Its about to get ugly up in here.

I'm talking
Worlds ugliest
Thalidomide baby
contest winner
Ugly.

I'm talking
Michael Jacksons
rotten *** corpse
falling apart
in the coffin
Ugly.

I'm talking
pasty ***
fat and sweaty
old white dude
in a Cambodian brothel
****** little girls
until he runs out of money
Ugly.

Its going to get ugly...

Standby.

Take a step into the Firestorm.
Lyrics/Vocals Skitz AKA Mr.Sandman
Track,recording,production-Jay/Eclectic.Collective.
Lyrics.(Copyright Skitz AKA Mr Sandman)

Spittin' fire-desolation of the Sandman,
blink you'll miss the decimation of your clan man,
musical massacre with an Irish style,
time to stop driveling,your old cold style-

cause I'm riled up,fed up sick of your ****,
sit down or be knocked down,listen to the skitz spit,
flammable fumes,verbs turn to flame,
grammar fallin like a grand piano from a crane,
straight to your brain a flash of white light,
wear a fireproof suit you might catch light,
pay stage crews danger cash cause I'm scorchin',
E.C.-Schizophrenic-Sandman torchin,
a four alarm fire,I cause high premiums,
show respect or you'll be rappin through a medium,
mic's a flamethrower leave you screamin,
think you'll burn the Sandman?,wake up,you're dreamin.

Venue's on my menu,get it insured,
I walk through the flames,immune and immured,
immersed in hip hop, a sun gone nova,
drop the mic kid, just run,it's over.
my tank's full,petrol for adrenaline,
flame and blood like my name's Targaryen
you don't want to see my dragon's fly loose,
spit heat like a turnspit-cook your goose,

Stage is flaming,boy you best ghost,
hit the fire bell,you get burnt to toast,
white phosphorus combined in my mind,
get your goggles if you're goggling,you'll wind up blind,
Armageddon approaches,best make your way,
last stage I blazed you may have heard of-Pompeii,
you're gettin calcinated muy calor!,
a Supervolcano eruptin' on a dancefloor.

(chorus)
Magma,Plasma,they're not even warm,
Air Ripped from Lungs becomes fuel for the Storm,
Melt Icecaps,Globe start to warm,
****** Aircon-I spark a Firestorm.

Time to raise the heat,time to raise the stakes,
you're a lost smokejumper,praying for a firebreak,
trees turn to shrapnel,you're out of breath,
"I am fire,I am Death"

Reverse Mic Fiend rhymes steal the oxygen,
lungs collapse as I spin the storm again,
a terrible beauty,and an awesome blessing,
3rd degree burns,apply cool dressings
thats if you're lucky when I spit the gift,
last MC challenged me burnt to a crisp,
by words,deeds,heat bleeds stage smokin-I'm just gettin warm
thoughts spark the flames in a forest I'm a firestorm
fuel air bomb combined with Tsar Bomba,
Mount Doom blowing about to get Sundered,
hate is stokin' me,fuel to the forge,
16kept the heat banked long enough it's time to gorge,
Smaug heats up-flames spew forth,
you're guy fawkes on a pyre of fireworks.

Wondering,and blundering it's time to burn,
time to get roasted,you fool's won't learn,
that I'm hotter than a sunflare,beyond compare,
you're richard pryor tryin to smoke michael jacksons hair
don't dare me to flare into action,
don't care Keisha fusion core reaction,
fukushima and cherbobyl are my barbeques,
couldn't help yourself, you had to light my fuse,
I refuse to cool down-I'm scorchin',
Firestormtrooper lit,time for torchin'
Firewalk-comparison? Huh,a cool breeze,
flatten the building like Tunguska's tree's,
eyes hotter than Cyclops,you're weak at the knees.
supernova 200 billion degree's

(chorus)
Magma,Plasma,they're not even warm,
Air Ripped from Lungs becomes fuel for the Storm,
Melt Icecaps,Globe start to warm,
****** Aircon-I spark a Firestorm.

