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Toxic yeti Feb 2019
Two young pretty woman
Friends in since the 8th grade
One, Johnnie, was a classy yet
Sensual
And the other, Tasha, plain
And ******
They were both mountaineers
When Johnnie forced Tasha to
Go out and see the sights
Johnnie got the eye
Of a middle aged Tibetan monk
It was love at first sight
Though forbidden
Lama Tashi
And Johnnie Merton the middle of the night
In a shack
Run down yet cozy
There they made love
And talked while kissing
For they really loved each other
Though
One morning
Tasha and her beloved
Were nowhere to be since
Suspicious Johnnie
Looked until she found
Her beloved Tashi
Walking away
And her “friend” Tasha
Running away
This meant one thing
They were coupling.
Enraged at the thought
Johnnie poisoned her friend
Then she recurved a letter
From the Lama
That he made a mistake
And only wanted her
Johnnie crumpled the letter
For it added to her rage
The Tasha survived the
Poisioning
And it sent Johnnie in to a rage
She then took her ice axe
And hacked Tasha to death
With it
Thirty wacks
Then she lured her lover to the shack
And tried to couple
With him
During witch
She gave him
Fifty wacks
With the ice axe
While making love to him.
That was when she
Made the life long mistake
Johnniece “Johnnie” David
Killed herself with an overdose.
No note was left.
Sprishya Jul 2013
I don’t even care about your ******* anymore
A 60 of Johnnie is all I want
In fact it’s all I ever wanted
All I needed
Your love?
Everything’s love after a few drinks
Your love, her love, my love
Love for my dog and love for that rock
A 60 of johnnie is all I want
**** your problems and your concerns
If it’s not me you’re getting with tonight
Then ******* too
Take a knife and cut me open
I want to see myself bleed
Just a thought when my mind lacks
The 60 of Johnnie that it so craves
Set this mind at ease
Come up to me slowly,
Seductively,
Touch me in the places your mother wouldn’t approve
Do things your father would **** me for
I’m going to commit a sin
Your eyes are to blame
Things I would do to that body
The most beautiful girl in the world tonight
And yet my love
A 60 of Johnnie is all I want.

(Los Angeles , CA 7/21/13 1:21 AM)
nabi 나비 Jan 2017
Warning* This is not a poem, by any stretch of the means, if you don't want to read a story then skip over this.  If you are against any part of the LGBT+ community, skip over this!! If you would like to read this then keep on reading and thank you very much

       Coming out is terrifying.  Figuring yourself out in the first place is absolutely scary, but then telling everyone what you've figured out is even scarier.  Here is my story.
      My story starts in the 4th grade.  I remember I would be at choir concerts and I would be in the audience watching with my family, and I would be staring at the girls.  Because they had such pretty dresses, and gorgeous makeup, and long flawless hair. And I would pay no attention to the boys, because the boys aren't pretty like the girls are, they aren't pretty at all to me.  Then suddenly I noticed that, and then I remembered all the girls in my class talking about how cute Johnnie is and I sort of connected that I thought Sally was a lot cuter than Johnnie or any other boy in my class was.  
      Then I remember going home and sitting in my room and being determined to figure this out, because this is weird.  I've never heard of a girl liking a girl! That happens?!?! If this is real then why haven't Mom or Dad said anything?  So I sat down in my room and I got a black, blue, and pink marker and a piece of paper.  On one side of the paper I drew a boy in blue and on the other I drew a girl in pink.  In the middle I put the word or.  But I didn't know which side to circle, so I folded up the paper and hid in between my closet door because it was open but you could put stuff in between the doors without anyone seeing it. In a month I found the paper again, and this time I knew which one I was attracted to.  So I grab my black marker and I circle the girl.  
      I don't really remember how much longer after the paper incident that this next event happened, but I know it was 4th-5th grade somewhere in there.  I had my best friend over, I think it was for a sleepover. We're gonna call her Ally. But I remember me and Ally were just hangin out in my room.  I look over at Ally and say 'Hey, Ally I gotta tell you something' and she's waiting for me to respond.  So I say 'I think I like girls.' That's all I say, nothing more.  Ally goes off repeating that it's wrong and that it's not right and that I have to like boys otherwise something is wrong with me, and is just going on and on when I just jump up and say 'JUST KIDDING, it was just a joke calm down'.  Then we just laugh it off and then she makes the comment 'if you did like girls i'd be okay with it, but i wouldn't be as close to you because i'm a girl too'. That really hurt me, which caused me to internalize all of my questioning thoughts and try my hardest to forget about them.
        Now it is middle school, during middle school I dated 3 boys.  We are going to call them Jona, Chris, and Lucas. I dated Jona for 15 months and our "relationship" was more like a friendship with fancier terms.  I'm buddies with Jona now so it's all good.  Chris didn't last long so that doesn't really matter.  Lucas!!!! I dated Lucas for 6 months and during this time I realized that I really was attracted to girls and I couldn't keep hiding it.  I realized this because Lucas was my first kiss and I was not into it AT ALL!!! I just wasn't, I tried i really did.  But I just was never much into the dude thing! Nothing against him at all, he's a really sweet guy and I'm really close friends with him now. But after I had my first kiss, I pretty much was like girls are real pretty and the dudes im just not into that.  So I sorta just slowly stopped talking to Lucas, and I ended breaking up with him.
       But I was scared of being judged for being completely lesbian, so i came out as a pansexual because i thought people would be more accepting.  So I came out to my sister first, I have 2 sisters and i came out to the one that is a year younger than me ,Izzy. Izzy was in the living room one night and i walked out there and i said 'Izzy, you'll love me no matter what, right?' she replied yes and just asked me what was wrong repeatedly.  Then I was like I was thinking and just needed some reminder.  Then she followed me to my room and harassed me for an explanation.  Then I came out and said 'Izzy, im pansexual.'  Then I explained what it was and the first thing she said was '***, NOW I HAVE A GBF!!!'.  I felt so much better after that and i was just so relieved.  After that i came out to my Mom, friends, and my other sister.        
After 3 months, I revealed to my mom that i was still confused because I leaned more towards females and that at that moment i was just using pan as a label but if it changed to not be surprised.
        Around a week after that I gained the courage to come out to my Dad.  I honestly don't know why I was so scared to come out to him, but I was and he was around the last one to learn.  So I walked into my parents room and was just talking to Dad, I had my mom stay in the room just to lessen my anxiety about all of this.  Then I brought up the topic of the LGBT+ community, dad and i talked about it for awhile.  Then i said 'dad, i mentioned gays because i like girls'.  then my dad went on a list of analogies but in the end he was okay with it.  Actually my dad was the most supportive about it right after i told him he was so okay with it and it made me so happy.  Although my dad was upset because i was scared to tell him.  After I came out to him, I pretty much just admitted to being a full blown lesbian, and it was all great and dandy and everyone was happy.
       Then it was time to go back to school, but this year was the year I started high school.  So I was a freshman who had just come out as a lesbian to all my friends and family over summer.  So not many people knew that I was gay.  But then I become friends with this girl, I really liked her.  I was at a friends party and she was invited and after that party I couldn't get her off my mind.  (I know this seems like it's going off track but it will connect soon) I figured out that we have a class together and we started talking.  
        At the party I mentioned the whole being gay thing and she was okay and very aware of it, and one day she went to my locker after school.  She had been doing that a lot and gave me hugs to say bye and stuff but i completely overlooked it because i don't know what flirting is. She was at my locker and i decided to put my big girl pants on and ask if she liked girls.  She responded with i'm pretty much cool with anything (pansexual). Then she asked me to the dance, I obviously said yes and wigged out when she walked away and immediately texted my best friend in florida (Ally).(Oh BTW I came out to her over summer over skype and she's completely chill with it now, we are still best friends and she doesn't mind at all) So we went to the dance and she asked me out.  I said yes, wigged out some more, and then danced some more with my friends while she talked to hers for a few minutes.  Fast forward to the few weeks after the dance.  We had been walking down the halls and hugging so everyone figured it out.
         That's where we are today.  I am still dating the girl, i've met her family and she has very nice parents.  All my friends know that I am lesbian, and they completely accept me.  My family knows, but when I say family I mean my household family.  My grandma and great-aunt know, but besides that no one else does but I don't really need them too so it's all good.  But I am so much happier than I have been in a long time.  Yes, relationships are so frickin stressful especially if it is one with the same *** and you've never had one of them before.  So if you are in your first relationship with a girl, take it slow.  But if anyone is in the mindset of coming out, first make sure that it is safe for you too before you do it.  If it's not safe you can't, be safe about it no matter what.  You'll be able to be open about it one day, but make sure you are in a safe environment.  But if it is, yes coming out is the most stressful time ever! But in the end it is the most rewarding thing, to be able to openly say I'm insert your label(s). It's an amazing feeling, yes you might lose some people on the way but if they won't accept you for the real you then don't even deserve you.  So my final thing it, you are an amazing human, and if you come out you are the strongest being and you have earned my utmost respect. If you haven't, you've earned my utmost respect because it's heart wrenching and I've been there, but you will be able to bloom one day my little flower.
For the sake of privacy of anyone who may know me reading this, I've changed all the names.
Olivia Kent Nov 2014
The Lego men.
Sat in the toy box playing with their bricks.
Johnnie the little fella took them out to play
Daddy put a board in the garden just upon the patio.
What was just a piece of ply grew before Johnnie's eye.
He tipped them out onto the board.
Went inside to fetch a drink and get  a spot of near noon brunch.
A thriving hive of industry, was hidden in his plastic box.
He came back outside and all was built.
Castles and gardens, palatial palaces.
The Lego men had built a perfect village.
Nobody knew they could.
Just a little shocked.
His little sister Jennifer, she hid behind the garden wall.
It wasn't the work of the miraculous Lego men after all.
Who would ever have believed that the toys came out to play.
(C) Livvi
“Even the streets leading up to its outer barriers were roamed by gorilla-faced guards in black uniforms, armed with jointed truncheons.”
                                                    ­ George Orwell, 1984* (published in 1949)

