because of what I did
Ever since I was a kid.
Any old kind of candy
To me was simply dandy.
Follow me around and
I’d eat it by the pound.

When some say diet, diet, diet,
I reply to them quiet, quiet, quiet.
Every time I try it, try it, try it.
My body doesn’t buy it, buy it, buy it.
So i just live for lunch, lunch, lunch.
I love to eat a bunch, bunch, bunch,
And I have a basic hunch, hunch, hunch,
The same will go for brunch, brunch, brunch!
Cné Aug 2017
"Humpday" has arrived
and Thursday is looming.
"Happy Hour" now beckons
and business is booming.

So, go with your friends
belly up to the bar
But make sure someone else
takes you home in your car.

Two days till the weekend,
and a lifeline's relief.
But don't get caught loafing
or your job may be brief.
Happy **** Day
I bet y'all thought I was going **** with this. XD
I sit and watch a camel train go by and as it limps across the pale blue sky,shrouded in the clouds,I wonder if I could get upon a camels back and track along,could I learn the camel drover’s song?
A ditty,not so pretty,more a humpalong than any song I’ve ever heard with words that I can’t understand,though familiar in the camels land up in the sky,
Where I watch them going by.

Hip ,hop, clop, clump being a camel gives me the ****,how I wish to be a fish deep in the sea,like a whale.
I like a scale,a doh, ray, me,as far as I can see I’ll be a camel all my days and wander through a desert haze but my gaze is fixed as I roam free, on a cool and clear deep ocean sea.

Once,
I was a little thing until I grew and learnt to sing and now I don’t know anything,except
I want to be free,a fish in the sea,won’t some kind body please untie me,slip the noose and then un-sky me,set me on the coastal road,with my ****,without my load and let me smell the ocean breeze and slip into those lovely seas.
I want to be free and this you can see,before the clouds all break apart and with them goes my breaking heart and you could at least pretend to start to set me free.
David Moss Dec 2014
They say that first impressions last

I say

That's assuming way too fast

I'd like to think we're a bit more trusting

That every one we meet isn't busting

Lusting to rip off their pants

And **** the first thing that gives them a seconds glance!

I'd like to think that

But sometimes i can't

Cause just like you

I live the life of a guarded heart

I mean we have to be careful right?

Cause if we smile back that just might

Make someone else think "OH EM GEE.

They totally want to have *** with me."

No, you have some mustard on your lip actually

And i found it kinda funny

You see to me most of our first impressions

Are the false flags of real connections

And if we choose to make those last

Then aren't we just living in the past?


So rather than that, let me be forward.


I want to connect with you, in whatever way we both want it to be.

And that right there to me

Is my definition of equality

I mean

Is it fair to assume that if i'm male

That I'm simply out to get some tail?

That isn't me

And that isn't it

And personally

I think gender roles are *******

So please allow, wholeheartedly

For you to see the real me

Rather than a mirage of assumptions

Society may have you choose to believe

Of what a male is meant to entail....

Truly.
This.
Is.
Me.

I want to share with you the galaxy and it's wonders we can see

We could take our chairs to rooftops and marvel nights beauty

And there may be a moment where your hand fumbles to my knee

And you'd feel me, vulnerable, still, yet shaking anxiously


Because connections what i crave

But it's rationed out these days

Cause just like you,

I too

Cannot bear to be broken, constantly



Truly.
This.
Is.
Me.




I want to sing and play with sounds
Pulling faces jokin' round
Being ridiculous without care
Rolling on a floor somewhere

Or on a bus, or in a bed
Our faces red
Laughing hysterically
It really doesn't matter to me


Because connections what i crave

But it's rationed out these days

Cause just like you,

I too

Cannot bear to be unhappy, constantly


Truly.
This.
Is.
Me.



I want to walk through unknown forests getting lost amongst the trees

Laugh and run and hide and scare each other playfully

And sure right then, we could lie down in the sun

Entwined bodies like soft vines writhing for a deeper connection

Or we could just sit solemly listening to melodies

Of wind whistling through wondrous waves of leaves

None of this bothers me you see. Either makes me happy.

Because connections what i crave and it's rationed out these days

Cause just like you,

I too

Cannot bear to be alone, constantly


But.
Is.
This.
Just.
Me?


So why does all this matter, to connection and equality?

I mean to a huge degree, men do have it easy

That is clearly plain to see

And ladies I know

That we as a society
Have a long way to go

To make sure you are all treated just as equally

Believe you me



But did you know that as a guy

We're mostly brought up to try

To keep our emotions hidden inside?

You can't tell the guys your woe
Unless you want to be called '*****' or '****'


So a lot of times these men

Crying out for connection

Isn't always

What you're thinking it to be

To me, thats the biggest problem men face socially

Stagnant and rampant suppression
Of real connection, emotionally!


And now, connections what we crave
But it's rationed out these days

And just like you,

We too

Cannot bare to be neglected, constantly

So.
This.
Isn't.
Just.
Me.


Cause just like me

I know your scared

You've been hurt and unprepared

To have others use

Abuse and mistreat loyalty

And just like you

I am afraid

I've been wronged

I've been betrayed


And i am just as scared to let go


And be me


Because our connections are depraved

It seems it's rationed out these days


But wait



Hang on a second.


Did you feel that?





I mean, just now we have connected...



So if this notions not rejected

Then maybe there's still a hope

For you and me.


