"journalistic" poems
Photography,
Photo journalistic,
Everyday, realistic.
Commercial, architecture, landscape, artistic,
Industrial, fashion, ethnographic, pornographic.
Big Brother, fallace, stealer of souls, vouyer.
News seller, instant gratifier, man pleaser, woman abuser.
Barthes, Sontag, Cindy Sherman,
Virginia Woolf, Warhol. Weegie, Francesca Woodman,
Leibovitz, Adams, Arbus, Tina Modotti,
Nan, Evans, Hoffer and even the Paparazzi.
Cheap ***** digital manipulator, image poser,
Center fold, coupons, Jackie O and Marilyn Monroe.
Where did they go:
Lifeless paper product, painter's picture mess,
C-type, digital archival,
Sepia, black and white, hard drive retrival.
Image addict,
Image taker,
Image maker,
image seller,
image buyer.
Newspaper, magazine, graphics and ads,
TV, dreams, even the trash.
Billboards, subways, phones and buses:
Utopia:
Surreal, crop, stretched and air brushes.
Modern ideal.
Surface manipulator.
Brain conditioner.
Consent manufacturer.
Oh Photography,
I got you in my eye.
A few thousand dollars,
A BFA, A critical scholar.
Or maybe a nerd,
Just boys with toys.
Telephoto genitals, with motor drive action.
Studio lights, umbrella traction.
Oh Photography,
You proprietor of obscene.
Detailed, de-sensitized.
Court ordered, jury analyzed.
Click, image, copy, edit, paste, print or post.
Myfacespace, twitter, flicker,
An internet media overdose.
Pry, spy, your friend's friend's acquaintances.
Parties, picnics, reunions and shows.
Visits, vacation, style, shoes and clothes.
Pics, photos, images, jpegs and giffs.
Snap shot, portrait, panoramic, Kodak kiss.
Exacerbate:
Divorce, break-ups, jealousy, envy, love and fears.
Devour and captivate society for years.
Slaves to Western and Capitalist desires,
Destruction of Earth with psychological, monetary empires.
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 7:05 AM UTC
Writing a story on a topic,
Hazing away at the microsoapics,
I write stories that aren’t meant to be fun,
Just the basic humdrum.
Reality is my Inspiration,
No matter the mood I’m in.
Dragons and Wizards are to be left on the bookshelves,
As I run to work,
And meet my colleagues for a day of writing reality.
We walk the world in actuality,
And see people with all different vitality.
People of all different ideas of reality.
They speak,
I listen,
I ask,
And they answer,
And we both learn about reality together.
I then write what I heard,
Tell what I saw,
And let the ideas fly like birds.
I've seen all people of life,
I've heard many of there trifes.
I laughed at their victories,
I cry at their lost,
And I hear all their vivid histories.
I write all types of reality,
From the memories of all different types of vitalities.
And as I write about how reality unfurls,
I write about the greatest dreams of this world
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 11:07 PM UTC
Intimidated by political thugs
Prone to insert in one's mouth
The nose of a loaded gun
Or suspend a plastic bottle full of water
On males' reproductive *****
Devoid of freedom of expression
Also denied to his right and
Deplorable condition drawing attention
Shunning his God chosen land,
What is more a bright and warm country
Under the sun ,a journalist dreaming began
Fighting all odds between
The deep blue sea and the angry Satan
To migrate to a better place,
Where for democracy
Avowedly there is a better space,
Inhabited by civilized people,
Averse to discrimination based on race!
Burning his boat,
Crossing desserts,
Crammed with other refugees,
Packed with him in a boat
Some trying to reverse
Their economic lot,
Surfing uncharted waters
Seeking a paradise on earth
He headed to the country he sought
Though some their lives
At the hand of brutal traffickers lost
Beaten and thrown out of the boat,
Also at a port
Suspected of a terrorist bent
Many migrants to prisons were sent.
After a humiliating acid test
Why for a dreamland his country he left
As migrants' bane
They placed him at the foot
Of an ice-clad mountain.
“I will never see
My country again,
You are trying my patience in vain!"
He vowed
Despite the razor-sharp cold untold.
Then they took him up higher
An epitome to a cold fire!
Once more
He put his foot down
Putting on more clothes and
Changing attire.
They placed him
At the mountain's helm
As hell dark
Where the angel of death
Is seen stark.