Which brings us, of course, to the subject of torture since 1949.
Come with me to the Casbah, Babaloo.
We begin in the 1950s with the French in North Africa,
****** baguettes in Algeria,
Couilles frits, anyone?
Electrodes wired to Mustapha’s *****.
And "Bigeard's Shrimps,” as the bodies were called,
Dumped over the Mediterranean from aircraft,
All things considered a je ne sais quoi,
Though Camus and Sartre gave it a whack.

Then the 1960s: the CIA dabbling in mind-control and LSD.
Later, a Phoenix Program,
Very secretive, sympathies with the Cong required,
Various elders selected,
The village disinfected,
**, **, ** and a bowl of Pho.

Apartheid anyone?
Thirty years of South African terror & torture.
Torment in the townships,
Shaka Zulu gold and diamonds,
De Beers in Swaziland swing.

1971: riots at Attica,
Prisoners abused and tortured,
Rockefeller’s overcrowded slammer,
An upstate New York katzenjammer,
Nelson’s finger on the trigger,
39 dead and counting,
But who’s counting?

The CIA, back in the news in 1973,
Torture chambers under Chilean soccer stadiums,
And the Khmer Rouge:
Those Wacky Cambodians with skull racks.  
And let us not forget the British,
With centuries of colonial experience behind them,
Occupy six counties in Northern Ireland.
Finally codify the imperial process,
The Five Techniques:
Sounds like a Motown group,
Satin smooth colored boys,
But more method than music:
(1) Wall-standing,
(2) Hooding,
(3) Subjection to noise,
(4) Sleep deprivation,
(5) No food and drink.

And there’s a bunch of horrible ****,
We still don’t know about the Argentine ***** War,
And other Mai Lai-like,
****-fest massacres in Vietnam.

