"ingratiating" poems
The glitter of strobe
gratuitous gaiety
platitudes
and sanctimonious guile
******* cocktails
on the menu
an ingratiating mask
a gratified grin
Contorted vocal chords
lots of laughter
no time for irony
look at me.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphorias of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix are pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
I can see those dandelions
and how they were dancing,
to the serene bliss of wind
whispering,
unctuous promises.
though the dandelions
were confused,
as to why
the wind did that.
I can hear the wind sighed
and blow a gentle soothe
to those dandelions.
I asked,
why would they fall
for the ingratiating wind?
oh, dear.
how ghost-quiet it tasted?
as I put the question mark
back at the wind,
and hold those flowers
to keep their hearts save.
the wind
stopped blowing at last,
leaving every petal on their own
without lies,
without anymore promises.
all I can hear now is
the beautiful chorus of content
filling up as the wind,
replacing it.
I let these dandelions
plant theirselves
and grow,
without relying
on the whispering wind.
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 11:36 AM UTC
Verily the exordium told anent a beauty engirdled in her fedora
soliciting those whoever descried her into her mere servile admirer
eight trenchant tinctures upon her body invigorate like a cadenza
I dare not to contradict the verity that I am beguiled afore her
whilst the snain distilled faintly enwreathed her in unctuous silk
concordantly she devote herself earnestly to the impeccable rain
that emanate her fragile poetry with prestidigitation in a whisk
forsooth she is but the vernacular sobriquet to the soul of the rain
recall me otherwhile during the rainstorm champagne did coerce
and the sunset's glass of wine exude her ingratiating persona
like a myriad of aphrodisiac summarized in a single verse
when harmony and lyrics danced in the crepuscular crescendo
all of that needed to be enunciated is it is you
do not harshly let me be thy unrequited dilettante
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 4:27 AM UTC
Sad faces
Indiscreet dreams
Platitudes and penance.
Secluded thoughts
Glimpses of posterity
Legacies and lotteries.
Tributes to the dead
Blasphemous flowers
Anonymity and indifference.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 2:08 AM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 3:04 PM UTC
friday morning,
we wake up hungover
from last night's binge drinking,
because even though we love our jobs,
no one really wants to work for their entire lives,
when so many things are unanswered,
perverted, and misconstrued.
hashtag all of those millennial catchphrases,
to garner hearts from your friends
who you haven't seen in years,
friends who work in San Fran,
Chicago, Greenwich Village.
crank up your laptop speakers,
as Neon Indian's Polish Girl
plays that **** synth,
and take a drag from a P-Funk,
before your Grandma hits your
shoulder with the newspaper daily—
right after she speaks in Vietnamese,
asking you what is your name,
because she has Alzheimer’s.
but in these social media days,
isn't everything that is worth mentioning to your sister,
everything that is worth fighting for,
everything that is ****** in this world,
on the internet (maybe, just Twitter tbh).
screenshot the cat meme you like,
save it,
share it,
move on.
if only she wasn't allergic to cats,
maybe it could have worked out.
that was 7 years ago.
*** ova it. Then, mix your red bull with your coffee,
because the next 10 hours of your life,
will be revolving around caring about people
other than your ungrateful and ingratiating ***
don't cry,
when I say good-bye.
stay for a while, under the shade of the rooftop
where the deejay spins Frank Ocean
and Frank Sinatra records,
as everyone is drinking scotch, or Yuengling,
and ashing over the veranda bansister,
; the bad boys try to open their souls
to the good girls. and the bad girls,
reveal too much to the good boys.
we devoured those drugs, as though
they were jelly beans from a convenience store,
and then we broke into the store
and ate some more.
break the coals on top of the hookah,
puff, puff, pass—
inhale, exhale,
fit the deformed piece
back into the Dinosaur puzzle,
and crawl back into bed,
pull the covers over
your trembling body,
shut your eyes,
and reflect,
for the day is heavy with regret
and unsaid things.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 2:43 PM UTC
unendurable, long and exhausting
are the pains
presumptuous like appeals
from a jaded pulpit
such as they are, are powerless
a passage from a discarded tract
such are these pernicious pains
that swarm in a slivering hiss
upon dark and lurking shadows
aesthetically applauding themselves
as they push here and there
in their wounding commentary
of painful narrative
agonising enough to reduce
the soul to debilitating bouts
of disagreeably damaging experience
with startling exaggerations
that produce disgraceful extortions
upon mind and body
squandering unbearable isolations
fragmenting the cracks
in a delicate structure of personality
uprooting it from a sanctified paradise
providing instead a monstrous, shameful loathing
that makes one choose to become another
other than those unthinking
other than this misery of anguish
other than this pain
deliberately to provoke an anger
the other with ingratiating timidity
or rebellious defiance
favours a rejection of
all resentful obligations
all that is distasteful
all that is not worth carrying out
such as with a contempt
that allows one to escape into an emptiness
of the ridiculous and the impossible
through thoughts to an absurdity of beliefs
through the deserted streets
the neighbourhoods of the lie
pass the filthy inadequacies
of obscene caresses
where one is mocked
by exquisitely satisfying ******
of vicious pains
pains that control behaviour
freedom of movement
time and space
who appear at the corners of the mouth
where lurk sarcastic secrets
now I know in these horrors and torments
that time has stopped in all dimensions
eternity has ceased
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
I’ve been foraging lately for a simile
to show how Supreme Office is -
what it means to be here
just as any other office in the corporate world
Well, I’ve got it now, I think -
ever seen a tree of monkeys?