I sell loosies
On the strip
Flipping Jacksons
Into Grants and Benjamins,
Tax-free

At 6 five
And a few stones
Shy of a brick house,
My packs are stashed
Like mousetraps
On the block
Primed with nicotine

Beyond the naked eye
Pieces of me
Bleed broken
Between pores of kohn
Like colored inmates shackled in cells
To misdemeanors

Like selling loosies...

And I need mdi's
To breathe
When the air gets thin
Or when a chiseled arm is locked
Below my chin

For selling loosies...

And I'm kissing cement,
Gasping, "I--can't--breathe!"
On bay street
Bullied by black boots,
Blue eyes
And deaf ears

For selling loosies...

But don't tell that
To my future assassins...

Their sacred blue is immune
To my tainted black.

~ P
#ISellLoosies
(12/13/14)

This might be the Real
Transmission Mechanism

The niggerly water
lubricating a Trickle
Down

Greens in Rich hand
gets miserly saved

Yet earned on Poor back
miraculously makes it Rain

Washingtons fall
a few Jacksons scorch
land in lap

Even a Benjamin
swallows Trick Dollar
to **** a positive cash
flow

Bills stick on teats
just enough to buy

a comfort Doritos
bag a Brand name

snack for her little boy
So he'll grow up knowing

What value-added Marketing
taste like.

Walking, talking, eating,
One lover only baking,
hum waking- up
Is anyone good
at loving?
Always
giving
metals
The modern
love robot

((ATM))  
machine
There is
no
place
Oh! Yes
Lend me all
lovers
at my home

The ((OZ)) fame
Artsy Auntie
(EM) so lame

Listening to
(REM)
Headrush
Makeup
blush also
*** in-between
My break up
My lunch hour
All over again
throwing
cash
way off the street
look out I almost
crashed_

That Casanova
racer
slim
reducer

My
((ATM))
Sexter machine
Pixstar diet
Laughing to
the bank

You are
better
But in the
least seeing
Her for what
she is
The beauty
she is making
up the beast
He is the
Eight personalities
Burnt money
Miss French fries
Baby blue eyes cry
My cash went dry
Henry the eighth

The love affair in
September Goth
Just recently shot
Lord of the rings
Be sure you don't get
the blues
She-devil jeweler
Saphire I
got rushed
She fires out!!
She Forgets **
The finest
champagne
candles

On the tenth
Cash reminder rush
I cannot recall
how I
got here?

I will be back
for the cash!!
That gave her
Total recall

Over there
someone
left more
cash
Someone
overloaded trash
What cash potential
her  best clothes

He looked like
moon dancer
Jacksons five
black glove
Casanova the
best climate
For Cash
Australian mate
Jumping
Jack Flash
You cant always
get what
you want
But if you try
sometimes
You might get
what you need
Don't rush
your life away

With that
Casanova
Don't rush your
stars of
the Nova Scotia

I called my dad last week,
just to talk,
about life
and that's what we did,
we talked.
About my cousin,
she's pregnant again,
a boy.

About another's wedding.
About work, late hours.
His computer jargon
goes right over my head,
but I pretend it doesn't.

I tell him everything.
Every detail,
my new raise,
I'm rolling in the benjamins,
more like the jacksons.

About going out with friends
on a friday night.
About classes and grades,
his new motorcycle.

We talk and talk and talk.
An hour goes by a
and just as we're about to
say goodbye
he asks a question.

You see, he had a dream,
the kind that reoccurs
night after night after night.
I was molested in the library.
It got to the point where
he could not sleep.
His tone got all serious.
If that ever happen to you,
you'd tell me, right?

We talk all the time.

I moved the phone from my ear
swiping the tears that began to fall,
prayed my voice wouldn't crack,
returned the phone to my ear,
and answered:
of course, daddy.
I lied.

