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Spenser Bennett Apr 2016
It's been said that ignorance is bliss
But I think that phrase took a swing and missed.
Cuz I look around and all the ignorance I see and hear
Seems to stem directly from fear.

Fear of knowledge, change, and what may come next
From both sides of the aisle, right and left

Mother help us we walk along in confusion
Pointing fingers, spewing hate filled abuse and
Forgetting to speak of love for fear of rejection
Father help us we ask your protection

There's more to learn if only we allow it
We should listen to more than just those who shout the loudest

Even jesters garner much attention
And are showered with affection
But their ideas are farcical and dilute
If one but tried they are simple to dispute

Die not with fear in your heart
Remember courage requires fear to start
To defeat our burgeoning ignorance
We must supplant our living indifference
Godawan May 5
May 5 is a special day
Which gave
a new expressions way
Richard Outcault made
a comic strip on this day
in the year
eighteen ninety five
Featuring a big eared
barefoot boy
with a mischievous grin
Who looked warm
but very thin
Later it was given
"Yellow kid" name
This made Richard
an all time fame
He had a beautiful
vision to plot
All the good in
the World of
all the worst
Paving the way for
our Sunday comics and
all kinds of animations
Featuring the cartoons
of all bizarre people
and their bizarre
emotions n ambitions.
Keith W Fletcher Sep 2016
My eyes are beyond polluted
By the overflowing inanities
That paint wordless post-mortems
On yesterday's lost fantasies

Rolling over lifeless as dead certains
When obligations fall into disrepair
And the king of all invocations
Awaits power sitting in an electric chair

As darkness shrouds the uninspired
In  triumphant ticker tape parades
While the bewildered beast becomes the feast
A million glasses in toast are raised

To the jesters unequivocally basphemous proposal
To the queen of all frustrated converts
Who Once Upon a Time willingly surrendered
To the impresario pretender
Who fooled the world by laying siege on the empty house of cards

And with all the power granted
By the grace of obscenities triumphant screams
Separating me from reality by infiltrating my failing vision
With the polluted overflowing inanities of these cellophane dreams
Terry O'Leary Sep 2015
Though still within our infancy,
we strive to thrive, but woefully
we flash and flaunt our 'primacy',
display our trophies pridefully.

Our terra firma ecstasy
destroys survival's harmony,
lays waste to life on land and sea.
Mankind, thy name is vanity!

By doubting Nature's regnancy,
defying laws with levity,
we strain our spheroid's symmetry
(perhaps a fatal fallacy?)

for, swallowed in the 'world of we',
we feed on vain insanity
with thoughts beyond eternity -
so strange when looked at mortally.

No use to seek a remedy
ensconced in ancient prophecy
for if not handled skillfully,
as clay we'll pay the penalty.

The Moguls rule with cruel decree,
control the crowds like puppetry,
pursuing greed addictively
with no accountability.

The wind, it reeks of Royalty
(awash in waves of perfidy)
while blowing ’cross the peasantry
(eclipsed in clouds of treachery).

The Queen, well steeped in snobbery,
sits, preening proud Her pedigree,
on throne of sculpted ebony
while sipping Sect immodestly;

to sate Her Regal Majesty,
a caviar clad canapé
is served with golden cutlery
by maidens bent submissively.

The King is bailed from bankruptcy
by Knaves who hoodwink artfully
the down-and-outer evictee
who wallows in their lenity.

Forsooth, the Money Monarchy
exalts the dollar dynasty
engaged in highway robbery
by Peacocks plumed in finery.

Yes, Jesters and the Fools agree
to truckle to duplicity
and laugh about it witlessly.
Long live the peon's penury!

To champion an oddity
(like two times twelve is fifty three)  
one reaches to theology
through paths of circularity.

In bygone trials of travesty
the doubters, draped in blasphemy,
endured the pain and agony
inflicted by the papacy.

Inspired by the Trinity
fanatics bent cosmology
in geocentric fantasy
while Bruno burned for heresy;

and aged women, randomly
accused of wicked witchery
by justice framed in infamy,
were racked and shown no clemency

That epoch of credulity
(when savants fostered sorcery
and practiced ancient alchemy)
arose in dark age quackery

as clerics dripping piety
(while raging, raving rabidly)
pervaded thralled society
with callous inhumanity;

'repent', they bellowed, 'verily,
forsake the world's iniquity,
live lives of want and chastity,
and give your gelt to God through me'.

The Masters make a mockery
of freedom and democracy
by holding down the uppity,
released from shackled slavery,

now fettered in a factory
else strewn across the Bowery,
still chained in bonds of bigotry,
immersed in seas of poverty.