I guess all Im asking is that you find

Compassion in both heart and mind

When a person bares their soul

So openly


Because


This is a connection that we've made

And I hoping that it stays


So maybe someday we can change society
Nigel Morgan Mar 2013
January Colours

In the winter garden
of the Villa del Parma
by the artist’s studio
green
grass turns vert de terre
and the stone walls
a wet mouse’s back
grounding neutral – but calm,
soothing like calamine
in today’s mizzle,
a permanent dimpsey,
fine drenching drizzle,
almost invisible, yet
saturating skylights
with evidence of rain.

February Colours

In the kitchen’s borrowed light,
dear Grace makes bread  
on the mahogany table,
her palma gray dress
bringing the outside in.

Whilst next door, inside
Vanessa’s garden room
the French windows
firmly shut out this
season’s bitter weather.

There, in the stone jar
beside her desk,
branches of heather;
Erica for winter’s retreat,
Calluna for spring’s expectation.

Tea awaits in Duncan’s domain.
Set amongst the books and murals,
Spode’s best bone china  
turning a porcelain pink
as the hearth’s fire burns bright..

Today
in this house
a very Bloomsbury tone,
a truly Charleston Gray.

March Colours

Not quite daffodil
Not yet spring
Lancaster Yellow
Was Nancy’s shade

For the drawing room
Walls of Kelmarsh Hall
And its high plastered ceiling
Of blue ground blue.

Playing cat’s paw
Like the monkey she was
Two drab husbands paid
For the gardens she made,
For haphazard luxuriance.

Society decorator, partner
In paper and paint,
She’d walk the grounds
Of her Palladian gem
Conjuring for the catalogue
Such ingenious labels:

Brassica and Cooking Apple
Green
to be seen
In gardens and orchards
Grown to be greens.

April Colours

It would be churlish
to expect, a folly to believe,
that green leaves would  
cover the trees just yet.

But blossom will:
clusters of flowers,
Damson white,
Cherry red,
Middleton pink,

And at the fields’ edge
Primroses dayroom yellow,
a convalescent colour
healing the hedgerows
of winter’s afflictions.

Clouds storm Salisbury Plain,
and as a skimming stone
on water, touch, rise, touch
and fall behind horizon’s rim.
Where it goes - no one knows.

Far (far) from the Madding Crowd
Hardy’s concordant cove at Lulworth
blue
by the cold sea, clear in the crystal air,
still taut with spring.

May Colours

A spring day
In Suffield Green,
The sky is cook’s blue,
The clouds pointing white.

In this village near Norwich
Lives Marcel Manouna
Thawbed and babouched
With lemurs and llamas,
Leopards and duck,
And more . . .

This small menagerie
Is Marcel’s only luxury
A curious curiosity
In a Norfolk village
Near to Norwich.

So, on this
Blossoming
Spring day
Marcel’s blue grey
Parrot James
Perched on a gate
Squawks the refrain

Sumer is icumen in
Lhude sing cuccu!
Groweþ sed and bloweþ med
And springþ þe wde nu,
Sing cuccu!

June

Thrownware
earth red
thrown off the ****
the Japanese way.
Inside hand does the work,
keeps it alive.
Outside hand holds the clay
and critically tweaks.
Touch, press, hold, release
Scooting, patting, spin!
Centering: the act
precedes all others
on the potter’s wheel.
Centering: the day
the sun climbs highest
in our hemisphere.
And then affix the glaze
in colours of summer:
Stone blue
Cabbage white
Print-room yellow
Saxon green
Rectory red

And fire!

July Colours

I see you
by the dix blue
asters in the Grey Walk
via the Pear Pond,
a circuit of surprises
past the Witches House,
the Radicchio View,
to the beautifully manicured
Orangery lawns, then the
East and West Rills of
Gertrude’s Great Plat.

And under that pea green hat
you wear, my mistress dear,
though your face may be April
there’s July in your eyes of such grace.

I see you wander at will
down the cinder rose path
‘neath the drawing-room blue sky.

August Colours

Out on the wet sand
Mark and Sarah
take their morning stroll.
He, barefoot in a blazer,
She, linen-light in a wide-brimmed straw,
Together they survey
their (very) elegant home,
Colonial British,
Classic traditional,
a retreat in Olive County, Florida:
white sandy beaches,
playful porpoises,
gentle manatees.

It’s an everfine August day
humid and hot
in the hurricane season.
But later they’ll picnic on
Brinjal Baigan Bharta
in the Chinese Blue sea-view
dining room fashioned
by doyen designer
Leta Austin Foster
who ‘loves to bring the ocean inside.
I adore the colour blue,’ she says,
‘though gray is my favourite.’

September

A perfect day
at the Castle of Mey
beckons.
Watching the rising sun
disperse the morning mists,
the Duchess sits
by the window
in the Breakfast Room.
Green
leaves have yet to give way
to autumn colours but the air
is seasonably cool, September fresh.

William is fishing the Warriner’s Pool,
curling casts with a Highlander fly.
She waits; dressed in Power Blue
silk, Citron tights,
a shawl of India Yellow
draped over her shoulders.
But there he is, crossing the home beat,
Lucy, her pale hound at his heels,
a dead salmon in his bag.

October Colours

At Berrington
blue
, clear skies,
chill mornings
before the first frosts
and the apples ripe for picking
(place a cupped hand under the fruit
and gently ‘clunch’).

Henry Holland’s hall -
just ‘the perfect place to live’.
From the Picture Gallery
red
olent in portraits
and naval scenes,
the view looks beyond
Capability’s parkland
to Brecon’s Beacons.