How about torture since 1984?
Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo,
Come quickly,
(www.prematureejaculatorsanonymous.com)
To mind,
As do US-sponsored rendition facilities,
Spread throughout the NATO alliance.
And closer to home, it’s never a dull moment in the 5 Boroughs:
Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island, The Bronx and Manhattan.
Take your pick from Giuliani’s Greatest Hits,
Rudy Kazootie’s campaign of law and order,
Not necessarily in that order.
More awful than lawful,
A bathroom plunger rammed up,
The Haitian voodoo ****** of Abner Louima,
While he be handcuffed at a Brooklyn station house.
Or, the NYPD partying like it was 1999.
When in fact, it was1999,
And a curious death it was for Amadou Diallo,
Would-be American citizen from The Republic of Guinea,
(No connection to Italy or Italians),
Abner & Amadou: a pair of cautionary tales,
Either/or reflecting standard procedure for the Po-Po,
Time and time again from coast to coast.
Either/or: poor Abner, no Haitian Papa Doc.
Poor Amadou, on his way home from night school,
When police squeeze off 41 rounds,
Most of them in his direction,
Hitting him 19 times.
Just the facts, ma’am:
Diallo had reached into his jacket.
A trigger-happy police officer yells “Gun.”
A jungle warfare quartet springs into action:
Shenzi, Banzai, Ed & Zazu,
Four equally trigger-happy colleagues,
Empty their weapons.
No gun was found on Diallo,
Only the wallet he tried to pull out,
Containing his Green Card,
4 U.S. dollar bills;
And a laminated,
Credit card-sized copy of the U.S. Bill of Rights.
(I just didn’t know when to quit, did I?
The wallet was there with Green Card and the bucks,
But I made up the part about the Bill of Rights,
Trying to add poetry to tragedy, as usual.)

I don’t have to say much about Rodney King (RIP).
You watched it on TV a hundred times,
And a picture’s worth a thousand words.
Or ten thousand or a million, I suppose.
“Can’t we all just get along?” asked Rodney Glen King.

Last but not least there’s Kelly Thomas (RIP),
Another incidence of police insanity,
It was July of 2011 in Fullerton, California.
Thomas, a 37-year-old homeless man,
Schizophrenic, but unarmed,
Beaten to death at a bus depot,
During an altercation with six Fullerton police officers.
Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2019225/Kelly-Thomas-Poli­­ce-beat-taser-gentle-mentally-ill-homeless-man­-death.html#ixzz1e­3­4QnHtr

Mervyn Lazarus | Attorney | (www.mervlazarus.com) Police Brutality, Excessive Force and Jail Injury cases | California . . . Albuquerque

Jackie Chiles perfect attorney -YouTube, (www.youtube.com/watch?v=jpcEietIoxk) Nov 17, 2010 - 13 min - Uploaded by Kroeger22 All the scenes with Jackie Chiles from Seinfeld."Chiles is a parody of famed attorney Johnnie Cochran; both ... www.seinfeld.com

Perhaps the greatest torture of all,
Is that which artists subject us to.
Let us examine the case of Roberto Bolaño:
Roberto Bolaño, the great Chilean writer,
Tells a fabulous World War II story,
About a Spaniard--an Andalusian--
Fighting for the Germans against the Russians.
Captured by the Russians,
He is tortured for information.
The Spaniard speaks no Russian,
He knows only four words of German.
The Russian interrogators strap him into a chair,
Attach electrodes to his *****,
Attach pincers to his tongue.
The pain makes his eyes water.
He said--or rather shouts--the word coño.
It is Spanish for ****.
The pincers in his mouth,
Distort the expletive,
Which in his howling voice comes out as KUNST.
The Russian who knows German looks at him in puzzlement.
The Andalusian was yelling KUNST,
Yelling KUNST and crying in pain.
KUNST in German means art,
And that was what the bilingual Russian heard, KUNST.
“This ******* must be an artist or something.”
The torturers remove the pincers,
Along with a little piece of tongue,
And wait, momentarily hypnotized by the revelation:
The word ART had soothed the savage beasts.
So soothed, the savage beasts take a breather,
Waiting for some kind of signal.
Meanwhile, the Andalusian bleeds from the mouth,
Swallows his blood liberally mixed with saliva, and chokes.
The word coño,
Transformed into the word *KUNST,

Had saved his life.
It was dusk when he came out of the building.
Light stabbed at his eyes like midday sun.

So, it’s a fact that I love,
Truly love the simple blunt Anglo-Saxon expletive ****,
****: I pray that while I am being tortured some day,
I have the dignity to scream the word out loud.
And if I am screaming **** at the very end,
When my nervous system finally fails,
When I **** my pants,
When my pulmonic heart and lungs collapse,
Is that so bad?
Is that so wrong?

Do you realize that 1984 came--
Came and went, without any significant cultural hoopla?
The networks ignored it.
As did the cable pundits.
No significant comparative analysis between,
Orwell’s book 1984 and the year 1984,
Was broadcast electronically or publicized in print.
Steve Jobs got it, but as usual no one else did.
Mr. Jobs (RIP) did his best,
To mainstream its profound cultural relevance,
But ultimately failed,
Despite the $1.5 million he paid one of the networks,
To air a one minute nation-wide commercial,
During the 3rd Quarter,
Of Super Bowl XVIII,
January 22, 1984.
Despite Ridley Scott’s astonishing spell-binder,
His 60-second spot for The Macintosh 128K--
Still considered a watershed event,
And an advertising industry masterpiece,
…YouTube it and watch it.  (www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z8ji0B98IMo).
See the hammer throwing athlete chick,
See her fling the sledge,
That huge sledgehammer,
Smash into Big Brother’s flat screen face.
Despite Jobs’ global presence,
Despite Steverino’s unfettered microphone access,
Whenever he felt an oraculation coming on,
Despite everything,
He was unable to move the powers that be,
To either hype the book or the prophecy come true.

So, what’s my point? I have two.
First, in April 1984 the estate of George Orwell,
And the television rights holder to the novel 1984,
Considered the edgy Jobs/Scott commercial to be,
A flagrant copyright infringement,
Sending a cease-and-desist letter to Apple Inc.
And the advertising agency that produced the spot: Chiat/Day Inc.
The commercial was never televised as a commercial after that.  
Score: Lawyers 1, Artists 0.

