She swept down from the heavens
To find me
Then eyed me
Lashes long and eyes longing
She kissed like a Goddess
If Goddesses have
Long purple tongues
And swept me off of my feet
I almost fell for her then
But I could tell
It wasn't her
First time
And she had
Other men

big sweaters, ghibli, acrylic paint, cafes, knit blankets and unplanned afternoon naps on the couch, gardens, bananas, vanilla almond milk, soft yarn to crochet into ****** scarves, candles after midnight, the big trees with bulky roots, patio furniture, pianos in random buildings, the internet, manatees, the boundless colours of nail polish, peanut butter & honey, rubber boots, pens that write well, fresh new notebooks, skylights, american netflix, mothers that understand, tête à têtes, one glass of sweet white wine, awkward eye contact that turns into comfortable kissing, airplanes, fresh air, baseball caps, the female collective, the really good dark chocolate, flowers, pumpkin spice lattes and ***** chai lattes, candid laughter, yoga, oceans, high waisted shorts, striped t-shirts, docile cats, playful pups, french presses, integrity, sunscreen, meerkats, penguins, chameleons, autumn leaves, fall fashion, ruby woo mac lipstick, osho, dynamic meditation, compassion, siblings, scrambled eggs, smart phones, garageband, metronomes, hot glue guns, quinoa, ferry boats, soft hands, bicycles, real people, fat snowflakes in ample, graceful *******, backpacks that don't hurt your shoulders, hair conditioner, multi-vitamins, soft sand under bare feet, people that own up to lies, clarity, samsara, satori, samasati, visions, echinacea, lavender oil and frankincense, ambrosia apples and ripe avocados, authenticity, Morgan Freeman's voice, good kissers, *******, iced tea on a hot day, curtains, the smell of beeswax, art galleries, hand massages and foot massages, reiki, plums, mild thunderstorms, soccer *****, good surprises, when birds don't **** on your head.

sat in your driver's passenger seat
your dad's porsche
I thought it was cool

a little drunk after a night in Royal Oak
we're on the freeway now
little lights from this mini Tokyo
illuminate and flirt with the car interior

they flash on your face

some Rihanna song on the ipod radio
cars and cars and cars drive by
I look at your face. I look down at my shoes on the floormat

*Maybe we'll get stuck in traffic

and what of the magicians
where do we fit into the picture
indeed we are
the designated chancellors of
the king and queen success
we serve
the Royal Highness
if it pleases them
we give them priceless
advise and supervision
to our majesty's grace
career and evolution
if it pleases
the king and queen
thus
we have
earned the exclusive right
to whisper in their ears
good advice
and
it is our firm
and solid duty
while
some people
suggest our primary role
differently
and
call us
donkey kissers

the only shame i feel: muslims hold a single book to be synonymous of a library.

apologies, this is why i wasn't fully integrated,
i hold enough respect for the English ethnicity to keep
the reins on my Slavic origin, and its ancient history,
i want to see the Graeae cauldron
of multiple-ethnicity and culturalism:
what with former slaves learning
rap to topple the slavish shackles?
no one ever heard my story under
the Germans, Russians and Austro-Hungarians,
all those to topple Israel already toppled me
to migrate and leave my mother *******
toward an an export: until the black gold runs
out you sand-******... until the oil runs out...
until the oil runs out...
you're the one abusing it because you have it...
until the oil runs out sand-******...
you gonna take the slang out of me?
what is it now? global or feminist tactic?
Chine ain't about to give Dagenham back,
like they're not giving Ostrowiec Św.:
first division in 1997.. extra-class...
yummie piggies at the trough:
money was created to pacify and let
rich boy girls' spend...
      Lwów / Lvov was still in poker hands
of Roosevelt... so much for ******* H'america...
     biker-clan-glandular-rhaps (or plural of odes):
****! i hate belonging to come or some thing...
i always thought about comedy prone enlarged *******
for the geography between left ****** antarctic and
right ****** arctic in tune with the jiggly fatty-bergs..
no... factual-bergs...
but you'd never disintegrate into a 0a.d.
given the colonial history narrative that doesn't
involve the old testament and ***-kissers and
hefty conservative ***-pleasers like the book
of Antioch proposed... made that up...
got mixed up thinking on the necromancer of
the year that was actually 1997-8
17th *KSZO Ostrowiec Świętokrzyski, tablature
pld.     pts.        w.   d.     l.    f.      a.
         34      24    6   6 22 24 47...
piggie piggie: got the giddy giggly ***** ****-a-doodle-do...
and i know i would too...
small town Polish town, a big Russian
would-be clever-pincer attracted to ******-pinching,
and all the milky drools, down the Nile toward
Cairo, so long as you wife is an Oasis of hamburgers and
strobe-berry epileptics, i.e.: blink 182's what's my age again?
i speak the ******* sprechen and i don't even belong
here... it's like i'm apologising for something that
was coming... thankfully i'm resolved to integrate cognitively
but in the domestic realm have nothing to do with
this language...
     i don't want to speak it to my mother,
i don't want to speak it to my father,
i can't afford to rent a house and prolong a university
bachelor lifestyle, the arabs and nigerians bought
all the flats out and are renting them out...
hopefully to Somalian pirates for: essex tan orange
sake in terms of: if i figured my tongue was an
axe in the first place... i'd lace my life with
many more people applauding...
i never understood this desire to integrate without
having the right to censor what i'm about to
embrace... a contract, much of smallprint readied
on the fidgety hand...
       it's not that i suddenly chose to
ethnically suspend my origins for a need to respect,
i kept my mother tongue for times such as these,
when i can't be approached as white and as inheritor
of colonialism... if i say i'm German they'll *******
clap, i remember once they asked me as if i were
going to do an app. for the caliphate asking me:
you German? no... Polish... huh? what's that?
somewhere in between Germany and Russia...
now i can't claim the ethnicity that my's right hand
of use with tongue... and now i can't claim the
tongue that isn't the ethnicity but is otherwise my
limb-for-limb... 5p.m. tea 100 years later is
a hijab on the streets of Birmingham...
no secret... i just see why i need to be involved like
some James Dean "wannabe" schizoid spice...
there will be no news from Poland concerning
the migrant crisis, no talk of a Muslim takeover...
ironically, as Monty Python would have said:
everyone was expecting a Polish Inquisition,
or as the crowds chanted: Evangelism! not the Quran!
happily are those: seeing America involve
itself in this slogan... me? as ever, the Pontius Pilate:
i said it once, i'll say it again:
panic is worse than fascism...
   panic is worse than fascism...
you don't expect panic, hence the beasts' stampede
in urban areas... fascism? you know it's
coming, and you know it's not good...
             fascism is panic realised too late,
fascism is panic organised... you knew it was coming
and you did nothing to prevent it...
  the only thing that could have prevented Trump
winning the presidency was acknowledging an unequivocal
membership of the union... Cracow wasn't built in
one day... trigger ******* happy panic button: press!
press! oppress! that special relationship of yours?
yeah... ye'ha! rear 'em in with that quiff of yours, cowboy!
ye'ha!
please don't get me involved, i know how to
impale a turk on a rotten wooden stump, rather than
crucify a Syrian on a geometric of mahogany
amid sacred words: so descended onto a mosque's minaret
and the hippy-hair-debate, and no hair and the hajj.
i know, people are apprehensive you're not a businessman
employing 100 slave Mongolians enlisted to blowing
up 1000 helium filled balloons an hour for birthday
party contracts... and none of them are properly trained
in ventriloquist's chipmunk!
              james dean was the original schizophrenic...
who treated society as an asylum,
and the asylum as a garden of Eden...
                                       lucky him: mono-linguistic...
   i sometimes wish i had that luxury on inherent
cleansing of ethnicity, so i could be left with only
a culinary boasting akin to the Persian quote on
falafel... but then you never know who's side you're
gonna be on...
i might as well quote him akin to j. franco post-doppelganger:
you're tearing me apart!
                                   and they say people think...
nonetheless: whether thinking or not,
they are... a welcome aversion in finding pleasure in
zoos; esp. the times when they're sweating like sardines
stashed in vulvas on underground trains: ventriloquists'
suggestion? moans: foetal moans... get me out of here...
otherwise groaned? harder... mm... deeper...
make your pelvis kiss my pelvis! mmm... baby!
first your read the Marquis to get a hard-on,
then you ****-off that hard-on...
and then you do a hand-job to someone else
and pass on the Oxfam motto to some other "hungry" Afrikaan.