This isn't gonna be about what happened to you or how you were treated.
You know, by the media and those who chose to believe all the lies they told.
All I wanna talk about is how you were and what you mean to all of us.
I'm sixteen and have been a fan since I was a three or four year old little girl.
I would watch your videos and love hearing you sing all of those songs.
And I became an even bigger fan of you in fifth grade and have been since.
I sincerely can't get enough of your music from when you were here.
I love everything from when you were in The Jackson 5, Jacksons, and alone.
Because you were always a star and you showed that even in a group.
You were the lead singer who would get out and dance his heart out for us.
You don't know how much you meant to this world all of these years.
And I know that you really loved being on that stage more than being off it.
You said that you'd sleep on stage if you could. you'd live on stage.
You felt so much better when onstage than anywhere else in the world.
The only other time you feel comfortable is playing with a child.
It doesn't matter where they are are what race they are, you just love them.
You love that all they wanna do is play and have fun, not judge you.
You could play with them all day everyday and never get tired of it for a second.
You also had a very strong love for all kinds of animals, even snakes.
You loved every kind of animal from pets to elephants and even tigers.
But even more than that and all the music you made every day.
You were also all about making a difference in this world for all in it.
You hated that there was so much violence and wanted to help.
You used your tours to to make money so you could help charities around the world.
You would go to children's hospitals and oprhanages to give toys.
Because they were either ill or poor or didn't have a family of their own.
You cared so much about helping people in any way you could.
You talked while you were under the influnce trying to sleep about a hospital.
You wanted to use the money you would make on tickets for it.
A children's hospital and you wanted it to be the biggest in the world.
And while you may not have been able to do that, you did a lot.
You were still an inspiration to all of us through your music and kindness.
I don't think that it was your time to leave us five years ago.
But I guess that according to someone higher it was just the right time.
So I just think that you are up there moonwalking on the moon.
You and James Brown, and now Elizabeth Taylor are all together up there.
I will continue to watch your videos and only love you more.
And I just want you to know that you are more than just The King Of Pop.
And that nothing will be the same musically without you.
And nothing will be the same for anyone that knew you without you here.
Rest In Peace wherever you are and know that we love you.
And that we all think about you and support you every single day.

Serpentine of hard green sheen
Born in hydrothermal’s spleen
Where pressured, metamorphosed plate,
Converged at boundaries’ Vulcan gate
To lay in tumbled disarray
Where octopi and dolphin play.

From olivine and pyroxene
Derived the crystal serpentine
Through Hellfires’ metamorphic fate
Now crystalized to Greenstone state.

There lying in the golden light
Of mountain stream in tumbled sight
Refracting in the morning sun
That glint of green since time begun.

M.
That glint of green, a jade boulder
in the tumbling mirth of a plummeting
mountain stream in New Zealands'
wild Southwest.
Jacksons Bay
Fiordland National Park
June 2017

Up with the sun, his mind razor-keen,
he hikes up his trousers and starts his machine.
Though barrels of funk feed their reek to the dawn,
he pays them no heed; the trashman rolls on.
Up alleys, down thruways, past storefronts and stands,
he guides his behemoth with rock-steady hands.
Though big rigs and small fry speed hither and yon,
he sticks to his creed; the trashman rolls on.
Down **** to Impostor, past each stinking bin,
he makes for the junkies and merchants of sin.
Though winos raise eyelids, though punks point and grin,
he straightens his shoulders and thrusts forth his chin.
******* and derelicts lurch from their sties.
Pimps and their harlots flash Jacksons and strut.
“Hey, you in the truck,” a pickpocket cries,
“What are you, buddy, some kinda nut?”
With hands on the levers, and brightly lit eyes,
The big driver leans out and coolly replies:
“No, sir. I’m the trashman.”
And down comes the fork, and up goes the muck.
The gears maul the lowlifes, the fork rocks the truck.
Though hollers and screams shake his steel mastodon,
he longs to proceed; the trashman rolls on.
The truck passes perverts, creeps churned in its bile,
up Felon to Pusher, down Vicious to Vile,
where block upon block, where mile upon mile,
the hookers regale him with smile upon smile.
Near-naked floozies exhibit their wares.
But this man just glares while they trumpet in pique.
“Hey, you in the truck,” a drunk strumpet cries,
“What are you, mister, some kinda freak?”
His hands on the levers, with brightly lit eyes,
the big driver leans out and gently replies:
“No, ma’am. I’m the trashman.”
And down comes the fork, and up goes the slime.
The gears maul the contents to streetwalker chyme.
Though hollers and screams are distressing and drawn,
his heart fails to bleed; the trashman rolls on.
Pining for virtue, he clatters along,
up Bully to Bigot, down Trollop to Spawn,
past Conman and Cutthroat to Thirteenth and Greed.
He steadies, caresses, and readies his steed. Virtue, indeed.
The trashman rolls on.