And colliers, tapping balefully
in sunken-mine solemnity,
yet thrum a mournful monody
some call the digger's elegy.

To children, pale and raggedy
(behind a day of drudgery),
the boss man, oh so gallantly,
bestows a penny, niggardly;

though some are fed (belatedly),
their eyes recede in apathy
while bellies bulge, inflatedly,
with mothers watching, wretchedly.

When met with health adversity
or broken bone infirmity,
the pauper dangles helplessly
with no insurance policy;

and those engulfed in lunacy
are ailing blobs left floating free
in ******-dream obscurity -
a mired madhouse odyssey.

Ignoring mankind's unity,
the rich and poor dichotomy
breeds dismal doomed finality,
eventual nihility.

Renewing days of chivalry,
wild warriors fighting valiantly
bring freedom neath the gallows tree
while blending blood and burgundy

to toast the slaughtered enemy,
and so convince the colony
to cede with smile on bended knee
and yield her diamonds, silk and tea.

At first they call the cavalry
and then again the infantry,
so proudly primped in panoply,
with arms from finest armory

(embraced in hands so tenderly
bestow benign atrocity) -
and soon atomic weaponry
will extirpate posterity.

Misusing high technology
(to feed the face of gluttony)
depletes our Rock of energy,
now slowly dying thermally.

Our gadgets breathing CFC
fuel ozone holes' immensity
while cloud bursts, raining acidly,
wilt woods in their entirety,

and rivers, tainted chemically,
polluted biologically,
refill our cups methodically
and drown our souls organically.

Adjusting genes mechanically
may well blot out the bumble bee
annulling fruits' fecundity,
but brings big bucks reliably.

We wager perpetuity
to revel momentarily
in shadow-like obscurity
ignoring the futility,

but if we bet unknowingly
on fickle fate's contingency
and thereby act haphazardly
we're doomed to lose the lottery.

The modern day bureaucracy
abuses trust egregiously ,
embeds itself in obloquy
and offers no apology.

It paints the past in reverie
to camouflage the tendency
to strip away our privacy
which paves the path to tyranny.

With earlobes lurking furtively
that listen surreptitiously,
and eyeballs peering piercingly
we've lost cerebral sovereignty,

and those who dare to disagree
must hide away in secrecy
else crowd a black facility
(with water board anxiety).

Yes, sans responsibility,
our marble in this galaxy
will crumble in catastrophe
ere ever reaching puberty…
Kristaps Mar 8
Carnival carvings seep into your tombstone.
And from the ceiling, we hanging, in red
and black striped pajamas watched you
get lowered.
The jesters
       cartwheel in my laugh,
they travel and trial, tediously tar, and rat aches
in to my tartar.

I weep for the wayward west, that
(you never explicitly promised) we were to visit.
I've seemed to begun, helter-skelter a few;
                   steam trombones
are no masonry aemons.
Of ghouls gnaws only poetry,
awaiting our reunion, my dearest Laika-
forever deceased.
Devon Brock Sep 12
This sweltering band of pariahs raised
through one hand, one voice,
dragging chain like kitetails,
stable on cloud, though untethered.

The unfed gape,
pitcher plants in empty nests.
Even flies evade this truth.

Mingle the sweats of our bare naked bones,
lost nosegays, groping green garlics thrown,
half-gnawed red raw chicken ******* blown
out and festering in pits,
garbage cans,
coffees slow whisked to instant
black ground,
whether silken and dazzling,
whether burlap and scratching,
linens that never hold a press,
admit the one stench
that no weave contains.

All ye cast off jesters and janglers,
jasmine untanglers,
rejoice and submit
to this one sweet stench
that is we.
I always said she had too much coffee and cake ,
her portly shape was due to too much wine ,
and now all she craved was a good time.

I always said the cigars she smoked were like
Tomb stones ,
to blind to notice,
to addicted to care .

I always said ,
I always said .

And her heart only beat to climb the stairs ,
and the chocolate and chips helped her through the day .

Rainbows and demons ,
Chains and weeds ,
and the wind and rain ,
and the rain and the wind found us on our knees .

Spoh koyn nee noh Cheh dorogoy , ( good night my dear ) for
I shall navigate my love under a starry host on my ship of jesters and
Fools .

You’re cigars and cake are the rainbows and demons ,
and chains and weeds to our love ,
For you’re laughter for our foolish freedom came not from God above .

Must I then take the ash and crumbs and the yellow **** you retch ,
and hope what’s left does not choke you .