There is a boy in the library, ignoring the crazy lady talking through the window.
I feel like telling him she is nice. And probably not half as crazy as the librarians in this town. She has 2 children. They live in Greece. And when she cries, her dogs hide under the deck.
But he probably doesn't speak English.
Hardly any of these people sitting on their backpacks at the library do. And even if he did, he wouldn't listen.
He is reading. Its a good book. I know its a good book. I've read it. Now I feeling like telling him to leave.
He should not read it here, underneath the colour wallpaper. He needs to find a corner of a beach, so he doesn't have to cry in public. And he has to cry, because if he doesn't, I know the crying will happen inside. And his eyes will turn a shade darker with the smoke of their deaths, and his muscles will strain to rip from his ridiculously alive tendons. His eyes are already black, and I do not think he can afford to find more darkness.
Not that I would know.
He might pick cherries for a living and flirt with a trailer park attendant called Fiona is his spare time.
But I have a smell for the scared and enclosed people here. I can see the kracken hunters and the faerie kissers. They show themselves to me accidentally and I turn watch them destroy their dreams.
People ask me why I am cold all the time. They do not understand, because the boy at the library closed the book before he could cry and I knew he would be destroyed anyway

Tell me would you rather be a star or an icon?
No hard feelings let's let bygones be bygones
Because by the time that I'm done it'll all be gone
And that time has come now bang the gong

Poetry takes over me its in my blood
Millions of ideas overflow and flood
I'm the guy who can't explain the things that he does
Before I can finish one the next one's already begun
Call me Bush cause I make preemptive strikes
Late at night, can't sleep I got night terrors
I'm a writer, human error
Make mistakes, but never fake
Verbal assaults, symbolic somersaults
You never spot it, I got it, Haley's Comet  
Get it? got it? Good
What is this amateur hour?
Over these insects I tower
And I leave 'em with a sour taste in their mouths
Too many syllables to count, the can't figure out how
This came to light how this came to be
How someone can be so lyrically and poetically skilled
I'm strong willed to make a killing
To put my name in the top billing
That's T-O-M-M-Y J-O-H-N-S-O-N
Don't wear it out or make me spell it again
The rhythm and rhyme is mine
To take and break, mutilate and manipulate
Into one of my mutated manifestations of soul
So if we go blow for blow
Just roll with the punches
Because I'm no where near done yet
Just one more cycle of sun rise and sun set

Would you rather be a has-been or a never-was?
Authentic booing or half hearted bogus applause?  
Juggling juxtaposition and pulverizing paradox
Opening eyes and dropping jaws

I write for the eccentric and excluded
The ones who know life doesn't have instruction included
The agitators, aggravators
Trouble making perpetrators
The ones high in the sky yet still down to earth, the least common denominators
The imaginative innovation of evolved revolutionaries
And the intuitive message they all carry
I'm inspired by the ones who came before me
Ginsberg, Morrison, Dylan and Cassady
Shakespeare, Fitzgerald and Lennon all influence me
To write and have my name along with theirs on someone's shelf
That's why I'm here everyday writing away to make a name for myself
I'm after the Holy Grail
Na, not a Pulitzer or Nobel
But moment someone tells you, "Hey man I love your stuff"
That right there is enough for me
To know people would take the time to read what I put out
Then without a doubt
I'd know I took the right route
And they all love what I write about
Life, death and everything in between
Sick subhumans and saddened circus clowns
We're all here to see the tides change and the tables turn
There is no turning back now
Sorry if it's too loud
All you can do is kneel and bow
Just wait for it all to change
Keep your confidence up but your ego down
Life is round , the earth is round
It isn't flat and new land's been found
I claim it in my name
And in the name of the game
The game that you we're never even a player in
So don't make a sound, just watch me win