Okay. NOW CUT AND PASTE THE LINK BELOW TO READ HERO, A SPRAWLING, GROUNDBREAKING FANTASY FOR GROWNUPS IN TWO PARTS. (BUT YOU MUST CLICK ON THE PROVIDED LINK AT THE CONCLUSION OF PART ONE TO ACCESS PART TWO! THAT’S WHERE THIS TALE’S AMAZING RESOLUTION LIES. But please...intelligent, soulful readers only!)
NOW HERE’S THAT LINK:

https://allpoetry.com/poem/14922744-Hero---Part-One-by-Ron-Sanders


Copyright 2020 by Ron Sanders.

contact:
ronsandersartofprose@yahoo.com

and for some reason, whenever the night sky engages
with me: i feel no lessening of meaning,
no dictate superior -
not that i can't grasp something -
or shove myself into the sky beyond
atmosphere -
     it's no the universe that makes me feel
inferior, dwarfed, insignificant -
i count the bodies in a linear pattern -
plumbers, electricians,
   chemists, doctors -
   its this unanimous collectivism,
faked-staged as individual rights that
bugs me...
               oh i'm not jealous -
    but let's face it:
      to speak for the entirety of humanity:
is to not speak for any humanity at all...
man's insignificance doesn't reside
in the stars, in pillars of men standing as
tall as to tickle the constellation -
         it's so much more linear -
in that, the man next to me sees no stars,
sees no heaven,
but only: the next day -
and an art, or profession: that demands him
perfecting it,
       solipsism is thus in the guise of
a placebo effect -
   yet so few fathomable re-entry points -
to put the thought behind in a crevice
of shadows...
        and are men not twice the foetuses
when compared to women?
     a man's ego will forever remain
a foetus-like creature -
                simply because the universe
is feminine -
in that a woman has the "burden"
of carrying through a new, beginning -
which is why a woman's ego will never
be a foetus liking -
  unlike the man, who has an ego that is very
much foetal -
       we contradict by compensating
metaphorically -
         and somehow that leaves us
less contradictory that we might think...
   a woman's ego can never take to
a foetal form, a woman is already
the carrier of the universal -
   which is why so many, if not all women
"lie" - well, hide truths -
and write such terrible books,
if any...
   the moment a woman writes a book
of truths, is the moment she is abhorred
by her ***...
women don't write truths -
a man will stand fully attired in his
nakedness, while a woman will stand
in a burqa -
    peering, so little revealing -
                    the joking poker player.
man is twice the foetus to a woman -
since he emerges from one space of mystery
to another space, of even greater mystery...
a woman at least has the upper-hand
on man by incubating him for one part
of the flux...
       what has man to offer by comparison?
two world's worth of two *******?
      another thing,
i'd love to be included in this debate,
even though, i think so little of it -
      this consensual *** gimmick -
what do you call losing your virginity at
a university house party, where both
both of you are drunk,
   and she decided to go lie in your dorm room,
prior to the end of the party,
and you go back to your room,
and want to fit in with her in a single bed,
and you start kissing,
   and then you begin to engage with
her in *******,
you're drunk, she's drunk,
  but then she suggests in a sober fashion:
matt, put on a ******...
    consensual, or not?
    so you put a rubber on,
  and lose it...
                      she's 21, you're 18...
what was non-consensual about that
sort of theatre?
      could it well be, that having *** while
drunk, pivots on the crux of:
put a ****** on?
i remember testifying for a friend in
court, his phone was stolen while we were
walking,
   i told him: write that number-plate down,
then in the police station i recognised
the ****** from among the 20+ mugshots,
he didn't,
   while in court the ***** lawyer
showed me a picture of the "defendant" -
it was 2 years old...
so i said to him: so you're telling me,
that people these days have all made
dorian grey pacts, and don't change?
  what i i told you that i could probably
don a beard in 5 years?!
the case didn't end well,
   simply because my friend couldn't
identify the mugshot of the culprit -
     and people might mock while i believe
in a god: for one - the universe is a stretchy
womb - and i'm twice the foetus in it...
for another reason: people haven't exactly
mastered jurisprudence -
they can be all cocky when it comes to
laws in science -
but in terms of the lesser laws -
     people know as much about relativism
as einstein knew about quantum physics...
that being said: very little!
       it would be hard not to make a mistake,
einstein was a physicist of the telescope,
of course he would have faltered on
the level atomist investigation -
you don't suddenly get to play with
the heavenly orbs (planets, stars) -
and then get to play with the ants
  (electrons, neutrons, protons) -
       knowing the big doesn't exactly imply
you'll get to know the small,
                                 and vice versa;
and as all men are: we are twice the foetus -
women? only a foetus once -
and then the incubator of constellations -
of man's ideas and thoughts...
  women are only foetuses once...
men? twice...
          and there are so many secrets women
haven't, and never will tell -
no matter how much they "think"
they're written -
     women will never tell the ultimate
truth... it's just simply impossible -
and with the end of life -
man is still ****-naked in eden -
while woman is dressed in a niqab -
peeking through a post-box at the world...
it wasn't muhammad's invention
to create the niqab or any muslim attire -
muhammad revealed the koran -
and the arab women "revealed" the niqab...
and then muhammad was like:
the **** is this!
        and the women said:
well, if you've spoken to
the angelically-handsome gabriel -
try talking to us a second time...
         how far does indeed the scorn of
women flow, to the pits of tartarus
where queen sheba, queen of jealousy,
strokes medusa's serpentine hair of
serpents...
     the oppression was created by women,
there is nothing manly about
putting a ******* wool bucket over
your head and pretending to be a calamity
jane ninja!
   i can't even begin to think that
the islamic attire was created by men...
   surely, after a few centuries,
arabs would become the new jews -
i.e. whitened, michael jacksons...
    you sure enough vitamin D is being
ingested, surely they'd start to become
whiter...
          like the jews did...
  but now, still the same old arabs as
before...
       let's face it: was coco chanel a man,
or a woman?
                 so why would a man give
two farts to the wind's worth of fashion?
don't ask me, i'm drinking,
and i just told you how i lost my virginity
to a drunk psychology french exchange
student,
   and how i feel no guilt having lost it
drunk, and her drunk,
   but the words: put a ****** on -
as being: well, that's consent, alright.