At the fourteen-acre pool
trees, cane and reed
mirror in the still water
where Common Kingfishers,
blue green with fowler pink feet
vie with Grey Herons,
funereal grey,
to ruffle this autumn scene.

November Colours

In pigeon light
this damp day
settles itself
into lamp-room grey.

The trees intone
farewell farewell:
An autumnal valedictory
to reluctant leaves.

Yet a few remain
bold coloured

Porphry Pink
Fox Red
Fowler
Sudbury Yellow


hanging by a thread
they turn in the stillest air.

Then fall
Then fall

December Colours*

Green smoke* from damp leaves
float from gardens’ bonfires,
rise in the silver Blackened sky.

Close by the tall railings,
fast to lichened walls
we walk cold winter streets

to the warm world of home, where
shadows thrown by the parlour fire
dance on the wainscot, flicker from the hearth.

Hanging from our welcome door
see how incarnadine the berries are
on this hollyed wreath of polished leaves.
B Brown Mar 2015
Blue Hill Avenue

It begins with Spanglish-speaking merchants
conducting business inside of bulletproof stalls,
where the faint scent of dried cod follows you
to the flat fix next door, into the auto body,
a hair shop, and to the steps of a church
for first generation Cape Verdean-Americans,
their offspring and that old lady --
someone’s  grandmother --
who wears a black dress on Fridays
and walks home from the Market Basket
the same time that you get off the bus
who wears a shopping bag full of tropical foods
and memories on her head.

And if you stand at its first **** south,
you will notice how the families disappear
in the African American section.
There are fewer stores here, lots of energy boxes
with epitaphs: “Tiffany Moore Died Here”;
a seatless swing set, a playground gone fallow.
You won’t see any church steeples in this section
that feeds on a neon CITGO sign too small
to illuminate the skyline like the mega one in Copley does.

A few blocks away, a ghost of the Jewish past sits
with pointy stars of David nestled inside its
bulbous steeples that simmer on summer Sundays
where Haitian congregants stew inside,
praying and giving to the building fund
in damp envelopes that will go to the omnipotent one
who will someday replace the stars with crosses.

And as you keep walking, past the temple,
you enter Grove Hall’s Mecca, a strip mall
with a drive-thru Dunkin Donuts,

a Stop & Shop, CVS, Bank of America,
and a Rainbows that sells your teenaged aunt
the sequined one-off shirt she needs for a date
and the fishnets she wears to the carnival
that parades through a sliver of the avenue,
the very next section of our beloved Blue Hill.

Across the street, Check Cashers speak English
as good as the number of dollars and cents
they count when they hand you back your cashed check
or the double win you scratched out of a Gold Rush ticket.

Adjacent to them, a Greek-owned sandwich shop
that feeds you steak bombs as long as your forearm or
Festive Fridays: 20 wing dings, a pound of fries,
a Greek salad, and a gracious gulp of fountain cola --
essentially, a heart-attack meal.  

Next, another ghost of the Jewish past,
a church in the former Franklin Park Theater,
where Yiddish entertainers performed vaudeville acts
which nobody living can remember.

Then a building that resembles an African footstool,
one that will allow you to see over the **** of the hill
and down below at a gospel choir trapped in everlasting song
against the wall of the one-hour cleaners and that store
where a turkey-shaped lady with flour dusted hands
stands behind a window, noticing you,
while guarding her beef patties and cocoa bread
with a bulletproof smile.
Denel Kessler Apr 2016
Lone leatherback cruises up from the deep, pausing on the fragile reef

to feast ancient eyes upon the show, a bright parade laid out below

butterfly couples paired for life, graceful angels in black and white stripe

brilliant clowns and their toxic lovers, a plodding gang of giant groupers

puffers bob like comic balloons, humble gobies on every menu

beaked parrotfish grinding the coral down, in the ears a constant sound

cowfish blowing puckered kisses, sea stars catching fishy wishes

white-tipped, hammerhead, tiger sharks, triggerfish mean bite worse than their bark

untamed unicorns too wild to ride, dogfish snapping, biting alongside

coral trout color-shifting fools, attracting ladies in dull-hued schools

**** headed wrasse rumbling through, thick lips mumbling go get a room

sea horses nod in labyrinth caves, razor-toothed eels lying in wait

if tentacled embrace should be your fate, nudibranchs will light the way

to a place of bliss, none of this can exist, without the builders

coral and algae bewildered, the ways of man egotistical

rising ocean temperatures, carbon emissions, and el Niño

victim of abundant greed, say goodbye to the Great Barrier Reef

so massive is this magical place, one can see it from outer space

astronauts witness its demise, ninety-percent barren, bleached bone white.
NaPoWriMo2016#27
Write a poem using haiku-like, seventeen syllable long lines.
Francie Lynch Feb 2015
A squirrel has the capacity
To reclaim nuts from memory.
But they can't make
Peanut Butter
To smear themselves,
Or their nuts,
Like animals
For ***.

The Bottlenose
Is self-aware,
We noted in
His glassy stare;
When put before
A carnival mirror,
So covex, concave,
Too complex,
We also note
A confusing quiver;
The water's not
What makes him shiver.

Pigs are said to be
As smart as me
When I was three.
Now I'm four.

A chimp can nail
Two boards together,
To make
A cross;
We pray they
Don't redress
Their loss.