Then in his head
Something began to bark
“*You rather choose
the better evil
If both your assailants and hosts
Are no two different devil! *"
Seeing first hand
Those with cold shoulder
Assylem seekers adore to attack
Though there are
Few not off humanity's track
At last he decided to return back
And under his country's sun bask
Mum for his rights to ask
Killing his journalistic knack!
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 9:18 AM UTC
Film developer cacophonies, and journalistic hoarding
My friends wanted to record our last year –
Accurately – not succinctly
Abstractly – and yet, directly, bluntly
Vividly – in photography, quote notebooks, Dictaphone diatribes
That’s hilarious – scribble it down.
Can you repeat your brilliance?
If you could paraphrase that – well…what would you say?
Take another one. She wasn’t smiling.
I don’t want to smile.
My friend sidles up beside me – beaming grin
Sticking her fingers into my mouth
Pulling opposite and up
And her fingers tasted like
The musty pages of books without pictures.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
I keep fondling dreams as I
flip through FOX, CNN and MSNBC networks.
An electric lady land fantasy
of revolutions where over and over and
under and through inconsistent gibberish of
conservative conversationalists’ and
liberal libel is taken for truth.
My heart is pumping out toxic fiber optic
editorial journalistic pollution like kidneys
secrete the habit of alcohol and
cigarette poisons.
Our dependence on government help is
broken glass shards ruining the
veins of society
while Limbaugh, and spring chicken heads with a
View are enslaving our voices and
limiting the truth of our choices using
eminent domain for our minds as they spit out
their opinions through television and radio
frequencies into our brain waves as truth.
How some American hearts stay warm with
nightly news schisms, burning intolerance,
unreal realism, religious sincerity posed
and limp **** ****** commercials
is amazing. But still a paradox hoax.
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 3:15 AM UTC
the world is adorned with a million windows
the bleakest night has a thousand eyes
daylight shines into the globes darkest corners
truth will ultimately expose all lies
NASA’s satellites circle
Tropic of Cancer latitudes
cameras pinpoint the disease
metastasizing in the body of Homs
from stratospheric limits
sensitive lenses read the names
magic markers have scrawled
onto white sheets covering the dead
YouTube gets Oscar consideration
for grisly cinematography
a real-time visceral docudrama
of panting fascists gleefully tramping
through the desecrated streets
coolly administering a coup de gras
to a city on its knees, pleading release
from an **** of incessant bloodletting
twitter records desperate tweets
the batting wings of endangered flocks
furiously thumbing into the blogosphere
calls for UN intervention that falls on blind eyes
BBC reportage,
the global gold standard
for journalistic excellence
scoops the stories
of London based FSA partisans
awaiting repatriation to scatter
Bashar’s Kodachrome killers
Has the All Seeing Eye
who has graced us with sight
laughingly curse us with vision?
Does the
One Caring Eye of the Universe
bless us with perception
to haunt us with images?
Has
The One Thats Sees Everything
blinked closed the eye of compassion?
Has the horror of Homs
become too much even for
The Universal Eye of Love?
the opened eyes
of a dead child
reflects our
cold winter
of indifference
demoralizing
dehumanizing
a watching world
Music Selection
Grateful Dead Eyes of the World
Oakland
3/2/12
jbm
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 12:04 PM UTC
I drank her in with my lonesome stare
I said,
"Give me that good lovin'
darling it don't take work
to turn on your oven..."
First she feigned indifference
then she sighed with deference
and I coaxed her in like a trout in spring.
Honey I'm looking for the hot button to push
some women will holler,
men like me will shush
cause the hot button just needs the right touch
celebrate good lovin' with me, don't fuss...
Politics are all about the hot button.
Men with the long arms ain't seen nothin'.
Law man bows to the law maker.
Hot button respects your journalistic prayer.
Some men see what some men hide,
but you can keep hiding if the law will abide.
Even when the law man says no-no
lawmaker's got a hearse:
'nother ** 'nother **
Hot button's the only thing you'll see in print.
What your momma's momma says is what will glint.
The bird is the word, I'll say in vain,
but top dollar pays what's at the nose of the vane.
I've wanted to push the hot button all night long
classic poems galore, but mine are all wrong.
I guess I'll go back to where I was born,
chew a dog bone, scraps, with my baby teeth worn.