My second point is that in November 2011,
The U.S. government argued before the U. S. Supreme Court,
That it wants to continue utilizing GPS tracking of individuals,
Without first seeking a warrant.
In response, Justice Stephen Breyer (one of the sane ones),
Questioned what this means for a democratic society.
Referencing Nineteen Eighty-Four, Justice Breyer asked:
"If you win this case, then there is nothing,
To prevent the police or the government from monitoring 24/7,
The public movement of every citizen of the United States.
So if you win, you suddenly produce what sounds like 1984 . . .”*

My third point,
(Yeah, I know I said two, but *******.)
My third point is that I’m just so ******* angry,
All the time, late and soon like Wordsworth,
(Was anyone more aptly named?)
I am angry about so many different things,
And every day that goes by I relate more and more,
To the thousands of Americans that occupied,
Zuccotti Park and Oakland,
And countless other venues,
Out into the streets.
Across the country.
Around the world.  
I am humbled by their courage and perseverance.
Yet, I am afraid for them.
I am made paranoid by the scope and power,
Of the government,
Of the ruling class that controls it,
And the technology they allow us to embrace,
Technology’s sinister potential,
Now that more and more knowledge and information,
Has been digitized,
Existing only in cyberspace.                                                      ­                                                 
What frightens most is the realization,
That anyone with a word processor,
And access to the database could rewrite,
Any historical or legal document,
To fit the needs of a current agenda.
The scary part is—
Repeating myself for emphasis—
That anyone with a word processor
And access to the database could rewrite,
Any historical or legal document,
To fit the needs of a current agenda.

Does anyone out there give a ****?
Does anyone out there share my nightmare?
Do it to Julia.
Do it to Julia.
Ashley Chapman Sep 2017
In pubs with bar flies.
Kronenburg, Becks, Carling, Stella Artois and Fosters,
Dancing in our blood,
Utterly inured; we are endured by all:
The solipsism most profound.

And when Johnnie, Jack and Jameson join,
The sentimental and the morbid
Are conjoined.

And ****!
In the custody of beer halls,
The shadows that draw, fade,
And calls – e’en Death’s! -- are put on hold!
No time; instead, before the last, another pint.

For in this hallowed inn,
Drinking what’s in the glass,
And espousing the glow within,
Cares regress.

No woes,
Or loaded psyches,
For when the pressure builds,
The best: a jet of yellow bliss,
Relieves the pain,
On Armitage Shanks' porcelain.
Quinn's is pub in Camden. Armitage Shanks a ****** & toilet manufacturer.
David Chin Oct 2011
My dad taught me how to throw a baseball
And how to throw a football.
“Thanks, Daddy!”
Every time we walked back inside,
“Thanks, Daddy!”
He tried to teach me how to ride a bike.
Even though I fell…I lost count…
I still said, “Thanks, Daddy!”
Coaching track to little kids last summer
Brought back good memories from my childhood.
I remember Johnnie,
Little Johnnie with brown hair
And blue eyes
And the biggest smile a kid can have.
I see myself in him,
Minus the brown hair and blue eyes.
He always wanted to learn more of track
And I always wanted to coach him more.
“Coach David? Can you teach me the 200 meters?”
“Sure, Johnnie!”
He would answer with a “Thanks, Coach!”
I always see his mom dropping him off
And picking him up.
Every time after practice he would say, “Thanks, Coach!”
And all I can do is give a pat on his head
And say, “Good job, kid!”
Last day of the program, I gave him a medal
And you know what he said to me?
“Thanks, Daddy!”
I stood there as he ran to his mom
And I thought, “Yeah…thanks, Daddy!
Francie Lynch Sep 2014
Strange question indeed,
So I asked one and all;
Explain to me:
“What's a plumber's ball?”

Family and friends
Heeded my call,
But none could confine,
Refine or define it,
Yet Paul was sure
He could design it.

Still, none could satisfy
My caterwaul:
“What the hell is a plumber's ball?”

Does it sweat the pipe
Or wiggle the snake:
Can it clamp the ******
For Heaven's sake?
Could it snap on the ****-hole cover?
All these queries
Made me wonder.

Has it something to do
With hardness leakage,
Or ******* the ball-****
To stop a seepage?
Has it anything to do
With a saddle valve dripping,
Electric eels,
Or two pipes mating?
And, I heard of male and female fittings,
And should I worry
If I'm standing or sitting?

If you're discharging the head
Or elongating the pipe,
Does the plumber's ball
Help it snug tight?
Is it in my tank,
Or in my bowl,
Beneath the floor
Near the drainage hole?
Is the plumber's ball
In the back of the truck
(Jeff laughed and said
One could rub it for luck).

I asked Michel
If he could tell,
He sensed it was something
He could smell.
I sought out Ray,
Perhaps he'd know,
But he was on call
To restrain a back-flow.
I couldn't ask Gary
For his wisdom and sense,
He was wigglin' the snake
To unclog a wet vent.
Henry, Rick, Scotty and Brian,
Gave shameless answers
I couldn't rely on.

It's not a crapper, tail piece
Or Johnnie-bolt,
Or catch basin, reamer,
O-ring or pipe dope.
So I searched the Net
With a fool's wonder,
And read of ball-checks,
Gas ***** and plungers.
I know it's too late
To ask Rolly or Ross,
For both of them knew,
And that's our loss.
And Ernie's gone golfing
So I can't ask the Boss.

With final resolve
I fell to my knees,
To pray St. Ferrer
With grace intercede.
His silence left me
In a state of depression;
Had Ferrer washed his hands
Of the plumbing profession?

So nothing could settle
My wherewithal,
I still didn't know,
What's a plumber's ball?

Suddenly, it hit me,
He's never wrong,
The Dalai Lama of dip-tubes,
I'll ask John.
Where others did falter,
John's a rock:
He knows the difference
Between a gas and ball ****.

With a knowing smile
He embraced our Hall:
Here, good friend, is your Plumbers' Ball.
Penned for the occasion of  Saucier Plumbing and Heating 79th anniversay Ball.
Rolly and Ross were the original owners.
St. Ferrer is the patron saint of plumbing.
If you have such an event to attend, feel free to modify the above.
Lynn Al-Abiad Nov 2014
And there I go again
As a whole
Shattered
And wrecked
Because this time
The little island
That I call heart
Isn't the sole erroneous fiend in me
This time I
As a whole
Was a behemoth

Your favorite Daniel's
Sobered love
And dizzied lust
In me
Set forth the sacrifice
And took no heed of the body
It benighted the wit
And enlightened the blind persuasion

Deceiver of hearts
Don't knock on my gullible door
If you don't intend to enter
I might meddle in you
While you make love to
Every Jack
That paces your way.