Whale song is said
To carry on
Beneath the blue
For 1 00 miles.
Its got a beat.
Do they
Do the ****,
Or slow
Whale dance.

Crows, you know,
Have studied us
For 10 000 years.
They're iconic,
Mythic tricksters
Cawing knowingly
Above our ears.
So much so
For 10 000 years.
10 000 more
Should we rot
So long.
XIII Jun 2015
We wear our helmets
Together with our suits for race
I am the driver
You are my co-driver

Buckle up! Seat belts on
We're ready to race
Radio's on, I let you decide on which station
Ready? Get set. Let's start the chase!

We start smoothly
Our gear's not even on three
I step up the gas
Let's speed up and fast!

I don't really see the need to rush
But since we're on the track
Better give it our best shot
Or else we'll lose the bout

Also, there are competitors
Whose pace we can't help but to compare
They have such high scores
Which subconsciously became our goal

Then came rough roads
I swerve from left to right
We go off road
Several times

A **** after a ****
Seems like an under-construction ramp
"Watch out!"
And then a bump

Blood and bruises
Filled our faces
You looked at me with so much blame
But, hey, isn't this a tag-team game?

Sure, I was the one holding the steering wheel
But you were my co-driver, sitting at the passenger seat
You were the one in charge to navigate
To follow your instructions was all I did

I admit I had troubles as well
Insecurities, jealousy made me tremble
I felt I made an impossible gamble
But, I am very sorry, I am human after all

I cannot see your tears
You're not that easy to read or I'm just bad at it
But I have to take a guess
You're very sorry as well

We looked into each other and we had the hint
We had to change our views for this trip
Ah, I know what action would fit
We smile as we said, "In this race, we quit."

I started the engine
And we buckled up again
We quit the race, but we didn't quit our journey
We'll continue slowly but surely, as we enjoy the sceneries

We've had enough of contests
Championships that never had any winner
Championships that only brought stress
It's not the destination, but the journey which matters

If ever in case you resign as my co-driver, however
I'll probably hire another
After forever?
Or I'll just also quit as a driver
Relationships are often viewed as a race because of what we see on the internet and on TV. Somehow it is, but quit racing! It is not the race that matters, but the journey of the two people inside the race car.
you sit in your ivory tower
why should I even bother
your the man who said your fire
had a book art of the deal
your spinning wheel is getting to fast
lay up on the gas many in North Korea will be wearing a face mask
what **** Trump knocking at your door
are you in the theatre of the insane
lest I refrain another opened door
check this as a young child you were already loaded
your inner soul imploded
through the duration of time you learned how to rhyme
kind of a Robin Hood but you wouldn't share with the poor
you got hooked on Twitter & your hommie's none better
but always a gentleman never given the *******
still many of us hate your guts
still got lots to prove
others refrain just not in a good mood
you may have to do a make over
with your hair as in a comb over
yet you try to stand tall while working on this great wall
we maybe in store of a shot gun wedding
what are you kidding
what **** Trump maybe coming to a theatre near you
has he bitten off far more then he could chew
Ivanka still has a voice with a choice
try to pull things together if you try
we we're out busy living the lie
the lie that says I am what I do
still got to mend your ways
instead of getting lost in some purple haze
you & Pence look like the Blues Brother Reunion
are you sure you know what the hell your doing ?
perhaps you got junk in your trunk what **** Trump ?
JJ Hutton Oct 2010
is a carniverous cemetery,
is a pacifier,
is a ******* on a friday night,
is only enough liquor to get you buzzed,
is a ****** bag cop,
is a church with splintered pews,
is sinners scared shitless,
is a two-year-old with an affinity for violence,
is my ex-girlfriend,
is paranoid,
is a blanket of all your favorite prescription pills,
is worried sorority girls in dark-wash jeans,
is unshaved,
is a cancer,
is a perpetual spell-check,
is lonely,
is my mother
and a god-awful toothache.
Copyright 2010 by J.J. Hutton
Somebody is shooting at something in our town --
A dull pom, pom in the Sunday street.
Jealousy can open the blood,
It can make black roses.
Who are the shooting at?

It is you the knives are out for
At Waterloo, Waterloo, Napoleon,
The **** of Elba on your short back,
And the snow, marshaling its brilliant cutlery
Mass after mass, saying Shh!

Shh! These are chess people you play with,
Still figures of ivory.
The mud squirms with throats,
Stepping stones for French bootsoles.
The gilt and pink domes of Russia melt and float off

In the furnace of greed. Clouds, clouds.
So the swarm ***** and deserts
Seventy feet up, in a black pine tree.
It must be shot down. Pom! Pom!
So dumb it thinks bullets are thunder.

It thinks they are the voice of God
Condoning the beak, the claw, the grin of the dog
Yellow-haunched, a pack-dog,
Grinning over its bone of ivory
Like the pack, the pack, like everybody.

The bees have got so far. Seventy feet high!
Russia, Poland and Germany!
The mild hills, the same old magenta
Fields shrunk to a penny
Spun into a river, the river crossed.

The bees argue, in their black ball,
A flying hedgehog, all prickles.
The man with gray hands stands under the honeycomb
Of their dream, the hived station
Where trains, faithful to their steel arcs,

Leave and arrive, and there is no end to the country.
Pom! Pom! They fall
Dismembered, to a tod of ivy.
So much for the charioteers, the outriders, the Grand Army!
A red tatter, Napoleon!