There are chattering monkeys
everywhere
at every level
every branch
above and below -
well, Supreme Office is just like that:
*the monkeys above see
ingratiating, smiling monkeys below;
and the monkeys below see nothing
but ******** above*
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 8:23 AM UTC
unendurable, long and exhausting
are the pains
presumptuous in their plenty
such are these pernicious pains
that swarm in a slivering hiss
upon dark and lurking shadows
aesthetically applauding themselves
as they push here and there
in their wounding commentary
of painful narrative
agonising enough to reduce
the soul to debilitating bouts
of disagreeably damaging experience
with startling exaggerations
that produce disgraceful extortions
upon mind and body
squandering unbearable isolations
fragmenting the cracks
in a delicate structure of personality
uprooting it from a sanctified paradise
providing instead a monstrous, shameful loathing
that makes one choose to become another
other than those unthinking
other than this misery of anguish
other than this pain
deliberately to provoke an anger
the other with ingratiating timidity
or rebellious defiance
favouring a rejection of
all resentful obligations
all that is distasteful
all that is not worth carrying out
such as with a contempt
that allows one to escape into an emptiness
of the ridiculous and the impossible
through thoughts to an absurdity of beliefs
through the deserted streets
the neighbourhoods of the lie
pass the filthy inadequacies
of obscene caresses
where one is mocked
by exquisitely satisfying ******
of vicious pains
pains that control behaviour
freedom of movement
time and space
who appear at corners of the mouth
where lurk sarcastic secrets
now I know in these horrors and torments
that time has stopped in all dimensions
eternity has ceased
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
*You paid me a most humble courtesy
Ingratiating my own imagination’s sensuality.
It ‘tis one of those quiet thinking moments
Where for a time – mere moments – one’s spirit bows
Down with the body telling the mind a beautiful story.
But the body does so much more than just tell it.
So as I remember it, your mind does replay it.
The pleasure – as if it were greater than an actual
Remembrance of any true physical event.
What does this mean? you ask.
My feelings – my dear – would not be worth a penny
If I had not given these memories along with it.
Within ecstasy's imagination you will always remember me.
Whatever comes of it will make you the better for it.
What is imagination but a prelude to creation?
With the creation of anything – its being reclaims the imagined.
Imagined – created – imagined – created –
It goes round – n – round making of itself
A flavored reality sprinkled with the sweetest of all that is.
The sprinkles you feel are the effect of the seventy five
Percent water that we all truly are.
What can you imagine would happen if our memory
Awakened with this capability while holding hands?
My love, I can see the innocence in us both.
Innocence does not mean that we have not known life.
Innocence means that we are not guilty of failing our love.
If you are affected by these words or by any of my others,
May all of them be received with an equaling retort.
Upon each turn, each ascent and descent – they all are but
Road signs marking out our journey.
The safety that I afford you is as real as my memories.
Let my memories wash you clean of the evil
That you endure daily – repairing all that is damaged.
Absorb my imagination in word, in song and visually
As you feel yourself evolve.
Isn’t it sweet to feel these sweet threads spun in love
Mixed with the colors of our affections?
You have never touched me before -
But you have haven’t you?
We have all by ourselves, with a liberating simplicity,
Coupled our minds which must prove that love
Can be out of our heads and for my part in it
I cannot help but have these convictions.
All I ask in return is that you wear this love
As if it were a coat of arms letting my
Imagination free you from any evil harm.
For my kiss caries within it an Apostle’s heart.
If evil should continue to stand in our way
I shall imagine that evil’s demise.
Casting out the demons with nothing more
Than the warmest of all kisses.
Can you not feel them cower now?
That is the power of the imagination my dear.
For what is imagination if it is not a wish?
And is not a wish a prayer?
And is not a prayer Divine Ecstasy?
Let this be our truth!