In the junkyard, I see yesterday's hot buttons
emaciated bells and whistles just struttin'
They've lost their minds and luster, no thanks
I'm like,
"These are the gals you see walking the planks."
Every day more hot buttons walk in line,
heaven is just a misery for these topics of history
but I polish them with chrome
I get desperate, what can I say.
I'll never leave a hot button to rot with dismay.
Just give me another hour, good lovin' can dream.
I'll bring a hot button to you, good Lord! It'll gleam.
Dec 25, 2017
Dec 25, 2017 at 11:26 PM UTC
*when i was in St. Petersburg i must have picked up a Rasputin virus, a Siberian gnat bite... **** you not; the only misery i have is that my counterfeiting assailants were, at best, middle class, and not aristocratic.*
no, honestly, after reading the style magazine
with all its smooch bravado of resentment and care...
i hash-tagged myself: yep it's trending...
i've just about finished a 70cl bottle of whiskey *******
around with Dylan Thomas and St. George... draco ex cymru.
but still it hits me, encoding sounds was never so hard...
those clouds of sunset look so much better
and multi-coloured when they do with sunglasses... i don't
know what's in these sunglasses but i'm picking out pinks
and purples... which i can't make out without
the sunglasses... an L.S.D. trip or what?
i wrote this faster than you'll read it, given the skim- aspect
of literature, immediate journalistic recycling...
they still love Shakespeare, don't know why,
don't ask me why, it's an affair of the english
education system... well... ploy...
conspiracies are welcome posthumously
and adequate intellectual material....
was it Marlowe or John Dee the Elizabethan era
double O 7 alchemist to blame? never seen oxygen
paired up like that! must be a crucifix miracle!
desecrate christ subsequently desecrate all
remnants of royal authority, **** into the crown
of the governor of Liechtenstein: what?
i need the loo! the idea of you teaching me manners
is like you teaching me Hadrian's is synonymous
with qin shi Huang's rattle; rattle meaning
the broken spines of the bricklayers who levelled
the ground around them with cement...
and still the Mongol horde came!
Scots looked at Hadrian's accomplishment and laughed
drunk with a lullaby. the Mongols stretched their
tongues saying: if Europe and Iraq to be ours,
we have to climb that, no arrow will crumble it
even if shot at the cracks! i love walls, esp. if they're
like Malbork castle of red brick... once owned by
Teutonic knights... i end up playing abstract chess with
their brickwork, a strange arithmetic...
girlfriend? what for? have you heard of the aces movement?
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
I guess this is more procrastination than anything else,
But writing is writing, amiright?
it's funny, starting a line with no capitalization,
you know what else is funny? Misspellings.
But that's not really what I was going to say.
There's something about pieces of my past that drum up passionate writings.
Congrats to you, if you're reading, you're a muse of somesort.
I was reading 1 Corinthians today.
Workin' on dat daily struggle, that getting closer to Christ grind.
Grinding on the cross.
hashtag: blasphemy
Conjures up images of Jesus at a dance
Back to the point: Paul urged us to stay single.
I find that so weird, but in reality,
It's no weirder than desiring others to fill our hole(s)
*There's a **** joke there somewhere...*
I'm being crass for the sake of it
An *** because that's what I make of it.
I write, I writ, I wrote
Am I right? This rite? Is it rote?
Wordplay
Really though, stay single, for the sake of your relationship.
That's what Paul said.
A married man or woman is tied down to this earth ever more than those unmarried.
Is that why I'm single?
I ain't even mad.
Even if I do miss the touches,
The hugs
The intimacy
I know that in it,
When I'm in the thick,
I miss my relationship with Christ more.
Where's the blood
Where's the body when I need it most?
I am the one locking myself away.
Eucharistic struggle
The Communion struggle.
That last line is a good summation of this piece
If this is a poem, indeed.
Maybe I need to make some lines that rhyme for the sake of the time you've spent reading this journalistic entry for the sake of my last century and maybe this one coming.
I'm bumming around for cigarettes that I don't smoke, for **** that I won't **** for a joke that won't end in any punchline you find funny.
Baby, honey, I need to leave; you need to see the light of day, and I need some time to pray, because everytime I'm with you I'm suffocating. You're pulling, and there's no more rope; you're the trickery, and I'm the dope. And every time my flesh was in yours and you were on me, I knew what we were doing couldn't be, and that what we were doing wasn't for me, but all for you. I'm all for you. I'm never not.