-LynnAA
Big words, bigger feelings.
12/11/2014
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
Dad said I'd be good at marketing
since I like making lists. Classifying
the woods and herbs, jazz tunes, poets' poems and poems for people
and I've also considered sorting humans into novelistic categories:

compassionate, responsible
logical, radical
scientific, silent
garrulous, querulous
masterful, mindful

leader, liar
persnickety, prejudiced
appealing, apoplectic
decisive, persistent
natural, enervating
effective, fastidious
passive, embarrassed
aimless, familiar

sociable, impregnable
amorous, demanding
delirious, disciplined
silly, assimilated
holy, hungry

Next there would be settings.
Deserts, moon colonies, submarines, George Herbert and his God.

Motives for acting
driven by personality, DNA (******* DNA!), sinning,
necessity and whatever happens in the afterlife. Spinning
with the planet but sitting still and thinking deeply.

                               --------------------------------------

School bus, snow plow
train whistle, cello
alarm clock, traffic report
Beijing, Cincinnati
former adversaries, adolescent lovers
any day could be your last day, Hombre
mango, avocado
superstition, cancer treatment
enhanced interrogation, blurry vision
jacket and tie, why am I waiting
quiet remembering, day by day goes by without poetry without grace
seedless watermelon, rabbit in my garden
too much to do, not much to do
hip hop rhythms, how white people like to shake hands
who can't do anything about his skin color, Nelson Mandela
pluck the gold key, touch me personally
breakfast salad, stay in school
Afghanistan, strangulation
banana, Guatemala
mountains and rivers forever, never will I allow myself to live long
      enough to end like that
that's for sure, sure in your computer
the brain contains the universe, the universe has a brain
stream cutting gorge, last snow patch
photosynthesis, missing dad (or mom) in poem
whatever you want, the freedom of summer gone and only one ****
paper sleeping bag, ear souvenir
peace, twice
lemonade, amulet
how to make history interesting for Johnnie, washing your pajamas
chain saw, no strip joints or strip malls in the Gaza Strip
frantic century, ****** tissue
Jerusalem, reducing fractions
polytechnic institute, grandma's sauce
www.ronnowpoetry.com
Edward Coles Feb 2014
I have become the cartoon of misery. Meditation only goes so far before western medicine is needed, before old Johnnie Walker comes to visit me at my desk. He does nothing but sit and keep me company, faithful friend, whilst I go about polluting the internet. I have let myself go. I think Johnnie helped with that, for better or worse. I bid him goodnight at my bedside, faithful friend, knowing that I'll not want him there in the morning.

I have become something wasted. Old pill packets pile on the side, ailments beyond cure or at least, beyond care. Hats scatter the room, never to be worn but optional costumes for future selves. Change collects in big proportions in a coffee mug, left to waste in rust as another day passes in daily interviews with the mirror and no plans. It's crazy, I know, spurning vital energy in not exerting any of it all.

I have become the morning after. Eyes buzzed with new light, temples now ruins of Dionysus, I search for the window of perception. Roman blinds flirt truth in waves of indeterminable information and so I call up old Johnnie to help me understand things again. He flavours ice with half-truths and old, old cravings. I dial in old numbers, old, old, old, until I feel new again, once I realise they can't talk to me anymore. I have become the teenage dream realised as I take to independent waste and whiskey slur, long-shot attempts at fame and periods of silence with the family.

I have become the cartoon of misery with no audience. I can live with that.
v V v Sep 2010
I always feel my best with pulsing veins
of Absolut or Johnnie Walker neat,
or devil’s dust to take away my pain,
a thin syringe injecting hell’s deceit.
Though sorrow loses strength with needle sting
and moods arise with belts of liquid heat,
I know the tingling twitch will always bring
electric blood when morning comes to greet.
But still I struggle with the current’s craze,
euphoric numb that always plugs and sways
the battle in-between the nights and days,
the sunset hour with all its shades of grays
where all the choices made are surely wrong-
I wake at dusk and start my morning strong.
Sjr1000 Dec 2016
Nothing is going to protect us from the human condition
We can have fortune and fame
Be on the top of our game

We can be a rocker
in Lost Wages
We can be a woman with a small child
Trying to do welfare to work
We can dance the tango with a Friday night ****

We can be busted for another dui
We can be the head of the corporation
We can even be Paul McCartney
Michael Jordan
Kennedy may be our name
But nothing is going to protect us
from the human condition

I've gambled and won
I've gambled and lost

Millionaire wives die of cancer
Joanie's Johnnie gets SARS
Steve Jobs takes the last dive.

A truck driver falls asleep
A thirty seconds delay winds up catastrophe
So sorry!
Nothing protects us from the human condition

There are mine fields all around us,
most we don't even see

We can be in Mosul
We can be in Aleppo
We can be in Somalia
We can be in Mozambique

One ember, a conflagration
One breath of air, a hurricane
One drop of rain, water everywhere

Twisted Bill Cosby
his son
murdered while changing a tire
Your name can be Whitney Houston
mother and daughter
have died

Ronald Reagan's dementia
he didn't remember a thing

The list of the names
it never really ends
all that fame power and fortune

All of the pain loss and suffering
of me and you
Bad moods ain't seen nothing yet
There is no protection from the human condition

You can set me up another one
I'm drinking to
"how it goes "

I hide out
I come out
I'm probably like you
I don't know what I'm supposed to do
except
find slices of delight when able
There is no protection from the human condition.
Michael Jordan's father was killed at a rest stop. Paul McCartney's wife Linda died of cancer, she was 57.
Phil Lindsey Apr 2015
I am Phil
I am Phil
Phil I am.

That Phil I am
That Phil I am
I do not like that Phil I am.

Would you like to drink some Scotch?
No Phil I am.  No I would not.
I would not like to drink some Scotch.

Would you drink Scotch on the Rocks?

I would not drink Scotch on the Rocks
I think it tastes like ***** socks
So get down off that Dewars box
I will not drink a Scotch with you
No that is something I won’t do
I might drink *****, might drink gin
But drinking Scotch would be a sin.

Would you drink some Chivas Regal?

I think Scotch should be illegal!
What is it that you do not get?
I just don't like the taste of it!
Scotch just doesn’t suit me well
I do not even like the smell.
Give me wine or give me beer
But don’t talk to me when Scotch is near.

Would you like a single malt?

I don’t like Scotch.  It’s not your fault.

Would you try some Lagavulin?