Would you rather be an unknown or a memory?
To live a life of fame or infamy?
To die heroic or live villainy
The subject of a biographic documentary
Remembered for centuries upon centuries

You're good but I'm the greatest
Your're over rated but I'm the highness anticipated awaited
You're on the wait-list, I'm on the A-list
I'm on the tip of everyone's tongue on a daily basis
You keep yourself on repeat on the lamest playlist
So press pause and listen to my words so heinous
Your head is so vacant you haven't got the faintest idea what I'm saying
You're tasteless and I don't care if I'm hated
You play it safe and I like to make bold statements and live dangerous
And I can use my abilities to either trash you or slash you
But I just wanna aid a few of our brothers and sisters
To enlightenment so they can see the bigger picture
And expel all the ******* behind-the-back whispers
Been walking on eggshells and tip toeing around broken glass so long I got blisters
**** the Benedict Arnold's, Judases and *** kissers
Kiss them all good bye
As we blow the whole bunch of 'em sky high
Oh my is that a threat?
Na but you bet it's a ******* promise
Pay homage to Dylan Thomas
And have a drink to him
Until the whole room spins
And we witness the after affects of 9/11
I still don't understand how we got to Iraq if t was Afghanistan
Eh, whatever nevermind I don't want to get into that rant again
But I will give you some food for thought
That you ought to be eating
Why is it people are meeting life with such opposition
It's because we are taught to combat it with these fix positions
Well I've got new and improved fool proof fire power new way
And I'm about to press ignition
I'm refurbished, recondition out of remission
Learn don't live in the past
No looking back live in the now
Don't worry about tomorrow it'll all work out
The Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman case
Isn't about gun laws or even race
It's about the morals and values no one cares to save
The sooner we all realize that the sooner we can have better days

Oh wait I feel spurt of verbal diarrhea about to take place
This is coming from me to you, the fact of the matter is you're through
I'm impervious, immune and merciless
Murderous, your nervousness, you're subservient and worthless
I'm losing my patience with you, I'll try to make this painless
You're going outta here nameless as the whole crowd goes zero gravity weightless
Because I'm a pile driving, stylizing craftsmen of words
And you missed your turn, get burned never return
I write so ridiculous
You write conspicuous
I'm am limitless
They think I'm frivolous and have a bad attitude
They just envious of my monumental aptitude
Its not writing it's typing
Clickty clack clack just like Kerouac
I won't take it back that's just the way I attack literature
I have a big vocabulary, I like onomatopoeia not a big fan of nomenclature  
I put myself in every poem
In every verse or stanza
In every line and word
From storytelling to dispelling propaganda
As for you I don't know
I guess ****** was all she wrote
I got my back tot he ropes
I take e'm and make a noose
It was duck duck goose now you lose
You lost out to a lower class *** head
A brain dead writers who straight outta special ed.
But look how much of my work has been read
No more need be said
I'm ahead of my time and miles a head of you
I got time to stop for a drink
And a trip to the edge of reason to the brink
Then come back again and I'll still be ahead and on top
What you go?t Nothing
Stop bluffing
I'm huffing pure creativity
I listen to the voices inside of me
Telling me to end this quick
And I agree it's time to cut this session short
I think that's the long and short of it
I'm boss and you're a lost cause
You may be the Lion of Zion
Or even Titan of the Horizon
But when we're both gone
You'll be some guy who wrote
And I'll be an Icon

the scientists joined ranks with artists who, with un-complimentary depictions of humanity, like the weavers of the bayeux tapestry, decided to paint queens as ******; the scientists came along with monkeys instead of jealous and shaky hands... that’s like so totally debased, who said i was flat-nosed by a klitschko forearm uppercut and hairy to boot? you want a baboon **** smear with my buttocks to suit a smile on that observation? i’ll just fudge pack that **** between my baboon cheeks for the paintbrush and use your face as the adequate ‘smiles all round’ canvas - gentler than a baby's bottom in sinatra's cheek to cheek take 5.*