Except when I'm not.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC
What now, the loss of limbs in a distant conflagration?
The seeping brains amongst poppy fields?
The myriad nature of violent death, outside of journalistic imagination
A grind of experience on which the lost youth builds.
What now? Within the shredding blasts euphoria
The élan of a soldier, in memoria
Downing drinks in the Stag and Hare
After a tour, ordinary actions reek of tedium
There is, in the conviviality, no rush of adrenalin there
Fermenting trouble establishes a happy medium.
Quarrelling with a man who wears a business suit
Is displaced adventure, smashing his face in is a hoot.
What now? A mate, a favoured friend, dies in the dirt
When whistling a tune, recalling the holiday in Spain, the family,
A shot coursing through his unbuttoned shirt
Deflating his lung, another shattering his knee
When he died, his platoon died too,
Metaphorically; the snipers aim was true.
Bottled up in Basra, aimlessly wandering in Helmand
A shrill event on News at Ten between politics and football,
Another death, another iconic face, the catasphropic end
Of a youthful life. What now? The swift end to a morning stroll
Amongst watching villagers in dry breathless mountains
Empty streams and florescent fountains.
In the terracotta dirt my soul leaked away
My final return was like a funeral celebration,
I said nothing anymore. I had nothing left to say.
I’d given my youth to a sniping cynical nation.
What now? It was over for me in a grasping world-
A gooey puddle spread beneath me as my soul evacuated.
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 4:08 PM UTC
we can say without inhibitions: the english novel, the russian novel, the french novel... akin to the german thought, the polish thought; we really can't say: the english thought, the russian, the french thought... we can only say the german thought, the polish thought... i'm already frolicking in censorship... but that's how it is: the english / russian / french novel v. the german thought the anti-novel; perhaps even music.
they allowed trans-gender,
but **** me bubbly bumblebee
they will not allow
trans-profession anti-gender
stereotype, they'll keep on
feeding me humanism
by those educated in english literature
and not those educated in
physics or etc. boors and crass
willing to suddenly experience
a need for change... educating people
to write books... i'd stick
to educating people to write
journalistic columns, the times of
Tolstoy are dead, no one has the time
for blah blah poetic technique blah blah;
why?
we're missing the bored girls at leisure
in salons,
instead over-sexed girls in limousines
(anti-dyslexia: spelling a grapheme e.g. æ
is like watching multiples of
donkey and carrot arrangements
distributed via images of photo-sensitivity /
phonetic-sensitivity, like
admiring the excesses of ***********
and censoring the words f**k).
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
I knew two Randy's in my life
The first was Regina's older brother
I remembered I once saw his photograph
But first glimpse wouldn't stuck so long in my head
So I would tell you about Regina instead
She was a dancer and she cooked well
I once was in the same class as her
She used to bring her cookings to school
Healthy meals but enormously delicious
Not that I have had eaten it before;
I am just exaggerating --
Her parents wanted her to be a doctor
But she didn't know what she wanted to be
So let's forget it because
I, too, don't really care about her
Her name reminded me of another Regina
We were strangely quite close on Junior High
This Regina had cute teeth and pretty eyes
And her laugh made me happy
She was the leader of Journalistic Club
And I regretted I had not joined the club
Not because of her, but
Because I remembered that later on Senior High
I wanted to be a journalist --
Not anymore
The second Randy was an actor
I watched a play and found him
So mesmerizing, his presence was so consuming
His acting felt so real or perhaps it was
He was afraid of death, so afraid
Even though it was because of his own doings
He was the one who betrayed himself and the world
He was the one who did it all
He shouldn't be afraid of such hatred
Because he was the hatred
He was the hatred
Then off stage
I saw his mother and how proud she was
To see her son had played so well
She didn't know what was
Really happening
She was going to be betrayed by her own son
And her son wouldn't be able
To escape that fate
Being the hatred
Being the hatred ----
I knew two Randy's in my life
The first was Regina's older brother
And the second was the hatred who played actor
And I don't think I want to know more;
There were enough Randy's already --
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
along the lines of my notebooks,
drawings, scribbles and notes contained...
along the common divide
of my journalistic side
my heart cries when you arent here
the drive almost an hour long
for a day
a smile arisen on my face...
these eyes are usually brown
and they reflect the ocean blues of you
when i leave the town
i am on a one way ticket home
alone
take a drive
look into life
there is a reason to understand
"that all we have is time"
the phone is my only lifeline
to the world beyond
And i am outside searching for a signal.