I won’t drink Scotch; I’m not foolin’
I won’t drink Scotch all by myself
With you or anybody else
I hate the smell
I hate the taste
To serve ME Scotch
Would be a WASTE!

Well!!  You don’t have to cause a scene
Just try a sip, see what I mean
It’s really not that bad, at all
Don’t drink the bar stuff, drink the call
All the ‘Glens’ are really nice
Drink them neat, add 1 cube ice
One ice cube brings out the taste
Two or more would be a waste.
Try just a sip, and you will see
Then you might drink a Scotch with me.

Oh Phil I am
Oh Phil I am
You wore me down.
Was that the plan?
I guess I’ll let my scruples slip
And try a Scotch – a tiny sip.

Sip.    Sip.      SSSSippppss.

Oh (licks his lipsss)
This is good.  This is really good,
I think that I can taste the peat.
It’s not too smoky, not too sweet
It’s not at all what I expected
Now I’ve got my thoughts collected
My admiration resurrected
I think I like Scotch, Yes it’s true.
I think I'll drink a Scotch with you.
In fact, Phil, I just might have two!
Do you have some Johnnie Walker Blue?
PwL   April 8, 2015
I grew up reading Dr. Seuss, and, like most kids, loved the playfulness of his words.  Dedicated to Theodore Seuss Geisel.  I hope that he liked Scotch!
adshimabuko Aug 2014
Oh!* saturday nights spent
wishing for my father to come early
and tell me "I love you"

Sunday nights spent awake
waiting for his return
to drive me to school on monday mornings

How my mother, my little brother and me
curse the day he became best friends with John

Knowing John changed it all
all board games now in the back of our wardrobes
with dust on top of them
waiting to rot

Sometimes, I waste my birthday wishes
pretending they'll work out
wishing for my father
to have never met John

My little brother and me,
now replaced for slot machines,
gambling tables and spliffs

Give me a hint, dad
should I still call you like that? Nah.
Now I've met this "so called John"
and I do not like him
he makes me do funny stuff

His silhouette is bright
and he uses a cane
I don't like him, "dad"
Please stop seeing him

I know you say
he helps you to get through
but does he help us? No!
Maybe one day mom will have the guts
to sign that divorce paper
and hand it to you

I hope she do it soon

The saddes part is, when I asked you to quit John,
you said, No.
"Why?"- I said.
**"Because Johnnie is the only one who tells  me to keep walking".
Tyler Durden Sep 2014
I want to say you were good for nothing
But that's a lie
You were good at keeping me alive
I bottled everything up inside
You were my release
You sparked the fire,
that delivered a cascade of emotion,
from a boy who didn't speak
But that's not,
What you were good at.
You left
And now.
I have something to do again,
Fill the bottle once more
A Thomas Hawkins Oct 2010
Why do the best things end
before they ever really start

and the travesties of life
never come far enough apart

And that always bitter taste
is never washed away

by Johnnie Walker Red,
Minervois or Chardonnay

Why did the sun that rose each morning
choose one day not show

And leave me here in darkness
with no place left to go

Does this mean its gone forever
never to return

Will I never feel its warmth again
will I never feel its burn

Or like the phoenix from the ashes
will it rise again reborn

Over a freshly woven landscape
no sign of sorrow, fear or scorn
Jas Jan 2018
My mind is an aviary of insane birds that I wish to fly alongside
Rather than feeling the freedom of their insanity
Through means of loneliness under an ever expanding ceiling.
Ref.: Theatetus, Plato
Johnnie Alvarado Apr 2017
She says, "tell me more about you handsome"
I tell her I am Johnnie Alvarado, I am soul searching
She says, "No, tell me what makes you different from the rest"

I tell her I am expressive as the Italians,
I am passionate as the French,
I speak as **** as the Spaniards,
I am artistic like the late Pablo Picasso,
I play with words like captain J Cole,
I am as adventurous like "Captain Jack Sparrow"
I am handsome as the African men, but a rare gem
I am like Naruto Uzumaki I never give up
I am an African and I pride myself in that
I tell her I have a will of fire and that i am a museum full of untold tales waiting to be told.

She can't help but but say "You've touched me without touching me"
Gregory K Nelson Mar 2013
so ****** in the face of it
at the end of it, your perception
on the nose of it
this feeling in my nose
this tingling wall
this numby crunchy face on my face that blocks out the light and the truth and the life .... that's how it feels .... sorta
how crazy does that read?
i'll bet it reads ugly.
i'll bet it reads sick.
it should because its a description of drugs crazy people, ie. people like me take to try to feel less crazy
they make your ******* face feel like it jumped rebellious,
eyes, ears, nose, throat, turned traitor.

Escitalopram
Buproin
Nuvigil
Lithium Carbonate
Quetiapine
Abilify
Risperdone
Harpoon IPA
Johnnie Walker Red Label blended scotch whiskey

it seems there can come a certain special kind of time in a man's life,
when he can feel weird and lonely enough
to type a few words
and call it poem.
******* Bukowski.
this is his legacy.  the possibility to do what I'm doing right now.
without that disgusting, self-centered fool
I never would have thought to try and write these weird feelings I'm feeling.

a little attention,
that's what strokes this need.
a few incidental internet readers,
to read this strangely pointless pontification
on the bits of sadness that are me.

i wish i could find an open field
and lay back comfortable
in the crisp cold air
and feel the stars shoot through me
my heart pounding in the dirt
and waiting for *** or sun or wolves or rain
or anything else you might call "love."

i wish for more death
or more life
I can't stay here.
A Thomas Hawkins Oct 2010
Today I went to my control panel and I uninstalled Love.

Thats right, I clicked add/remove programs, I clicked Love, I clicked uninstall.

But you know how it works, it didn't all get removed. Some "user files" got left behind and I'm supposed to remove them myself but I can't find where they're kept. I can find "the day you met me at the airport" with nooooo problem whatsoever. But I can't get rid of it because I don't know where its kept. So it haunts me. Same goes for "the closet" and "the mirror". Instant recollection. That used to be huge, that used to remind me that it was real and not just some dream I'd had.

But now its torture.

I though if I uninstalled Love then it would take all that with it and it would stop hurting.

But it didn't

and it hasn't

I should have uninstalled Love years ago when it wasn't being used and it just sat there doing nothing. It wasn't taking up any resources, it wasn't interfering with anything or slowing things down.