The last badge of victory.
The swarm is knocked into a cocked straw hat.
Elba, Elba, bleb on the sea!
The white busts of marshals, admirals, generals
Worming themselves into niches.

How instructive this is!
The dumb, banded bodies
Walking the plank draped with Mother France's upholstery
Into a new mausoleum,
An ivory palace, a crotch pine.

The man with gray hands smiles --
The smile of a man of business, intensely practical.
They are not hands at all
But asbestos receptacles.
Pom! Pom! 'They would have killed me.'

Stings big as drawing pins!
It seems bees have a notion of honor,
A black intractable mind.
Napoleon is pleased, he is pleased with everything.
O Europe! O ton of honey!
TRUMP SMELLS B.O.


TRUMP SMELLS B.O.

BUST UP THE BEAT TO INTRODUCE IT'S TEMPO

GOT ME PLACES TO GO

SILENCE IS GOLDEN GOT BLOOD THAT"S UNFOLDING

SITS IN HIS IVORY TOWER ENGAGED IN THE WALL WHILE HE SITS IN HIS IVORY TOWER

TRUMP SMELLS B.O.

I know years to know used to being with your history

eager long to achieve

needs to take a nice hot shower

going down to the wire...,

got choices with the most chances highway glances

glad he switch his Depends tyed beauty within,

another one bites the dust with the whole world in a rush

doing cart wheels out in the mood a sought of time to renew

Trump Smells B.O. which way should we go ?

some are in a trance

a given chance at any romance

Pac sought love through concrete

on again out again cry for relief

Can We Talk ?

hit a sister mister said to high ******,

SONG REMAINS THE SAME SOUGHT EVEN SHADE

LOVE FAXED IN WHERE IT IS WE DEPEND

YOU GOT TO KNOW WHERE YOU ARE iNSTEAD YOU HIDE LIKE ROSANNE BARR

NEEDS TO STOP BY INSTEAD OF GETTING HIGH

VAPE

with heightened fresh tender moments like these drift away to the sea...

suffering long in an empty room my pain drifts in illusive rights become pure

day by day we hear the sound of a lonely owl out in desperation my stomach leaks

cheer up good cousin as the thoughts simmer again back from beyond cracking,

this is enough of a good spot gross way back sat the owl in fact through radio

Trump Smells B.O. button down the captors embrace the hellos

Trump Smells B.O.

I'm bust out the beat to increase the tempo...,

Silently in the dreams eating delicious ice cream,

I maybe a man of all mans,

P.U.

in the port of storm we call commercial radiating plugged in seperation,

fine darling pillars the growth of here after old man sit by the log cabin

at night he would take a *** outside his window taking heed to nature's dream

the owl would suddenly draw empty nothing but framed silence in togetherness

our cameras freshly made eating potato dumplings...

I aim human fresh under my wings,

look to the sun to help you get by...




Trump's Comb Over
Written by: Mario Vitale



well it's a one for the money
two for the show
the answer my friend is blowing in the wind
so is Trump's comb over

who tucks Mr. president into bed
do the not realize he has a big head
who takes care of his hair
caged fury

in such a hurry
the magic is in the pudding
does he know what hell he his doing
he jumps through loop holes looking through peep holes

TMZ catches his rug by disguise
one word to the wise
get a transplant my friend
we can see your head with the magical wave

oh act your age
Mr. Trump what ****
you have taken us by surprise
doesn't anybody realize



What **** Trump
Written by: Mario Vitale


you sit in your ivory tower
why should I even bother
your the man who said your fire
had a book art of the deal
your spinning wheel is getting to fast
lay up on the gas many in North Korea will be wearing a face mask
what **** Trump knocking at your door
are you in the theatre of the insane
lest I refrain another opened door
check this as a young child you were already loaded
your inner soul imploded
through the duration of time you learned how to rhyme
kind of a Robin Hood but you wouldn't share with the poor
you got hooked on Twitter & your hommie's none better
but always a gentleman never given the *******
still many of us hate your guts
still got lots to prove
others refrain just not in a good mood
you may have to do a make over
with your hair as in a comb over
yet you try to stand tall while working on this great wall
we maybe in store of a shot gun wedding
what are you kidding
what **** Trump maybe coming to a theatre near you
has he bitten off far more then he could chew
Ivanka still has a voice with a choice
try to pull things together if you try
we we're out busy living the lie
the lie that says I am what I do
still got to mend your ways
instead of getting lost in some purple haze
you & Pence look like the Blues Brother Reunion
are you sure you know what the hell your doing ?
perhaps you got junk in your trunk what **** Trump ?



A Letter To Trump


you don't know me & that's good
is your choice of water Fiji now
going to speak to you man to man
Mr. Trump do you really understand
when you took the oath of all that was planned
did you ever think about me a lone poet man of society
as you sit there in your in ivory tower filled with power
did it ever cross your mind that not everybody is doing fine
sure there's no gas shortages anymore and no Studio 54
yet what my inner heart beats for is a common courtesy call
remember when you were young playing with the bat and ball
some folks claim that your just a know it all
but here am i sir giving you the benefit of the doubt while some people just ***** and pout
sure you like Twitter and some of MTV but one one heart felt plea
is that we all live out our days in sweet harmony
while your working on that wall did you forget to give Pink Floyd a call
I no save your money for your momma and try to forget about Obama
but what are you promising us is it in God we trust
crushed beneath the seams do you just seek out evil means
that's the beauty of this country we can both agree to disagree