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 12:00 AM UTC
italicising words sometimes act like punctuation marks, or simply an emphasis used or missing, to involve punctuation, even i loose the plot upon rereading because of this rubric of unsaid laws of writing.
for all of kant's efforts
to create the categorical imperative,
i haven't read a single
book of philosophy that
stated the only categorical imperative
of whatever narration
under the sun, with the odd
balancing act referring to grammatical
words of categorisation,
whereby you didn't care much
about how moral your activity was,
but how moral your expression
of neither moral nor immoral your
activity could be;
immoral expression of the same circumstance?
oh, like modern journalistic censorship
of f**k ****** it all to hell, hmm?
that's about it.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 9:52 PM UTC
.the cardinal-dittoheads... the anchors that read from a cue... the basic tapeworms of: auto- and spasms... herr spaß... some say: pristine grammar, and hardly any spelling mistakes... because... you bring an ummy: and braille... to gold-dig the priße.... the siamese twins shifted "gear"... moved from vermont to northumbarland... so driving on the "opposite" side of the road... seems or would forever seem: normal... atom-bombarde with a leftover of letters... giraffe tyrone and schlang: the holy trinity of: ⠊⠉ ⠥: i see you: IÇU (ee, oh y o)...
the secular church of woke -
or whatever you call it -
plato despised the poets: almost a priori
from the "utopia"...
of "the" republic...
otherwise, what?
journalists are the priests of the secular
church?
journalists becoming allowed to savor
a priesthood-caste status...
with no church akin to a st. paul's
cathedral... but a glass-ceiling
and the wandering shard...
that these days journalists feel
impelled to be treated as the ancient lore
of the priest?!
the journalist these days
is the neupfarrer...
******** to the load of them...
but unlike the modern day priest...
i would not wish to be...
burnt at the stake...
by some... weak-cognißant: button-pressing
circus monkey!
how a priest became a journalist...
or how a journalist became a priest...
how horrific my heresy...
would have have to be...
to burn at the stake...
compared... to...
the "compensation" on offer from...
the current journalistic-priesthood
of secularism.
Feb 12, 2020
Feb 12, 2020 at 9:02 PM UTC
*children no longer obey their parents,
and everybody is writing a book.
circa 1914 - 1924a.d.*
away with you to the lyricist!
and not to the earth bound roughage
of toil and till -
or was that not the first encouragement?
have not but the first sipped water
of these optical realm, fused more
than as modern antidote has it -
been more intoxicating to see as if a first
dawn of Belshazzar?
have these not been the invitations
for scaling the summit of tw. Babylon?
then indeed, not with care or plush attire,
have we descended into an idle affair -
for the insurmountable cohort rattled
even the lesser who still struck a chord of
defiance and belittled by the world: mused.
as so much of love pours onto paper -
and a paper that later becomes a slab
of stone, plunges with splash and splatter into
the sea as unknown as that, which
encompases the orbit of Neptune -
in that void and in that void,
can we rarely find a bottle to bottle all
things concerning, up.
or is that: man can no longer play monopoly
with the medium, or indeed he can:
nuance layered upon nuance layered upon
insinuation, layered upon metaphor,
layered upon non-literalism, layered upon
literalism, layered upon pun, layered upon
abstract, layered upon fear, layered upon
politics, correct?
by the allotropes of carbon!
to the times when one could say one thing and
one thing only and feel a will toward something
being testimony of unequivocal thoughts!
at a time when not everyone practiced politics
on such a scale, or wasn't prescribed
a journalistic career on the sly,
when it fact: mere charity work.
life for life, word for word, deed for deed -
and to hell with human circumstance:
whether awe-struck, or awe-bound,
or as most can attest... neither.
now all is said, but nothing can be done -
for now the only thing being said
is a question of whether it be vogue
or ragged mops strewn
across a dark cupboard space -
as too the warm doughnuts and baguettes
on a Monday morning with headlines and
articles and opinion sections and photographs
and adverts... nothing more
than toilet paper already used
to wipe one's **** lying facedown in
a puddle on some street: by the afternoon.
perhaps this too be a melancholy art,
akin to the journalistic endeavour -
and perhaps both the hope in poetry as the hope
in journalism: is for at least a single
memorable day to be nothing but a sabbath.
could this world ever envision a media sabbath?
probably not... as this poem suggests...
and another, and another... and...