Oh Lord hear my plea, I imagine ….*
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 12:05 AM UTC
Interminably, he stands at the road side
Whether the weather is kindly or not
(Somehow it's never either one). Stands there
And makes an ingratiating little nod
To the clouds. The sky bears down with its slipped
Edges— Singular walls of the unspoken
Truth: The world ends at the last of vision.
Those cars that pass us reach the brink of this small
Hemisphere, quiver on the edge of
The black and turn sharply. The bell of the sky
Doesn’t ring like it used to anymore—
It’s just too **** big. And we are much too small.
In our opinion: all those hitchers wear
Their hearts on their sleeves
If they think they can get anywhere.
Apr 26, 2010
Apr 26, 2010 at 11:31 AM UTC
This, my tomb of "solace", has not heard me stir,
For months I lay here dying upon little spoken words,
Ingratiating sadness upon what little I have left,
Forced upon a decision to return what was bereft.
-
I must make clear in present story
That I fear not God, nor Glory,
I must **** to not "feel" but "Be"
Whatever here entices me.
Pray tell, what is it that you fear most?
Your Hell, I fear, that I must host.
-
A couplet, a stanza, here and there,
About someone's false blood in air,
For fear of failure do I not agree,
At yet, I claim Death's Majesty.
For you see, I am Death's Reincarnate,
His Left Hand, His "Doom's Profligate"
-
Enchanting screams of splattering blood,
Empathetic scalpels from a figure in hood,
Fate loves the dying and Her wishes should
Bring actions closer to Her decaying brood.
I save the tears and sanguine to bathe,
The last exhale is what I crave
To hear regularly so I may sleep,
To never awake, is what I dream.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 1:43 AM UTC
Slavishly touting laudatory
Remarks that
Run counter to his belief
Could not let a journalist
A moment's relief!
"The incumbent
Has flickered
Darkness piercing light
Now as things are bright
None stop
We have to condemn the past
To catapult the present
On the infallible mast!"
Conveying messages
Without beef,
Also forced to turn
Eyes, to reality, deaf,
He is smote by
Excruciating grief
Freedom of expression
Turned brief!
To spare himself
A stomach pang
He has to allow
Political thugs,
In the guise of
Media bosses
That form a
Government's favour
Ingratiating gang,
His mouth to gag!
Intimidated by them
Into self censorship
The facility of his pen
He could not keep!
Ironically,
A mainstream press,
With a toothless face,
Rather conveys
An autocrat or,
To be precise,
A clinically dead
Government in place!//
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 2:46 AM UTC
his presence stained long
after his glitter
wore thin
uncaring that
his hollow self
festered
puerile jokes regaled
spawning an
ingratiating syrup
of slick deception
fashioned by conceit to
fool most
but the astute
who sensed a rank
dearth of authenticity
long lost
to the lure of
common expediency
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 5:51 AM UTC
They were wick-thin folk,
ready to burn it all down,
as everyone gathers round
the flame;
probably too young to play the game
they were in,
and as I said, wick-thin:
with no foundation,
the pervasive alienation
feeding their weakness: ingratiating.
So, don't stand to close to the fire,
step back a little,
admire
breathe perspire
there are many voices making up the choir.
Feb 21, 2021
Feb 21, 2021 at 9:13 AM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphorias of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix are pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
Jul 2, 2022
Jul 2, 2022 at 12:01 AM UTC
She wanted to be young and in warm weather
Me too
So California here we came
Sure we were gonna stay
What’s not to like?
All we needed to do was meet
Then came the night
A double date it was
Only she was with him
Barbara was her name
By the time it was over
I got her number
From then on she had mine
Inseparable we became
Forever entwined
On our third date I told her
I would marry her
She gave me an ingratiating smile
We were both sure
And here we are today
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 1:33 PM UTC
Leave the clean up to the professionals,
the conspiracies to the airs.
The dance macabre, music all-strutting a
life-expression,
worn in the ingratiating shimmer
off Time’s surface,
bright as a smile
and decent as a memory.
Like a worn blade
incapable of cutting so much of
what is needed of cloth,
and leaving only ruin
in its wake.