where does the working man now stand
how shall we salute the flag all mad
building bridges make sense of all of this as if life is one big test
So Mr. Trump what you have up your sleeve are you going to help people in great need
The world is watching and i'm not lying yet may have fish for frying
so without further a dew some days you must not a single clue
maybe going through the motions trying to figure out next of what to do
can we meet together on some significant level
these are questions i often ponder perhaps its some heavenly call from up yonder
but we as Americans need to know the full story
not taking any more *** shot from TMZ
try if you will to get that big kid out of North Korea
perhaps we should look to our past to tell us of our future
now you hold the keys to my future so both polite and kind
for i'm just one lone beggar trying to tell another where to get some bread
tonight before you lay your Trump head down let's learn from Rodney King, "Can't we all just get along"?
take it from me its best to stay with the devil you know then to go with the devil you don't.
perhaps you can't even cope when your having a fight with that soap on the rope.
lastly from me to you what's knew ?

P.S. Return To Sender
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
that's 3 weeks without a keyboard,
that's 3 weeks on a dual-detox -
         that's that: roughly: antagonism
of: once upon a time...
           there can only be one Hans Andersen,
and as the story goes: ol' granny
   passed on the tales, without which:
no talk of posterity, and seances at
the theatre; alternatively: what if Kierkegård
opted for opera, rather than theatre?
    well: horrid is the task of dropping names,
as if being a village idiot, in that
capacity: giving directions... no such thing!
  nonetheless: a horrid task...
3 weeks... without this horrid world-entanglement...
amphetamines in the wild west,
                   and yet... everything slows down...
that's 3 weeks without such ''luxury''...
    and would you believe it?
3 weeks went by: in a blink of an eye.
             strange, or what 21st century writers
fail to recognise: the ******* canvas has changed!
any-single-one-of-them bothered to scrutinise
this new canvas? anyone?
     ah yes, it's still in its adolescence -
it's still: Dostoyevsky, scuttering in the grand
dungeon: that's the Moscow underground.
             the canvas! the canvas!
                             and indeed, if this be some
bellowing horn, from the depths of some forsaken
place... i'll go into the street, and sabotage
civilisation with graffiti...
                     then again: i have the least
expectations, such that capitalism works...
poetry... and what investment have you made?
nil, or almost nil... evidently: zilch!
      ah, but to have invested in canvases,
a studio, paints, brushes... see... no one sees
investment in poetry: primarily because the poet
has done the minimal...
            unless of course it turns out to ****
with a hot poker something once resembling
nations... which now resides in the insane asylum
(even though those, have been abolished)
                           , nation - ooh! what a ***** word!
the left irksome sometimes uses it:
in theory: the nation-state...
                        and then there's the resurgence of
ancient Greece... in a sing-along:
maybe 'cos i'm a Londoner... brother! brother!
Athenian! Athenian!
                                       but we are born into
a Spartan wedlock... no one really bothers to
**** our gob with Shakespeare...
    then again that is the schizophrenia (alias
dualism) in humanity... thus, to be frank,
psychiatry can be congratulated, it has provided
one useful term... and i will use it, over and over again,
in a non-symptomatic way, because, i find,
it stands, as if the Olympic Graeae (Zeus, Poseidon
and Hades) eating the carcass of some inhabitant
of Tartarus...
                               evidently: tartar steak...
doubly evident: tartars, or the remnants of mongols,
settled in crimea, and elsewhere in the Ukraine...
   tartar                      tra-ta-ta-ta... ku ku ryku!
a ja fu! krecha! a ja znow... fu!       radowitą
uprzejmość... skłaniam...  
    or what i call: rising spontaneously from the depths...
polymaths applauded, the tribunal resides in
bilingualism... trenches... history... perspectives
and current affairs... wicker man media...
                        so... an example of pedantry?
ó....               that's an orthographic dignitary -
        an aesthetic muddle... as is
c-ha                               contending with samo-ha...
     ch                            came from antagonism of
cz                                   which was later antagonised
by č               in česka.... say that: hen party
bound to Prague... in the Czech republic...
                                          ch      k..­.
i am, quiet frankly... standing at the feet of the tower
of babel... and i'm looking up, and i see
correlations, and i see decimal marks,
which, when given enough geography,
can seem like England and the isles,
       and central Europe...
    Iberia? phantom of Seneca...
  eureka! let's begin, once again...
  why is there a continuum beginning with
Plato and Aristotle?
                                           we could become
reasonable people... told to deal with madmen...
we could claim beginnings with Seneca...
and Cicero...
                      and why? the Romans loved poetry...
the Greeks antagonised Homer...
            the Romans loved Horace, Virgil,
                           Ovid... perhaps we should really forget
beginning with Plato and Aristotle...
       the former has become a church,
the latter a dentist's assistant (minus the ancients'
concept of a joke).
                      evidently i have to finish off reading
Seneca... his educational letters to Lucilius....
      moralising ******* that he was, thus, perhaps
a nibble at Cicero? but i must say:
                           it has to begin somewhere,
so not necessarily in stale-bread Athens...
                      and having such perspectives helps
in claiming casual conversation?
   assuredly - if it doesn't involve talking about
the weather...
                                which is always a great mystery
   if it's given enough aurora.
   onto the mystery of dialectics,
as discovered by Alfred Jarry in his Faustroll
Pataphysics contraband...
                                                nag­ging agreement...
nodding without approval... (chapter 10) -
beginning with αληθη λεγεις εφη
        (you speak the truth, he replies) -
   and ending with ως δoκεì
                              (how true that seems)...
and then some dub-step...
        know nothing dROP! boom! jiggy jiggy,
get the rhythm.
   as i always find it hard to look at
    diacritical arithmetic...
                                  given the following
represent a prolonging: hangman:
       å, ā and ä...
                             esp. in Finnish -
stratum: hedningarna täss on nainen.
                        rolling yarn, plateau, two dips;
and i will never say something profound...
i'll just say something no one else has said,
benefit of the doubt? somewhere, someone,
                                      kneels at the same altar.
  such are the distinction - invaders from the
north, and invaders from the south...
                                           even with
crusading Golgotha mann -
the times? many bats, supers, spiders,
but not enough readings of thomas mann...
                              easily befallen into prune-nosed
high-airs... it comes with the diet of literature...
   unfortunately.
                              and with yet another book:
i have burried yet another living person
i could have had a beer with, and conversed.
it always happens, every time i read a book
i have to attend a funeral... by reading a book
i have burried someone alive...
                          shame, in all frankness...
    i will sit in a congested train, touch a breathing