no, i wouldn’t trust islam in the mouth of an egyptian,
nor in the mouth of the copt,
no more than i’d trust the conversation
of a prince of egypt with god in hebrew with god’s friendliness,
which isn’t to say that god didn’t say: my people are suffering,
the pharaonic lineage are building pyramids!
i need to punish their leaders to redeem the people,
wait a minute, why would the hebrew building those architectural
monstrosities hijack my servility?
ah i know, i’ll just have to wait for the one to be crucified.
a prince talking the language of slaves...
must have had tea parties with the stonemasonry class
of fanning those bothersome flies away ponces.
but as i was doping myself on the ultimate escapism
watching the gambler (2014),
i spotted this one line that broke me:
this heavily addicted gambling professor of english
who could only shakespeare and albert camus
came across a grey matter criticism: ‘but that’s
only a subjective observation, we’re all bestseller authors!’
no... and objectivity is so overrated,
i mean it implies being one among the many
talking as the many,
there’s no heraclitus in objectivity - where’s the flow
in objectivity, moving from one particular to another
signalling artistry whether that’s the dumb statistician
clothed in the baseball player looking lost in the faded out
lad culture missing in the concert hall of talk,
and the basketball player more interest in quicksilver words
pixelated, and that longing blonde who inspired the english
professor to peddle-stool her to the position of the faded gem
of hopes of the carbonated water of a writer?
speaking objectively would only provide an inactivity,
a sort of ant’s **** hole: well we’re all here... how’s that?
good enough? no! no, it’s not good enough!
there is no heraclitean river in objectivity -
it’s no good enough to feed subjectivity of seeing many different faces
going about their daily business and feeling nothing of yourself
making a choice to pick something out... there must be
some sort of kantian per se in all this.
so then i stumbled into tescos, watched the first gangsta gathering
in the car park and in the shop i talked to the would-be cashier
about those failing auto-checkout machines
that now ask for ‘approval needed’ on bottles of whiskey
and five pence plastic carrier bags...
‘you type in 0 and still the machines want approval,’
‘silly, isn’t it? they were so innovative once,’
‘you’re a hoodie with an accent? where you from?’
‘st. petersburg, lived there for a month and came back a changed man,
i was caged and told to not try and get into a nightclub
to see the unappreciative beauties that couldn’t never cry at
an opera like la triviata,’
‘must have been terrible,’
‘it was, i heard of the russian-chinese axis of evil pact
and drank non-alcoholic kbac!’
then at home i picked up a newspaper and started to kinda reap
a weeping over the 3rd intifada next to
an article about how an american auntie sued her 8 year old
nephew for breaking her wrist at the blackjack table
with the stakes as high as $127,000.
it made sense at the time to be sufficiently coordinated enough
to drink and read, which always adds up to: sermo potator potor non sum.
so i thought about as to why the 30 silver pieces
sold jesus christ into a slavery of a very different kind -
the “intellectual” one at the pearly gates where he greets
all the ***-kissers with the church pay-check back-lingo,
even though human history would be better off
without a few hours of the last supper morphed into a sunday
service for 2000 years... when joseph would have seen
the little babylonian kid do something monstrous on the last sabbath,
which would also be akin to that famous opinion section of the newspaper:
yes comrade frankenstein (fickle think shine, alternate spelling of the columnist's surname), capitalism is unshakeable,
there is no alternative to capitalism...
but i thought there was an alternative to the marshall plan?
did i miss something - am i really supposed to stand “outside of all space
and time” in classical philosophical practice? i can’t do that with the slogan:
there’s no alternative to the marshall plan! yes there is, communism.
the syrians will tell you that in a few years, fingers crossed,
no foreign investors will be able to impregnate the resurgence
of civilian trust within monochromatic ethnicity;
but of course i’m getting ahead of myself with hopes.

Donald Trump Limericks IV



The Hair Flap
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

The hair flap was truly a scare:
Trump’s bald as a billiard back there!
The whole nation laughed
At the state of his graft;
Now the man’s wigging out, so beware!



Stumped and Stomped by Trump
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a candidate, Trump,
whose message rang clear at the stump:
"Vote for me, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!,
because I am ME,
and everyone else is a chump!"



Toupée or Not Toupée, That is the Question
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a brash billionaire
who couldn't afford decent hair.
Vexed voters agreed:
"We're a nation in need!"
But toupée the price, do we dare?



Toupée or Not Toupée, This is the Answer
by Michael R. Burch

Oh crap, we elected Trump prez!
Now he's Simon: we must do what he sez!
For if anyone thinks
And says his "plan" stinks,
He'll wig out 'neath that weird orange fez!



White as a Sheet
by Michael R. Burch

Donald Trump had a real Twitter Scare
then rushed off to fret, vent and share:
“How dare Bernie quote
what I just said and wrote?
Like Megyn he’s mean, cruel, unfair!”



Humpty Trumpty
by Michael R. Burch

Humpty Trumpty called for a wall.
Trumpty Dumpty had a great fall.
Now all the Grand Wizards
and Faux PR men
Can never put Trumpty together again.



Viral Donald (I)
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Donald Trump is coronaviral:
his brain's in a downward spiral.
His pale nimbus of hair
proves there's nothing up there
but an empty skull, fluff and denial.



Viral Donald (II)
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Why didn't Herr Trump, the POTUS,
protect us from the Coronavirus?
That weird orange corona of hair's an alarm:
Trump is the Virus in Human Form!



No Star
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump, you're no "star."
Putin made you an American Czar.
Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen,
pretty soon we'll all be wearing lederhosen.



How the Fourth ***** Ramped Up
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump prepped his pale Deplorables:
"You're such easy marks and scorables!
So now when I bray
click your heels and obey,
and I'll soon promote you to Horribles!"



The Ex-Prez Sez

The prez should be above the law, he sez,
even though he’s no longer prez.
—Michael R. Burch



Trump Dump
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a con man named Trump
who just loved to take dumps at the stump.
“What use is the truth?”
he cried, with real ruth,
“Just come kiss my fat orange ****!”



Limerick-Ode to a Much-Eaten A$$
by Michael R. Burch

There wonst wus a president, Trump,
whose greatest a$$ (et) wus his ****.
It wus padded ’n’ shiny,
that great orange hiney,
but to drain it we’d need a sump pump!

Interpretation: In this alleged "ode" a southern member of the Trump cult complains that Trump's a$$ produces so much ***** matter that his legions of a$$-kissers can't hope to drain it and need mechanical a$$-istance!



Stumped and Stomped by Trump
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a candidate, Trump,
whose message rang clear at the stump:
"Vote for me, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!,
because I am ME,
and everyone else is a chump!"



Raw Spewage (I)
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump
is a chump
who talks through his ****;
he's a political sump pump!



Raw Spewage (II)
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Trump
is a chump
who talks through his ****;
he's a garbage dump
in need of a sump pump!


Keywords/Tags: Trump limerick, Trump limericks, limerick, nonsense, light, verse, humor, humorous, donald, trump, president, ignoramus, *****, imbecile, conman, fraud, liar, shill, criminal, huckster, snake oil salesman, Twitter, tweet, tweety



OTHER TRUMP LIMERICKS, POEMS AND EPIGRAMS



Poets laud Justice’s
high principles.
Trump just gropes
her raw genitals.
—Michael R. Burch



Dark Shroud, Silver Lining
by Michael R. Burch

Trump cares so little for the silly pests
who rise to swarm his rallies that he jests:
“The silver lining of this dark corona
is that I’m not obliged to touch the fauna!”