Just so,
matter turns to finer matter,
and of the, well, supposed immaterial,
the
to be not-to-be-so abstract
that-is-a-life,
a worn-to-pieces quilt of
finer thread than dust,
ambivalently contrasting
in the light of:
what is useful,
what is not,
loves me,
loves me not,
Jan 16, 2024
Jan 16, 2024 at 11:06 AM UTC
Do I even want to participate in life anymore? I contemplate, not killing myself, but disappearing. I swear I could summon something to come into my life and just take over my soul. Ok, not really. . .I just have no clue what to write about anymore. And, man, I gotta tell ya, as a writer (and I know that’s a lot of commas), this is like the lowest of low. To write is my only job. It’s supposed to be my passion. And, to see that I’m too drugged out and not educated enough to have a steady flow of intelligent ideas to share with the world to make it better for the next generations, it just hurts my soul. But not really, cause I’m high. I can’t really tell or feel that I’m in pain until I’m off the drugs and out of money. My two highs. Drugs and money. What happened to the guy who wanted to achieve a happy and content life without those things as a necessity. . .? Where’d he go? The real Hippie Steve. You wanna claim to be this peaceful and cool guy who thinks logically and morally yet intelligently. Yet, you still fall into the same habits as those around you that you complain about on a daily basis. You are no better than the next guy. And, though you already know this, you do not act like it. It’s ridiculous just how neglectful you’ve been to your own health. Mental and physical. For what? For the high to keep going? What kind of a high is it? Tell yourself, tell me, what is it that you are working towards? What is it that you’re close to achieving? What is it that you are on track to finish? Besides a slow and ingratiating death, what else have you promised for yourself in this life? NOT A **** THING! And that needs to change! Stop talking about it. Take some writing courses online and do some writing exercises. Think outside the box. Create the app. Create a portfolio for freelance writing. Create your own **** So you can work on your own and hire people and invest and all that fancy **** Just go do it.
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 10:16 PM UTC
theres much about
every aspect of life
that is a violently alternating antagonism
of expulsion and absorption
love and hate
for half of life is an excretory rite
are we cowed
by subtle prohibitions
permitting only
a charmed
poetic version of the world
that stoops to be a projection
of unreality as superior
like pie in the sky religion
with an unconscious mission
to degrade ****** reality
poets affirmations of vainglory
buried in obfuscation
and ingratiating metaphors
word salad
evoke
poet as coward
unwilling to satisfy
souls in search of
there own buried parts
generating
habitual secret bitterness
in avoidance
of elaborations
deepest inner desires
or worse yet
apathy
is to much of poetry
a guano infested dust bin
of niceties
an abandoned
mouldering hovel
spinster musings
literatures dark corpse ?
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 5:24 PM UTC
seGment, bona
smUg
grIns,
inTo cuteness.
imAges
aRe
aGgressively ingratiating, as
that pUnctuates feats.
mIllionaire?” model
building suspense wiTh
And
thumps, “genius junioR”
a janGly its
soUnd,
rIffs a
big-Tent sideshow.
the contestAnts
aRe
introduction seGment, in
cross smUg
grIns, if
inTo
cuteness. the imAges
of aRe
aGgressively
that pUnctuates feats.
“who mIllionaire?” model
of building suspense wiTh
synths And bludgeoning
“genius junioR” offers
a janGly
its soUnd,
rIffs like
big-Tent sideshow.
the contestAnts
aRe production
seGment, which
memberships, memories, kids smUg
grIns, as
inTo
cuteness. the imAges the
kids aRe
aGgressively as
that pUnctuates
to a mIllionaire?”
wiTh synths
And thumps,
“genius junioR”
janGly its
soUnd,
rIffs like a
big-Tent sideshow.
the contestAnts
aRe the as
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 11:41 AM UTC
Listen, Donald Trump is not a total idjut.
He has beautiful children and prolly not as
much money as he says, and won the Republican
Nomination. But, I kinda think "the say what you want
at anytime" is kinda ingratiating. Hell, I wouldn't vote for him,
and hope nobody would . I guess, what I am trying to
say is, he has, balls, nuts , bigguns,
and no sense. I have seen too many of them.
It's like a tribute to our society,
tongue in cheek, that someone can put their foot in their mouth,
so many times and be running for President.
You should check out Mayors and Governors and Senators,
The government is full of them.
But most of them I don't trust as far I can throw their mama.
Trump , I trust to be a fool.
I know he will!
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 12:36 AM UTC
You may have
the most breathtaking
Almond brown eyes
Glistening with the warmth
Of a sparkling summer dawn
But I can only see them
Brimming with infidelity and deciet
Most of the time
You may have
The most charming
Genuinely sweet smile
Exuding a comfort
That would make me forget
All the unpleasant thoughts
But I can only see
An ingratiating leer
Stuck upon your face
With a titanium bond
You may possess
The voice that makes my heart throb
The words you speak
May stir and rouse
My slaughtered hopes
But all that I hear
Everytime that I try
To envisage
an imminent possibility
Of us
Are the painful shrieks
Of grievous wounds
That I acquired
in the name of love
And their thick scars
That time refuses to erode
From the seams of my heart
Perpetually rendering
Your tireless endeavors
To embrace my soul
With an abiding affection
Indelibly futile
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 4:55 AM UTC