body, and consecrate the touch with
a warring genuflect - harbringer of a Teutonic
passion for initiation: a komtur's slap across the cheek.
   chequers played with passions...
           and some have to be approached like
caged animals, their vocabulary as cages,
                and the whole world before them:
cageless!
             some have indeed become so encrusted in
their daily: routine, that it would take a zoologist
(thrice oh, begs some sort of diacritical marking)
rather than a psychologist to understand them...
    like the darting dupes they are, enshrined in
20% gratis! smile! have a nice day! boxing day sales!
all but pleasantries, fathoming the grave.
   stiff vocab and all other kinds of perfume...
                           a king and his charlatan knights,
who are merely ditto-heads.
                  and not of this world, afresh -
among the nimble hands prior to birth -
surely there is: more grandeour in birth
   that entry via a ******...
                            the greatest pain of ****...
and when the ancient treaty was signed
under the name: Augustus Cesarean - or
recommended for a need of aristocracy -
    it was, for a time, the mana magnetism:
and such was the rule of poetry:
rather than a crown, donned the laurel leaves...
donned the laurel leaves...
    and such was the covenant from ancient
foes when trying to assimilate the Jew...
three kings from Babylon,
                         the child in Egypt...
          no good tides from Nazareth...
         a crown of myrrh - later overshadowed
by dogmatic sprechen, simpler: thorns...
yella things... or rzepak, Essex is filled with it...
rzepak... so why bother adding a dot above
the z, when you get capricious and use rz to
denote the same?! thus a science:
voiced retroflex fricative... Stalingrad!
                       can you really stomach this kind
of jargon? if it wasn't for science fiction:
science would be twice removed from gott ist tot,
*******' worth of pondering, given the close
proximity rhyme... nothing that rhymes should
ever be taken seriously, it should be hymnal!
                         Horatio! mein lyre!
   mein Guinness leier! rabbi krähe -
     and they deem that ****** white when talking:
thinking? i'd prefer Cezanne in real life -
   maggot wriggling and all...
                                          as much eroticism
as bound to a dog slobbering its testicles:
which means ****-all in an almighty stance
   for a dollop of halleluyah in Nepal.
well: pretty talk, pretty pretty pretty: i feel pretty,
oh so butter-fly-e.
                                    2 week stance,
***** in autumn... but so many Swiss hues
coming from the same concentration of decay!
shweet!  zeit-ser!        and that's me talking
kindergarten german: innovation begins with
a fork and a spoon, should the tongue come to it...
            i see a poem,
i see something worth bugging... c.i.a.,
f.b.i., hannibal's lecture in Florence, Venice for
the rats... bugging... shoving...
  shovelling... necro grounding, rattling...
    windy via north... Icelandic...
drums along incisors of abstract gallop:
violins... fringes of the mustang... airy airy...
all regresses toward the Vulgate...
         like ****, like said, and the only pristine
stress comes with vanilla ice-cream,
or a medium-rare beef ****! hmph!
                         fa fa fa excesses with that hurling
puff...
                      and i did finish Kant's
critique of pure reason... minus two calendars...
but, so help me god, the 2nd volume was hiding
under some corner...
                           thus, from transcendental methodology
came plump apricots, plums and pears...
             sweet decay fruit baron...
              and it's called sugars in the intricacy of pulp...
lazily grown, dangling on that caricature of
a formerly known: full crop of wheat-crude fringe.
    2 years... honest to god!
         but so many books in between...
i was given a recommendation...
i cited it already... kraszewski's magnum opus...
29 books...
                       although that's history fictionalised...
but nonetheless, it really was about
     the cossack uprising in the 17th century...
   and it was, as i once said, something i can forgive
sienkiewicz - the film version,
as in: i will not read a book once it has been adapted
to a movie... it's self-evident that too many
people have read a piece of work and are gagging
for a conversation... but where's the playground?
           ******* cherades!
  chinese whispers and a Manchurian candidate!
  i thought as much.
                          and whenever it's not a preplaned
escapade, what becomes of the day?
     was it always about a stance for carpe diem?
  syllables: di                em.
                            carpe is said with more lubricant.
corpus diem. well, that's an alternative, however
you care to think about it.
                and whenever you care to think about,
the proof is there: mishandling misnomers:
poets as tattoo artists... although no one sees the ink,
signatures on a reader's brian (purposively altered,
toward a Michael Jackon he-he, and other:
albino castratos the church venerates!)...
   that's 3 weeks in a catholic country...
  3 weeks... if only the football was better,
      i'd be called Juan Sanchez...
               but, evidently, the football is bad...
     so it's catholicism on par with a sleeping inquisition...
no one really expected Monty Python to conjure
that one... because it never really took place,
not until a trans-generational exodus
postscript 2004... once western brothels were exhausted,
and the Arab started ******* a hippo...
              then it was all about lakes and rivers
and Las Vegas 2.0 in Dubai!
                     you say quack... i say:
                                                    easy target.
and they did receive a blessing from Allah...
enough ink to write out Dante's revision of the Koran,
and some Al-Sha'ke'pir to write a play called:
the Merchant of Mecca.
  last time i heard, when the reformation was
plauging Christendom, no one invited the Arabs...
these days i think the little Lutherans of Islam
watched too many historical movies...
me? pick up a crucifix and march to Jerusalem?
  and is that going to translate into:
   blame the populists! blame the nationalists!
it's like watching a circus... why is the Islamic
reformation asking for third party associates?
                  i was happy listening to
the klinik... albums: eat your heart out...
time + plague...
                             once again: the world narrative
gags for enough people to conjure up
     a placebo solipsism... and that's placebo
with a squiggly prefix (meaning? how far
that ambiguity will take you) - ~placebo...
well: since existentialists were bores...
it's about time to head for Scandinavia
   and ask: is that " ''                 for passing on
an inheritance, or better still: ripe for
acknowledging ambiguity?
                          and if you can shove this
  into your daily narrative... you better be
a connaisseur of chinese antiques...
                frailty... then again, theres: ******;
well hell yeah *****'h, it's a murky underwold
after all.
                     and yes: that's called a petting word...
some say hombre, and we'll all be amigos
and muskateers at the end of the story.
                                    finally... i feel like i'm writing
a poem that i'll never end...
              why? it was supposed to be about
how John Casimir of Sweden championed
  the crown away from his brother Prince Charles
(volume 1)...
                      the bishop of Breslau...
a recluse... couldn't ride a horse...
    then again: nothing worthy imitation...
beginning with a donkey...
                               the transfiguration of palms
into whips... 2000 years later
talk of Hercules is madness... that other bit?
complete sanity.
                              well... if that be the case...
the book is there... i signed it, 2nd volume of
Kant's critique...
  