Zip It
by Michael R. Burch

Trump pulled a cute stunt,
wore his pants back-to-front,
and now he’s the **** of bald jokes:
“Is he coming, or going?”
“Eeek! His diaper is showing!”
But it’s all much ado, says Snopes.



There once was a senator, Cruz,
whose whole life was one pus-oozing schmooze.
When Trump called his wife ugly,
Cruz brown-nosed him smugly,
then went on a sweet Cancun cruise.
—Michael R. Burch aka “The Loyal Opposition”



Mini-Ode to a Quickly Shrinking American Icon
by Michael R. Burch

Rudy, Rudy,
strange and colludy,
how does your pardon grow?
“With demons like hell’s
and progress like snails’
and criminals all in a row!”



Christmas is Coming
alternate lyrics by Michael R. Burch

Christmas is coming; Trump’s goose is getting plucked.
Please put the Ukraine in his pocketbook.
If you haven’t got the Ukraine, some bartered Kurds will do.
But if you’re short on blackmail, well, the yoke’s on you!

Christmas is coming and Rudy can’t make bail.
Please send LARGE donations, or the Cause may fail.
If you haven’t got a billion, five hundred mil will do.
But if you’re short on cash, the LASH will fall on you!



Fake News, Probably
by Michael R. Burch

The elusive Orange-Tufted Fitz-Gibbon is the rarest of creatures—rarer by far than Sasquatch and the Abominable Snowman (although they are very similar in temperament and destructive capabilities). While the common gibbon is not all that uncommon, the orange-tufted genus has been found less frequently in the fossil record than hobbits and unicorns. The Fitz-Gibbon sub-genus is all the more remarkable because it apparently believes itself to be human, and royalty, no less! Now there are rumors—admittedly hard to believe—that an Orange-Tufted Fitz-Gibbon resides in the White House and has been spotted playing with the nuclear codes while chattering incessantly about attacking China, Mexico, Iran and North Korea. We find it very hard to credit such reports. Surely American voters would not elect an ape with self-destructive tendencies president!

Keywords/Tags: Trump, Donald Trump, poems, epigrams, quotes, quotations, Rudy Giuliani, Ted Cruz, Cancun, Christmas



Trump Limericks aka Slimericks



The Nazis now think things’re grand.
The KKK’s hirin’ a band.
Putin’s computin’
Less Ukrainian shootin’.
They’re hootin’ ’cause Trump’s win is planned.
—Michael R. Burch



Trump comes with a few grotesque catches:
He likes to ***** unoffered snatches;
He loves to ICE kids;
His brain’s on the skids;
And then there’s the coups the fiend hatches.
—Michael R. Burch



Trump’s Saddest Tweet to Date
by Michael R. Burch

I’ve gotten all out of kilter.
My erstwhile yuge tool is a wilter!
I now sleep in bed.
Few hairs on my head.
Inhibitions? I now have no filter!



the best of all possible whirls, for MAGA
by Michael R. Burch

ive made a mistake or two.
okay, maybe quite more than a few:
mistakes by the millions,
the billions and zillions,
but remember: ur LORD made u!

where were u when HEE passed out brains?
or did u politely abstain?
u call GAUD “infallible”
when HEE made u so gullible
u cant come inside when Trump reigns.



Mercedes Benz
by Michael R. Burch

I'd like to do a song of great social and political import. It goes like this:

Oh Donnie, won't you lend me your Mercedes Benz?
My friends ***** in Porsches, I must make amends!
Like you, I f-cked my partners and now have no friends.
So, Donnie won't you sell me your Mercedes Benz?

Oh Donnie, won't you rent me your **** import?
You need to pay your lawyers: a **** for a tort!
I’ll await her delivery each day until three.
And Donnie, please throw in Ivanka for free!

Oh, Donnie won't you buy me a night on the town?
I'm counting on you, Don, so don't let me down!
Oh, prove you're a ******* and bring them around.
Oh, Donnie won't you buy me a night on the town?

Oh Donnie, won't you lend me your Mercedes Benz?
My friends ***** in Porsches, I must make amends!
Like you, I f-cked my partners and now have no friends.
So, Donnie won't you sell me your Mercedes Benz?


Ode to a Pismire
by Michael R. Burch

Drumpf is a *****:
his hair’s in a Fritz.
Drumpf is a missy:
he won’t drink Schlitz.
Drumpf’s cobra-hissy
though he lives in the Ritz.
Drumpf is so pissy
his diaper’s the Shitz.



The Ballade of Large Marge Greene
by Michael R. Burch

Marge
is large
and in charge,
like a barge.

Yes, our Marge
is quite large,
like a hefty surcharge.

Like a sarge,
say LaFarge,
apt to over-enlarge
creating dissent before the final discharge.


Trump Limericks aka Slimericks

The Nazis now think things’re grand.
The KKK’s hirin’ a band.
Putin’s computin’
Less Ukrainian shootin’.
They’re hootin’ ’cause Trump’s win is planned.
—Michael R. Burch

Trump comes with a few grotesque catches:
He likes to ***** unoffered snatches;
He loves to ICE kids;
His brain’s on the skids;
And then there’s the coups the fiend hatches.
—Michael R. Burch



Trump’s Saddest Tweet to Date
by Michael R. Burch

I’ve gotten all out of kilter.
My erstwhile yuge tool is a wilter!
I now sleep in bed.
Few hairs on my head.
Inhibitions? I now have no filter!



the best of all possible whirls, for MAGA
by Michael R. Burch

ive made a mistake or two.
okay, maybe quite more than a few:
mistakes by the millions,
the billions and zillions,
but remember: ur LORD made u!

where were u when HEE passed out brains?
or did u politely abstain?
u call GAUD “infallible”
when HEE made u so gullible
u cant come inside when Trump reigns.



My Sin-cere Endorsement of a Trump Cultist
by Michael R. Burch

If you choose to be an idiot, who can prevent you?
If you love to do evil, why then, by all means,
go serve the con who sent you!