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 8:03 AM UTC
.well, if the media will not succumb to a sabbath, i'll make a sabbath of my own, in the following way:
of the few, rare, joys in life...
reading
the sunday times
on a Monday's, sunny afternoon;
which goes to show...
delay...
the aspect of delay...
in terms of the effect of journalistic
integrity...
just a day shy, or two days shy
from the actual events...
because who the **** bothers
watching the scripted artifice of
zombie ******** that's t.v. journalism?
well... with newspapers
you can at least bewilder yourself
with new words,
build up some sort of phobia about
a syllable count cascade of smooth
reading... **** like that...
plus... back in the good old days...
when newspapers were sized A1...
and you really couldn't read them
on the tube...
A1? **** A0?
and reading an English newspaper,
on a crowded tube,
and flipping the pages?
was like some karate master
making sushi...
****** marvelous.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 7:48 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
There’s blood on his hands
But justice demands
Having the proof
And he’s been aloof
Those who did the deed
Have a greater need
They want to survive
To stay alive
So it’s absurd to expect
Them to connect
The dots to the puzzle
They’re sufficiently muzzled
And won’t place the blame
On Prince What’s-his-name?
Though it’s hard to miss it
He’s clearly complicit
So the stench lingers on
The conclusion's foregone
That he placed the order
And condoned the slaughter
Of his journalistic critic
And just to be analytic
In his position
He can't stand opposition
His father is ailing
With health clearly failing
And the throne is in sight
To his son’s delight
So he’s biding his time
While hatching a crime
That’s so barbaric
The result may be pyrrhic
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2018. All rights reserved.
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 5:16 PM UTC
listen!
modern art is ****
really?!
how about http://tinyurl.com/m6yr3tn
and the squire squares
running around going:
this is paedo! this is paedo!
******* can't handle
art-house.
but sure as **** they
can digest i.s.i.s. fighters decapitating people...
oh **** sign me up!
i was just thinking about
eating out a celtic **** doing the
fiddly fiddly with a violin...
going mc!
oi! mac!
where's the guinness!
uhm... dunno... where's your **********
sister?
where's she's supposed to be.
******* shamrock jerky... where's your
violin you ******* leprechaun....
is that like a inter-breeding version
of a ***** and faun? so you breed the two
and oops! pops out a bonsai?!
oh man, i'm tired,
it's like i'm in an automaton format
typing because i need to type it...
but it just bothers me...
they cite this art-house spectacle...
and then use it on info wars to suggest:
REAL NEWS!
huh?
you listen to it fully?
is it really about paedohpiles
or pederasts?
i really could fall asleep listening
to this art...
it's like underground stand-up comedy...
it could very well be
a revision of cabaret voltaire
with tristan tzara...
oh wait... so says the "real" news...
i just want to **** the **** out of
the corrs drummer girl...
you listen on this ****
you "think" they get their "real" news from
such edited sources?
they're employing the same tactics as
mainstream outlets...
what i linked is: art-house...
you really have to be ******** to collectivise
current news around watergate cliches...
gamergate... pizzagate...
yep... and the black gate of mordor...
all it is, is a really shady, but nonetheless
permitted sketch-show, of people appreciating
a kind of humour that's:
a. hard to appreciate (the audience)
and b. even harder to utter (the speaker).
the point is about alternative media though...
they take a clip from a video and state:
paedo!
paedo! cannibal paedo!
you listen to the rest of the video?
they're as mainstream as their critique of
mainstream media allows them to be "indie".
i love the fact that the 20th century
of squares is that: in the 21st century:
squares are afraid of artists...
ave adolph...
at least we can
feed journalistic outlets because of you;
eh? true? or untrue?
why should than even ******* matter?
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 8:15 PM UTC
Late nights in my brain like walking down a dark alleyway barefoot lightly clothed in the idea that everything will be okay thats what they say streetlights shone on pothole streets beats my face reflection to a wavering wonder something will come here caught a wiff of a wayside street wanderer finding sleep in a corner covered in ****** on life of been then being hard to know who im seeing am i still me? Hardly walked in my shoes let alone others loose unused excuse for solitary misuse find time in pocket phoned life we aspire to be more like look alike lavish facacde comradery in journalistic honesty all is well when i burn in hell follower frontier founder of warped mirrors and fun house on acid play my show to the masses how to see oneself clear in lie prescribed glasses
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 1:22 AM UTC
2/18/2015
I can taste you in the air now,
even though last lazy excuse
for you is long dead.