We shall marry in our Geogian satire of smokin mirrors , gin and Russian roulette ,
I will play the doctor ,
You the patient.
Our babies will smoke cigars from their Georgian prams ,
Wine ,cigars , chocolates and cake I shall spoon feed you ,
.....until you’re dead .

For you’re chains and weeds have killed you ,
and death has taken you away .

And here at our table I shall sit alone ,
thinking of you .
With wine a cigar ,
Chocolate cake and a cigar I shall toast you ,
until this day ,
draw a curtain ,turn off the lights .
Sweet dreams my malen kaya kroshka
( my little crumb )
sweet dreams .
Tyler Matthew Oct 2018
In ancient times, you once were mine,
and we were queen and king.
The jesters all sang songs for us,
and gifts did royals bring.
I held your hand,
walked through the land
while people smiled at us.
We never spoke an angry word,
content with all there was.

But soon enough, Jealousy
let himself into our gate.
And riding close behind was Lust
and Lonliness and Hate.
They rode into our castle then,
and took your hand from mine.
And rushing you away with them,
they spilled all of our wine.

I gathered up my forces,
20,000 banners blew.
Rallying behind our love,
we went in search of you.
We must've marched 1,000 miles
before I heard your voice -
much unlike the one I knew,
little more than just a noise.

I spied you in a tower high,
chained in your misery.
The subtleties of love, to you,
were just a mystery.
Then I resolved to break the walls
that kept you there from me.
So many died, and tears were cried,
but there was victory.

And now I have here, built for you,
a tower of my own.
I'll keep you there within my sight
as I sit on my throne.
And the walls that are surrounding us
are strong and high and true -
a symbol of our victory
and my love for you.
Written to the melody of "Blunderbuss" by Jack White
Terry Collett Oct 2018
Ham took you to a cafe
on London Road;
he was meeting
Bernard there.

Sit there,
Ham said,
indicating a table
by the wall with wallpaper
with a flowered pattern.

You sat; stared
around the cafe;
frowned at two men
at the next table.

Who's there?
You say,
pointing towards them,
wondering where
your Lord Hamlet had gone,
and these two jesters
at his court.

What's the matter, love?
One of the men said,
smiling, eyeing you,
taking in your hair and eyes.

Nay, answer me,
you said, stand,
and unfold yourself.

Ham came over
to the table:
Hush, Ophelia,
he said.

He apologised to the men,
twirling a finger
at the side of his head.

You gazed at your lord;
he contested
with these jesters,
you surmised,
eyeing them.

They looked
away from you;
conversed between themselves;
sipped their mugs of tea,
ate their breakfasts.

You sat gazing at your lord
bargaining with a rogue.

He brought
two mugs of tea
and bacon sandwiches
and sat opposite you,
his back to the jesters.

Bernard will be here soon,
Ham said, gazing at you,
behave yourself.


Yes, Bernard,
so keep your voice down,
Ham said.

He began his sandwich;
you began yours.

Bernard came in the cafe
and ordered a tea,
and waved.

you said,
you come most carefully
upon your hour.

Hush, Ophelia,
Ham said.

Bernard smiled at you;
he tried to understand you
and your vocal expressions.

you said softer
and waved.

He waved back
and paid the rogue
and went, and sat next you,
facing Ham.

Unfold yourself,
you said.

Ham raised his hand
to hush you.

You sat and ate
and drank.

Your lord was speaking
with his minister;
he spoke of battle,
you assumed,
and jested of wounds
of war.

You felt your ***
beneath your dress;
it felt so sore.
A young woman, mentally ill with her lover and carer in London in 2007
Strapped to the outside of a rocket ship with nothing in the way.
I took off, and I just kept going. Reaching a height higher than heaven.
Nothing to orient myself. No time. No space. No self. Nothing but darkness stretching out all around me.
A roar of a million voices trying to scream over eachother resonates through my head.
I then came into orbit. Everything begun to crystalize.
No longer was I confounded to the restrictions of flesh. By birth and by death. I was out of my shell. Out of my world.

Complex geometrical patterns formed around me. Beating. Breathing. Moving. Almost like they were alive.
I had no way to process this. It was all so perfoundly alien. This was not my world. "Where the **** am I?" I thought
Terror possesses me. I feel like I am going to **** myself. Then all of a sudden these beings of indescribable features surround me, telling me to relax. "Relax now. Take it in. Settle down."
They told me they were my guides. They were going to show me around.

They gave me the tour of this universe, "Look at this! Look at that!" they said excitedly, showing me worlds that I can not explain, yet they seemed to reflect me.