Bird’s Eye View
Michael R. Burch

So many fantasical inventions,
but what are man’s intentions?
I don’t trust their scooty cars.
And what about their plans for Mars?

Their landfills’ high retentions?
The dodos they fail to mention?
I don’t trust Trump’s “clean coal” cars,
and what the hell are his plans for Mars?



Untitled

Don't disturb him in his inner sanctum
Or he’ll have another Trumper Tantrum.
—Michael R. Burch

It turns out the term was prophetic, since "conservatives" now serve a con. — Michael R. Burch

To live among you — ah! — as among vipers, coldblooded creatures not knowing right from wrong, adoring Trump, hissing and spitting venom.

Trump rhymes with chump
grump
frump
lifelong slump
illogical jump
garbage dump
sewage clump
sump pump
*******
cancerous lump
malignant bump
unpleasingly plump
slovenly schlump
yuge enormous diaper-clad ****
and someone we voters are going to thump and whump
—Michael R. Burch



Putin's Lootin's
by Michael R. Burch

They’re dropping like flies:
Putin’s “allies.”

Ah, but who gets their funny
money?

Two birds with one stone:
no dissent, buy a drone.

For tyrants the darkest day’s sunny!



Preempted
by Michael R. Burch

Friends, I admit that I’m often tempted
to say what I think about Trump,
but all such thought’s been preempted
by the sight of that Yuge Orange ****!



Mate Check
by Michael R. Burch

The editorial board of the Washington Post is “very worried that American women don’t want to marry Trump supporters.”

Supporting Trump puts a crimp in dating
(not to mention mating).

So, ***** dudes, if you’d like to bed
intelligent gals, and possibly wed,

it’s time to jettison that red MAGA cap
and tweet “farewell” to an orange sap.



Squid on the Skids
by Michael R. Burch

Sidney Powell howled in 2020:
“The Kraken will roar through the land of plenty!”

But she recalled the Terror in 2023
with a slippery, slimy, squid-like plea.



The Kraken Cracked
by Michael R. Burch

She’s singing like a canary.
Who says krakens are scary?

Squidney said the election was hacked,
but when all her lies were unpacked,
the crackpot kraken cracked.

Now, with a shrill, high-pitched squeal,
The kraken has cut a deal.

Oh, tell it with jubilation:
the kraken is on probation!



Trump’s Retribution Resolution
by Michael R. Burch

My New Year’s resolution?
I require your money and votes,
for you are my retribution.

May I offer you dark-skinned scapegoats
and bigger and deeper moats
as part of my sweet resolution?

Please consider a YUGE contribution,
a mountain of lovely C-notes,
for you are my retribution.

Revenge is our only solution,
since my critics are weasels and stoats.
Come, second my sweet resolution!

The New Year’s no time for dilution
of the anger of victimized GOATs,
when you are my retribution.

Forget the ****** Constitution!
To dictators “ideals” are footnotes.
My New Year’s resolution?
You are my retribution.



Two Trump Truisms
by Michael R. Burch
When Trump’s the culprit everyone’s a “snitch.”
It ain’t a “witch hunt” when the perp’s a witch.



Horrid Porridge
by Michael R. Burch

My apologies to porridge for this unfortunate association with an unwholesome human being.

Why is Trump orange,
like porridge
(though not some we’re likely to forage)?
The gods of yore
knew long before
Trump was born, to a life of deplorage,
that his face must conform
to the uniform
he’d wear for his prison decorage!


Dictionary Definition of Trump
by Michael R. Burch

Trump is a chump;
he’s the freep of a frump;
he’s an orange-skinned Grinch and, much worse, he’s a Grump!;
he’s a creep; he’s a Sheik (sans harem); a skunk!;
“**** the veep!” he’s a murderous coup d’tot-er in a slump;
“Drain the swamps, then refill them with my crocodilian donors!”;
Trump is a ****** with insufficient ******;
Trump is, as he predicted, a constitutional crisis;
Trump is our non-so-sweet American vanilla ISIS;
Trump is a thief who will bring the world to grief;
Trump is a whiner and our Pleader-in-Chief.



Triple Trump
by Michael R. Burch

No one ever ******* a Trump like Trump.
He turned Mar-a-Lago into a dump
and spewed filth at the stump
like a sump pump
while looking like a moulting Orange Hefalump!
Trump made the Grinch seem like just another Grump
by giving darker Whos a “get lost” lump.
No colored child was spared from his Neanderthalic thump.
Trump gave fascists a fist-bump,
consulted **** servers for an info-dump
and invited Russian agents for a late-night ****.
Don the Con con-sidered laws a speed bump,
fired anyone who ever tried to be an ump,
and gave every evil known to man a quantum jump.
You may think he’s just plump
and a chump,
with the style of a frump,
the posture of a shlump,
his brain in a slump,
and perhaps too inclined for a ****-star ****,
while being deprived by his parents of a necessary whump ...
but when it comes to political *****, Trump is the ****!

#TRUMP #DONTHECON #MRBTRUMP #MRBDONTHECON #MRBPOEMS

Keywords/Tags: light verse, nonsense verse, doggerel, limerick, humor, humorous verse, light poetry, *****, salacious, ribald, risque, naughty, ****, spicy, adult, nature, politics, religion, science, relationships


Scratch-n-Sniff
by Michael R. Burch

The world’s first antinatalist limerick?

Life comes with a terrible catch:
It’s like starting a fire with a match.
Though the flames may delight
In the dark of the night,
In the end what remains from the scratch?



Time Out!
by Michael R. Burch

Time is at war with my body!
am i Time’s most diligent hobby?
for there’s never Time out
from my low-t and gout
and my once-brilliant mind has grown stodgy!



Waiting Game
by Michael R. Burch

Nothing much to live for,
yet no good reason to die:
life became
a waiting game...
Rain from a clear blue sky.