But then you came along.

And it sprung into action. Suddenly it consumed everything, it was running all the time and sure it slowed things down a little and sure some stuff didn't get done but it felt good. It felt so good. Every day felt like the first day of Spring and every night was spent dreaming of lying in your arms and it felt great.

But then the network crashed

the connection got broken

and while Love kept running it started to cause problems, its ground everything to a halt. It became like one of those viruses that just slowly chips away at your resources over time until you got nothing left.

After a few months and numerous attempts to get the connection back I finally admitted defeat and accepted things were over. And it hurt so much, too much.

So now I have no use for Love. Sure its nice when it runs ok but it crashes, every time it crashes. And I dont need that kind of hurt again.

So its gone.

Removed.

Uninstalled.

All I gotta do now is remove the fragments left behind.

And I'm pretty sure if I install enough Johnnie Walker I can flush those right out.
A warped neck on a Fender Strat , a broken bottle of Johnnie Walker Black . Torn felt on a mahogany billiard table , catfish fillets scorched on the fire , rendered inedible ..
A marvelous , precision tractor engine seized from loss of oil , a bumper crop of peaches killed by frost ..
An empty bottle of malt vinegar , wind blown lovely cherry pipe tobacco lost forever ..
Red ripe homegrown tomatoes shredded by hail , soft shelled pecans dropped in the well ..
First snowflakes of Winter melted on warm city streets , green grass left to die beneath a cloth sheet ..
Concord grapes dried on the vine , watermelon picked before it's time ..
Homemade biscuits burnt in the oven , true love within reach left undiscovered ..
Copyright November 28 , 2015 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Johnnie Woods Aug 2018
‌‌  ‌‌‌  ‌

My name is going to vanish into nothingness one day.
"Johnnie Woods" who wrote a few poems, a cluster of atoms that developed illusionary consciousness. And now this consciousness starts to deny itself. I'm writing this text, I'm thinking 'bout what I'm going to write, I'm thinking about me thinking about me going to write it. And I'm writing it all.
My poems are pointless and my words and thougts are abstract.
All poems are pointless. This website is pointless. Cries and sadness and emotions are pointless. Everything is pointless.
Don't go this way if you wan't to retain your sanity. Atoms. Atoms.
Brandon Aug 2013
The rain falls down heavily outside of the house except for eleven leaks coming first from the roof into the attic crawl space. Some of the rain splattering on support beams and flying in multiple directions and some of it dropping straight down onto the ceiling below until it weakened the structure and began dripping down into the kitchen and living room into a collection of pots, buckets, and a waterproof hiking boot. The other boot sat dry on a shoe rack.

Richard Davis sat in his living room across from a table drinking a whisky and mineral water. On the table was a failing play of solitaire. The cards that Richard needed to win was the Three of clubs and the Ace of ***** both of which were lying face down in the seventh column at the top two spots. He had no moves available with any of the other cards to get to them. Richard Davis sighed and picked up all the cards after taking a drink from his glass and shuffled the deck three times before laying them out for another round.

Davis was playing to **** the time until the morning world would catch up with him and he could leave the house out into the rain and go down to the docks and on the boats to catch some fish.

He had attempted sleeping earlier in the night but found that he could not rest for longer than a couple minutes at which time he was not truly at rest if he were honest and his head wrestled with all of the thoughts that ran thru it and he was in the light of the full moon before the rain clouds came in and obscured it behind their thick black and grey hues. He was not superstitious but still could not sleep and he wondered if sleeping in the full moon did induce nightmares or if it only did at sea.

After a few hours of attempting and failing at sleep, he got up and checked his nap sack and tackle box and rod and fixed himself a whisky and mineral water using a bottle of  Johnnie Walker Blue Label and a bottle of Perrier. He grabbed his drink and grabbed a deck of cards lying on the counter and walked into the living room and sat down and shuffled his cards before laying them out for a game of Canfield and drank his drink.

When the leaks started to appear from the ceiling he finished off his drink and stood up and walked around the house grabbing six pots and two deep pans and two buckets and placed them each beneath a leak before seeing one last leak at which moment he grabbed the hiking boot and put it beneath the stream. He laughed and made himself another drink this time adding less mineral water to the mix and sat back down and continued his game of solitaire.

The sun began to show outside in the eastern skies right near the drop off of the ocean and its rays slowly filtered thru the little city and across the hills and thru the rain into the window seeping thru the tattered blinds of the house. Richard Davis smiled at feeling the sun on his face and finished loosing at his game and finished off his drink, rolling the lasts bit of taste around in his mouth before swallowing. Davis stood up and grabbed his gear and opened the front door; sat his sack, box, and rod on the ground and locked the door and picked them back up, adjusting the weight as needed and went out into the rain and down to the docks for work.
Yeah not a poem but Baudelaire once said "always be a poet, even in prose"
Simon Obirek Apr 2014
life’s such a film
independent b movie
badly written
poorly edited
dialogue all too real.

starring me as the main character and
I am the producer
director
script writer
cameraman
and I plug it
to every Fallon out there.

and … scene
after his struggles,
the main character filters out
not in a blaze of glory
but noose in hand
rat poison and
Johnnie Walker on his breath.
He didn’t want to end up like his mom
but look at him now.
Emma Langley Nov 2012
I never new you very well,
All I knew was,
You were gay,
You were my uncle,
Your name was Johnny,
And that I loved you.

I don't remember much about you,
only that you were tall,
had brown hair,
and that you were kind.

I think,
You will be happy to know,
That you have a great niece named after you,
Her name is Johnnie,
She is four years old and very out going

When you died,
I remember being sad,
I knew that you death had been slow,
I knew you had died because something in your body,
failed.

The only thing I know about you,
Is that you died because of ***
I will never forgive that desiese
for taking your life.
I wish I could have gotten to know you more,
I love you.
KD Miller Dec 2014
8/17/2014

Her name was Joy Jenny Jeffers,

known only really as Jenny.

I loved her for the way she’d sometimes

sit up in bed at four twenty three am,
the linen bunched all around her naked
 knees,


and she’d proudly and dully proclaim
to her imaginary friend
perched on the wall:

“Frankly, Frankie,
I don’t 
think this 
relationship

is going

anywhere”

I’d laugh, call her a doll

“Oh Joy Jenny Jeffers,
I love you too much,”

with a slap, call me Jenny, 

she’d plop back in the bed.