I suddenly lost them. Where has my tour group gone?!
Suddenly these entites besieged me. Giving off negative energy. Holy ****! Jesters with tight pants and bell hats. Giving me the finger. They were so mischevious. Surrounding. Laughing. Jumping inside of me. ****** my soul. Is this what hell feels like?!

The darkness begins to clear, as a large face of a shimmering blue woman, with flaming white hair blowing in a non-existant wind, comes into view. Her face has so much dimension, with thousands of other faces upon her own. A snake tongue escapes through her lips, wrapping around me, pulling me into her mouth. I am flung into a space that is pure white, and a warm tingling sensation fills me.
This is what heaven feels like. This is my home. I think I found god.
I have never felt so much love. I have never felt so alive.

I then opened my eyes, trying to process my surroundings. I was in my home. On the couch. Sitting in front of the tv. My friend Jason was sitting next to me. He asked me what did I see. I leaped off of the couch, screaming "It is all a simulation!" I pulled my shirt off, swinging it around like Daniel from the bible. I tried to throw myself down the stairs, but was stopped when Jason tackled me. He held me in a chokehold, and while this was happening I exclaimed:

"On earth I am just a monkey,
but out there I am so much more.
I am not just a speck on a spinning ball.
I am more than the skin I wear,
More than the title I bear.
There is so much out there.
This world is not real.
What is real is me."

When I finally calmed down, Jason asked me how I was doing.
I looked up at him and I said "I am a work in process."
“never lament casually”

Leonard Cohen

the serious are plenty burdensome,
so if the flight delayed, or the device batteries,
moments away from recognizing that
0% is still a viable digit with a special meaning,
these, none deserving of deploring the human condition

but the weight of leaving her in cold Montreal,
while old promises made, demand a presence in L.A.,
freezey veins, icy cracking inspiration attempts in vain,
all the unrecognizable for crying out loud verses on a
cocktail napkin scribbled, watching ink letters wet melting

your wants simplest, fireplace warmth snap cackling
pop love songs verses for her, the sheets of her dark skin,
silken on your tongue, the wetness of her Oh’s,
left a connect-the-dots map from your nose to toes,
but her fingertip markers, now a thousand miles away,
busy throwing up to the sky, hands filled with leaves of
crisp falling colors assortment, only the colorless no’s left

they play a tune you wrote years ago on the lounge speakers,
modified, wordless, so it’s innocuous, background harmless,
this axes paper cuts on your private places where the songs get
birthed, and now your whole package is tonnage measurable,
the lamentations serious, serious constellations, etching a new song


“for the relearning is the crown jew-el,
that jesters rob from their kingly masters,
pride in love is the fall season preceding
Canadian winters, always thinking
you know better, be better at keeping warm,
this time which is the next time

you cannot learn from love,
cause it’s twice, two times,
never the same,
past lessons ain’t no prologue,
the body is maybe in the wafers,
sometimes vanilla,
sometimes chocolate

and the epilogue is
100% of the  poem~songs
that I loved writing
and hate remembering

Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
The imagination is evidently pure; its here --
The ascent of ideas and valiant colours, and hysterics
In matrimony- on this delirious evening mood
(But he needs more paper to write)

We are familiar with The Great what's-his-name?
Ah - The Bard, out of the reserved shadows he would abrupt,
Create scenes of quiet saints turned to garrulous beings
(But he needs more paper to write)

On his tattered paper, he would write of idle witches, comedies, tragedies, of
The insanity of Love, the flaws of princes, fools, knights,  daughters, servant boys,
His work resembles that of festival with black and blue harlequins
(But he needs more paper to write)

The pity for Jesters, Twice as bloomed as the audience laughs at him!
What pessimism, what insanity, caused such a twist in this plot? they say
To understand the agony of the human spirit, where he writes inexhaustibly
(But he needs more paper to write)...

all I've ever learned from love


in the trying is the finding out
of the
all about,
losing battles to find yourself,
a war-won victor and a long term loser,
making the process new, expensive
the event expertise training
acquired to shoot your foot straight,
laugh about it when you do it again
and again

for the relearning is the crown jew-el,
that jesters rob from their kingly masters,
pride in love is the fall season preceding
Canadian winters, always thinking
you know better, be better at keeping warm,
this time which is the next time

you cannot learn from love,
cause it’s twice, two times,
never the same,
past lessons ain’t no prologue,
the body is maybe in the wafers,
sometimes vanilla,
sometimes chocolate

and the epilogue is
100% of the
poem~songs that I love writing
and hate remembering

— The End —