*******' Ripples
by Michael R. Burch

Men are scared of *******:
that’s why they can’t be seen.
For if they were,
we’d go to war
as in the days of Troy, I ween.



Devil’s Wheel
by Michael R. Burch

A billion men saw your pink ******.
What will the pard say to you, Sundays?
Yes, your ******* were cute,
but the shocked Devil, mute,
now worries about reckless fundies.



A ***** Goes ****
by Michael R. Burch

She wore near-invisible *******
and, my, she looked good in her scanties!
But the real nudists claimed
she was “over-framed.”
Now she’s bare-assed and shocking her aunties!



MVP!
by Michael R. Burch

Will Ohtani hit 65 homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
make it cute and okay
to write KKK
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?

Will Ohtani hit 65homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
prove the nemesis
of white supremacists
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?

Will Ohtani hit 65 homers,
win the Cy Young by striking out Gomers,
cause supremacists
to cease and desist
while inspiring rhyme-challenged poemers?

Keywords/Tags: limerick, limericks, double limerick, triple limerick, humor, light verse, nonsense verse, doggerel, humor, humorous verse, light poetry, *****, ribald, irreverent, funny, satire, satirical


OTHER LIMERICKS AND POEMS



Red State Reject
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

I once was a pessimist
but now I’m more optimistic,
ever since I discovered my fears
were unsupported by any statistic.



The Red State Reaction
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

Where the hell are they hidin’
Sleepy Joe Biden?

And how the hell can the bleep
Do so much, IN HIS SLEEP?



Mating Calls, or, Purdy Please!
Limericks by Michael R. Burch

1.
Nine-thirty? Feeling flirty (and, indeed, a trifle *****),
I decided to ring prudish Eleanor Purdy ...
When I rang her to bang her,
it seems my words stang her!
She hung up the phone, so I banged off, alone.

2.
Still dreaming to hold something skirty,
I once again rang our reclusive Miss Purdy.
She sounded unhappy,
called me “daffy” and “sappy,”
and that was before the gal heard me!

3.
It was early A.M., ’bout two-thirty,
when again I enquired with the regal Miss Purdy.
With a voice full of hate,
she thundered, “It’s LATE!”
Was I, perhaps, over-wordy?

4.
At 3:42, I was feeling blue,
and so I dialed up Miss You-Know-Who,
thinking to bed her
and quite possibly wed her,
but she summoned the cops; now my bail is due!

5.
It was probably close to four-thirty
the last time I called the miserly Purdy.
Although I’m her boarder,
the restraining order
freezes all assets of that virginity hoarder!

Keywords/Tags: limerick, limericks, nonsense verse, humor, humorous, light verse, mating calls, *****, prudish, lonely, loneliness, longing, America



Animal Limericks

Dot Spotted
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I'll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I'm dressed.
I wouldn't change even one spot."



Stage Craft-y
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can't sing,
but now, here's the thing—
just think of the tunes you can carry! "



Honeymoon Not-So-Sweet, or, Clyde Lied!
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride? "
"Nevermore! " bright-eyed Raven replied.



The Mallard
by Michael R. Burch

The mallard is a fellow
whose lips are long and yellow
with which he, honking, kisses
his *****, boisterous mistress:
my pond’s their loud bordello!



The Platypus
by Michael R. Burch

The platypus, myopic,
is ungainly, not ******.
His feet for bed
are over-webbed,
and what of his proboscis?

The platypus, though, is eager
although his means are meager.
His sight is poor;
perhaps he’ll score
with a passing duck or ******.



The Better Man
by Michael R. Burch
　
Dear Ed: I don't understand why
you will publish this other guy—
when I'm brilliant, devoted,
one hell of a poet!
Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie!

Fie! A pox on your head if you favor
this poet who's dubious, unsavor
y, inconsistent in texts,
no address (I checked!) :
since he's plagiarized Unknown, I'll wager!



"Of Tetley's and V-2's" or "Why Not to Bomb the Brits"
by Michael R. Burch

The English are very hospitable,
but tea-less, alas, they grow pitiable...
or pitiless, rather,
and quite in a lather!
O bother, they're more than formidable.

Crooked nose,
**** pose.
I want to strip you past your pantyhose,
and prove
how much I love you.
It's extreme:
this feeling you're giving me
like someone's on my team
and I'm on my knees -
begging you not to leave;
screaming, gleaming,
shining, whining,
we're playing this sing song game,
winning,
weaving your words to my innards.
Dancing,
spin her.
glorious spirals and swirls,
you look at the girl
like she's beautiful,
even when your eyes are on her evil.
I am the church,
will you be my steeple?
We can be the pretty people,
better even,
antichrists.
Will you be my wife?
No.
That's little ****,
we're bigger even.
Past the dimension of tension;
free to learn the lessons
of each others' teachers.
We can be world leaders
or animal breeders,
silly kissers,
fishermen.
I'm just wishin' you're with me,
every moment is waiting for you
to kiss me.
Even when it's happening,
I'm missing you
'cause I want to live inside your chest cave.
Closer.
Closer.
I'll gladly be your slave.
Slay me.
Take me away.
I want to be the game you play.

I never understood why people call others a "goodie goodie" when they are helping someone out.
I thought people preached, and wished for there to be more "good people" out there in this world.

News flash.

There are "good people" in this world.

They just get teased, mocked and even picked on by jealous people for their actions.
They are seen as "*** kissers" , only doing "something good" to one up someone else.
Seen as self-centered people who only do what they think is best for them.

So the good deeds, the selfless acts, fade away.


Yet they are still called upon, only a few answer.

Once I loved my country
Was filled up with pride
That was before my country
Suddenly fell over and died.
It didn’t die spontaneously,
My country was assassinated.
Murdered by people who
Lied, cheated and hated.

The accomplices were folks
Who stayed home and blamed
And insisted that both parties
Were essentially the same.
Those people refused to verify
What was fact from propaganda.
Now half the citizens are facing
A destructive national agenda.