(This all happened
in the dark,
don't you remember..?)


I loved her for the way she would 
put wildflower honey
in her black coffee

and one time, hungover, she poured in
canola oil,

which she drank anyways,
Which would prompt a swift

“Oh Joy Jenny Jeffers,
I love you too much,”

as i drank my St. John’s tea

laced with Bacardi.

I loved her for the way she hated 
animals and music,

for the way she burned off a strand of
hair when curling it,

for the way she blinked when an eyelash brushed up against her iris.

I loved her for the way she said Frankly, Frankie, and I loved her the very same

when she started preforming old tricks
in front of new patrons,
when Frankly Frankie became

Frankly Johnnie or Frankly Helen,

I loved her all the same,

And in this i realised i didn’t love Joy Jenny Jeffers,

but I loved the way a certain woman 
got an eyelash out of her way,

fixed her earrings when they caught,
comforted sickly children halfheartedly,


and I loved the way a woman went about waking up at exactly four twenty three am every night or morning to say
"Frankly,
Frankie,

I don’t think this relationship

is going

anywhere.”

With the linen
all around
her knees.
part of the "halfway characters" series

fictional
Johnnie was not much of a talker in fact at times not much of a walker

He seldom caused humor, but he has brought death

Dressing in scarlet and Tuscan sun colors

So neat and straightforward or so I thought

Underneath it all was a facade

Removing my clothes and stealing a kiss

I knew the risks, but yet, I allowed myself to taste

I yearn to swallow the amber nectar's spice
Thought I would add on here just in case it was hard to understand, this is about Johnnie Walker Red the drink.
axr Sep 2014
Sometimes,
I feel I should drink my problems away
Heartbreaks
Losses
and many more to name
Warm liquid going down my throat
My lies are responsible if I choke
Screaming in my pillow
Troubling the next door widow
I am drowning in my sorrow
won't remember a thing tomorrow
I sit alone in this cemetery
With the Old monk and his friend Johnnie
In a void,
I let out a shout
I love this maze
Not long from now
I'll be a nameless grave
I sound so plaintive
yet I refuse to admit
that intoxicated me is so much better
In this situation
reality doesn't even matter
Written from an alcoholic's perspective FYI I am not an alcoholic nor I know any.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
/                                   donald trump is here?!
   on these splendid, splendid isles?!
                                      really?
  where was the past week?

good thing that i bought
that johnnie walker red label
especially for the occassion -

    without actually knowing it was
to take place...

    i guess you might call
watching protests on t.v.
       a bit like:
                going to an illegal rave
party in an abandoned
                               industrial building
somewhere in
       dagenham, or shoreditch,
                            or 'ackney...

britain is not getting what it already
wants -
                       i can understand blatant
flattery, and airs, monsieur,
             monsieur bleu, rouge et blanc...

the one time that britain looks...
bedazzled?!
                               frizzy haired...
the sort of comic sketch
of a **** scene where the man wakes
up having sobbed himself
to sleep, in a disney cartoonish
way expressing frightened awe
and the words:

     [what] the **** just happened?

   'ave a tongue for a ****, mate.

- honest to god though:
   where have i been for the past week?!
i've paid attention to the football -

croissants, or, chequers?!
  hmm...
                   oi! two face, what's
your gamblers' pundit?
                    
                         - let the slavic sub-plot
'ave it,
              if goran (ivanišević)
     could do it, this ******* litter can do it,
given they reached the semi-finals
in 1998...
          
                      and believe me:
   some people...
                    are really jealous of the chessboard
representation on fabric, shh...


or at least that's what i whispered
into the ear of lucifer,
        hermitage's secondary
    (only to achilles)
                       schwarz, mouse-catcher;

and if i'm wrong -
     then i'm wrong:
     but since i don't actually gamble using
money...
      i tap into the emotional
excitment of gambling -
   within the confines of expectation
of being right...

               somehow, gambling,
       but where what i bet with is... zeit...
and grooving to boris brejcha,
tantra of a DJ set...
                   **** me via my ears
and call me Sally...
                              
                         ­     nod nod nod...
(ten minutes later):
   nod nod nod...
          (15 minutes later):
   nod nod nod (with an added
drumkit imitation of the whole
body starting to form a scary shadow
of a man sitting down

before a blank pixel screen
   seeing letters and words appear
like a god might
see stars, and constellations appear
in the dark, dark: voooooooooo
                      'oid)

  which is no proof that i made
a hiccup.                                                          /
John F McCullagh Nov 2011
Like a Siren calling me
Relentlessly to death,
The Liquor in my cabinet
haunted my every breath.

It started out quite innocent-
A dram sipped here and there-
Progressing ounce by ounce into
a sordid love affair.

A beer or three drunk at the game-
I was good company.
But drinking in the parking lot
made me disorderly.

Cold winter evenings lost their gloom
once my pints had been consumed.
I lost my wife and family
And live in rented rooms.

I had to get myself some help
To rise from my despair-
I sat in meetings at my Church
On a folding metal chair.

I have a mentor guiding me
He’s been to Hell and back.
He always takes my phone calls
when Johnnie Walker wants me back..

And so I will not drink tonight
Two weeks now I’ve been sober.
I spilled the drink into the sink-
I think, I hope, it’s over.
While this is a work of fiction, it is a true story for many friends of Bill W.
John F McCullagh Feb 2012
Like a Siren calling me
Relentlessly to death,
The Liquor in my cabinet
haunted my every breath.

It started out quite innocent-
A dram sipped here and there-
Progressing ounce by ounce into
a sordid love affair.

A beer or three drunk at the game-
I was jolly company.
But drinking in the parking lot
made me disorderly.

Cold winter evenings lost their gloom
once my pints had been consumed.
I lost my wife and family
And live in rented rooms.

I had to get myself some help
To rise from my despair-
I sat in meetings at my Church
On a folding metal chair.

I have a mentor guiding me
He’s been to Hell and back.
He always takes my phone calls
when Johnnie Walker wants me back..

And so I will not drink tonight
Two weeks now I’ve been sober.
I spilled the drink into the sink-
I think, I hope, it’s over.
While this is a work of fiction, it is a true story for many friends of Bill W.

— The End —