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| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | Y| | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |

        an oak... in a forest of pine...
an oak in pine wood...

then onto the wood of sighs:

aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
          (somehow the surd escapes,
and later morphs into, but prior to)

a short script: variation on MW...

      pears' worth of blunting runes:
opulance s and ᛋ - versus z,
    congregation minor: the interchange, ß,
buttocks and *****, minus phantoms of erotica.
yet, taking into account trigonometry...
sine (genesis 0), and cosine (genesis 1),
or            M                                   W
(no Jew would dare believe the Latins have
the second 'alf of the proof: that loophole of all
things qab-cannibal-mystic - cravat donning
mystique - a flit's worth of sharpening,
or dental grit... flappy tongue,
flabby oyster, lazing for a crab's palette)...
so?

1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

of course there's an
Daniel Jr Apr 2015
My eyes are sunken a dark gray aura surrounding their gaze,
My blue irides surrounded by a web of crimson veins.
My ***** blonde hair a tangled mess of greasy strains,
3 am and I realize I haven't slept in days.

3 am and student loan debt is still clawing at my mind,
3 am and over this unemployment ****, I've yet to climb.
3 am and a solution I've yet to find,
Where is my family when i'm in a bind?

Where is mom, still drinking with her friend?
Where is dad, did he leave me for them?
Where is love, on money does it depend?
I'm tired but where do my problems stem?

I'm tired its been 58 hours and 51 minutes,
I'm tired I think I've reached my limits.
I'm tired I just can't win it.
My reflection in the mirror a sad beaten grimace.
Read it in loop
zebra Feb 2019
palace of lights caved
blooms through the body
like reality pitted against a comic book
not knowing where life came from
not knowing how it will end
food tubes or road ****

is creation substance-less?
24 carat nonsense,
or pure wisdom?
perhaps bad therapy
for lab animals
and store front dummies

monkeys shudder at needles
unless candied with a heroine syringe
chemistry a science of belligerence and euphoria
pleasure before despair
and than a sea of pain

and a ****;
impaling her

the lushly contoured female
a frictionless exchange of power
for ******* ecstatic death
as her eyes bob and flutter
like cascading echo's

my birth tarot card
**** of swords
her favorite when I push through her
like blood bubble gum
b l o o d b u b b a b u b b le g u m

a **** cathedral of lights flicker spit
guttural diphthong
like a vipers castanets
uterine fire bursts like an appendix bomb
her **** a zoo
******* z o o

i am peanuts worms and hay
her face a mask to hide behind
breath play
sibilant ****
specter or nightmares
shadows and villains aphrodiac

gagged and drugged
hot ***** bound
a big eyed ****
s l u t l o v e

*** cannibals turn me on
her ****** a goddess
a Russian roulette
for shtttty kisses
sploosh
she shot me

cuckoo spit
k o cuck  k o  k o o
twizzles willie milk
in a drowning
moss draped moon orifice
under a shattered zodiac

wrapped in tentacles of night
she turns me on

— The End —