The rainy days seem to me a
small price to pay and I've
noticed in brilliant sun tundra winds
The potted lilies have started to grow again. I saw three leaves on a stem and
the sun seems to stay for tea.
In my newfound journalistic ventures in efforts to further understand my self, of course and the
Wiley depravities of people i think I now see that in the coldest winters
the brilliant sun alone was enough.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 3:13 PM UTC
it's all ******* tina turner at this point! or? we need not education... cougar middle-aged women, tiger mums... eating filfth of marine scavangers that ***** are... you wash your mouth, before telling me that certain words are filfth... you stop the oral *** and let me speak the word, **** i still prefer the tina turner version of events, rather than the pink floyd reality... where journalists are worse than teachers of the english language in school... mother... ******* condescending half-twats! apologies, for what? the bbq? so why are teachers in schools disrepected? so why should journalist, not be also?
you **** to the left
(shaking your to the left)
or...
you **** to the right
(shaking your empty hand
to the right)
you push the elevator button
to go up...
or you push the elevator
button to go down...
who's winning? who's losing?
the ******* ovaries?
and it is all about tina turner
right now...
is it me, but when comparing
english accents, australian
sounds rather, posh,
when tailored against american?
god, i love that accent...
canadian?
because of quebec, it doesn't count
as even remotely english...
but the didgeridoo
wonga-wonga-wang-wang?
all i heard is that perth is so far removed
that sydney so further than dziakarta
(jakarta)...
tina ************* turner...
a building is burning, a colt comes into
the discussion, the tower-block
is gushing out suffocating smoke
in west london...
i'm guessing about 1000 people have
been bbq'd... and all the journalist
keeps saying:
apologies for the rude language,
oh, i have to apologise for the rude language...
you ******* kidding me, right?
stop, trying, to, be, my, english, teacher!
over 1000 people were scortched
in that tower-blow, and you're actually
worried about me using the word ****
you have to be kidding me...
really...
and so: the slow death of
20th century media...
socialism two-point-oh;
if they're not panicking,
i really don't know why they're still
a credible journalistic outlet;
i.e. considering themselves as such.
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
rykł gwałtu: czy śmiercí... sie boície?!
the 1st world belongs
to western europe,
as is the poppy emblem...
but the 2nd world war?
you have no right
upon this platitude of
nostalgia...
you have no right here...
you don't belong here,
go **** yourselves,
and settle the flatlands
of belgium...
you, take you *******
and your other colonial
subordinates from these
pages of reminder!
no, you don't belong
here, on the ukranian plains
of the flat-fields...
you are not
commonwealth sorts...
i don't want you here...
you are on your way home...
and no...
none of the commonwealth
bits & pieces ever worked
the construction site,
like the irish or eastern europeans
did...
q a few sikhs...
but that's about it...
pakis make great
mustafas of the "work"
invoked by the designation of
a prior toward the
authorirty of an imam...
i too never knew i
knew how to read...
must be a literate donkey
somewhere!
i'm trying to love the brits,
but given they're really into
their p.c.s.d. (post-colonial
stress disorder), i'll my stretching
it with nazis...
please call me that...
please, please, please call me a ****
it will make me remember
my great-grandmother affected
by nazis, all the better,
for your **** journalistic
***
please!
i'm begging you! call me a ****
call me what my grandfather
called the ss-mann:
herr-bite-bonbon...
call me a **** you **** swine!
call it! call it!!!
i dare you,
i want you to call it!
i, ******* dare you to call it!
call it!
speak your little jihad!
speak your little spell!
say it!
are you aware that i was the one
who liked the idea of collecting swords?
oh yeah...
i own a hussar blade...
over 50 centimetres...
curved and all...
if i inserted the blade
via your *** it would come out of your
mouth as a tongue;
say it... i want to hear it...
why are my hands and the fingers
extending off of them, becoming
so itchy?
i have a heart for a guillotine,
but no more, for a bed-fellow
in the form of a woman;
how desirable does death become,
the least you account
for fearing it... how welcoming
the jest of recounting:
novembers & septembers.
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 9:59 PM UTC