From The Queer History of Portugal's Cowboy T.V. Shows, p. 452:
“The weirdest T.V. show was sponsored by the large Nash-Kelvinator
Corporation & it ran for 243 episodes with its star Ruck Gonner as the
Rifle Guy. No one watched it & it was canceled & Ruck became so
gay that he married Aaron Spelling & they had 9 ***** daughters.”

For all you care
You’d be so close to it
and
Guess what
you’d
never
Know
Never.

For all you want
It can snap you in an instant
Or
It can eat at you
Slowly
Just
Wait
Hang in there
The pain will stop
Along with your ability
to function
You may not want to follow the black-bricked road
But it’s an inevitable path, so been told
Because the end of the black-bricked road
Is death’s divine and dangerous abode

Everytime you cross any  road
Everytime you’re so high
You’re scared that you’ll fall
And guess what
You should be
Death might hit you as you fall
And score a bull’s eye

For there are instances everyday in your life
That death can snap you in just one try
And have you ever
Realized It?

As soon as you go to Helheim
As soon as you enter the underworld
Communities of death in our Percy Jacksons!

Even old civilizations knew death would come any moment
Hey, they were a lot of killings not needed back then
But they were prepared
Much better as such
Than we are
Now

We’ve got wills
items for hands that do not need to be filled
They already have a bucket of tears
For someone has been killed

we need decomposers to eat the death away
We need no reminders that
death might be here and with you it’ll disappear
Death has been here and is here to stay
And travels with us to this day

“Ew, I’d rather die!”

Just travel down the
Black
Bricked
  Road

It's ok that I showed
My sickness and sin
It reveals my humanity

Rabbi Nahman
Always to begin
We fight Sean Hannity

Knowledge comes
Knowledge goes
Sophia and the Lady

Episcopal
Buddhamind
The Jacksons: 1980s

             Thriller!