There were thousands of jokes
About the unqualified guy who won.
Some were funny, made us laugh,
But what happened was not fun.
The person who was trained lost.
Now we have a bigot and a racist
Who is eyeing the Constution
And badly wants to replace it.

The people on both sides now
Have no idea what is coming.
They thought they elected a good guy
But he’s a rich kid who was slumming.
They thought he would help to bring
A national hoped-for change.
They will be shocked to death
To discover that man is so strange.

For him it’s about the ***-kissers
He keeps as his personal posse.
Be prepared, this next four years
Will be anything but glossy.
We will witness blood and death
And a crash of our economy
Because Trump and his cohorts
Believe in nothing but autonomy.

Each day we’d tell ourselves, it can’t get any worse.
But we’d wake up to the next bombshell from the Donald Trump curse.
His rhetoric and false promises stirred something in millions.
He was going to “drain the swamp” be the man of the people to his minions.
He brought out the worst of us, appealed to their deepest fears
Convinced them they could stop hiding, gave them a voice for four years.
He treated our country as the setting for his next reality show.
Each day a new episode, with fake news and Democrats the greatest foe.
He’d tweet unintelligible nonsense in the middle of the night,
Encouraging racists to come out from under their rocks and be ready for a fight.
Four years of bigotry, vitriol, and insulting nicknames,
crimes, pardons, and everyone else always to blame.
He bullied and intimidated, to keep his allies securely in his pocket.
And if you veered off his path, he’d add you to his docket.
These spineless Republicans who went along with this charade,
They were the most pathetic, doing his bidding as they were played.
The Trumper fanatics seem to have short term memory loss.
“Mexico will pay for the wall!” he said.
Now they’re paying for its cost.
Putting children in cages, separating them from their parents at the border.
300 children still missing, reuniting families, a useless order.
There were “good people on both sides” when white supremacists came to ****.
“Stand down and stand by”, he told the Proud Boys when asked to rebuke their will.
Each day we listened, watched, and read things we just couldn’t believe.
No one thanked him for McCain’s funeral, he told “the squad” to go back to where they came from and leave.
He insulted the city of Baltimore and labeled poorer countries as “**** holes”.
He alienated us from allies, and continuously used erroneous numbers in the polls.
The problem is, this is REALITY, not a show, and people’s lives were in his little hands.
He has no concept of consequence, having everything handed to him from his dad.
The list of his transgressions is long, but there’s one that will follow him to hell.
He knew how dangerous Covid 19 was, and decided not to tell.
He said it was not a big deal, not to worry, that they were prepared.
Looks like by April, when it gets a little warmer, it miraculously goes away,” he declared.
This is the flu, it’s just a flu. Don’t wear a mask, everything’s fine, was his call.
We’re doing a “tremendous job” he said, he’s not concerned at all.
Well now we see the result of his inaction and he said he takes no responsibility.
Thousands are dead and dying, NO LEADERSHIP was the key.
A sigh of relief when he wasn’t reelected, but he refuses to concede.
The election was rigged, the Democrats cheated, although there was no evidence to see.
His “alternative facts” were denied by the courts time and time again.
So what does he do, he turns to the underbelly, his faithful, deplorable friends.
As a result we saw something on Jan 5th that we’ve NEVER seen before.
These “protesters” stormed the capitol building, bashed in windows and broke down doors.
All the while, they were chanting their mantra to their king.
Replacing the American flag with a Trump flag, destroying everything.
These weren’t protesters, these were terrorists, leaving the chambers a wreck.
No respect for the ceremonies from the Constitution they say they vow to protect.
If that was a mob of black Americans, do you think they would have made it to the front door?
They would have been showered with tear gas, and shot dead, racial injustice to the core.
Trump loved every minute of it, held off the National Guard as pandemonium reeled.
Then he tweeted a loving video telling the thugs they were special and he knows just how they feel.
If there is a bright side to this attack on democracy,
it’s that it clearly exposed the ****** representatives for everyone to see.
It’s been interesting to see his greatest supporters jump like rats from the ship.
The biggest *** kissers in his club now want no association with him.
****** too, had dedicated followers who believed themselves to be good people.
And then they paid the price when the term **** became synonymous with evil.
To me, those who have sided with Trump will always be a mystery.
But one thing I do know is all of their names will go down on
the wrong side of history.

i try very hard not to fall in love with certain boys
boys that think i am a ball of yarn they can string along
care free
i get snarled
too easily
might be
the ginger in me

i especially avoid all boys with guitars
my heart is a six string
and they've got the pick
i don't like that

never fall for trumpet players, either
the myth about them being good kissers is false

i like rough and ready boys
with dirt under their fingernails
and autumn breezes in their hair
they catch up those green fields
in their eyes
look at me with them
and i
can't resist
that one
for some ******* reason

everyone says
"get a boyfriend, red"
but there aren't any boys in this small town
that are like that
and dad says
don't fall in love with southern boys
...sorry dad, these northern boys won't do

It was a Spanish night,
outside of his tiny cobbed webbed wooden window,
a war announced itself,
a war without Rifles,
Men,
or Tanks and trucks and grenades and black leather boots,
but a war of something
something more deadly,
something terribly cold,cruel,and
beautiful,
in the spanish night,
men loved women,
men loved men,
women loved men,
women loved women,
Lamps exploding with glorious saintly lights,
illuminating the streets like a ball room for the aristocrats,
everything glistened outside,
and he sat beside his old window,
wearing a ***** old white t-shirt,
lighting a cigarette,
he felt as if he was God,
high above,
looking over everyone,
couples holding hands,
girls in sun dresses,
red shoes,
blue shoes,
green shoes,
yellow eyes,
blue eyes,
red fingernails,
purple fingernails,
brown hair,
black hair,
yellow hair,
white teeth,
bright yellow shirts and beautiful brown skin,
the night was good tonight,
his tiny lamp shimmered on his hairy face,
smiling,
his cigarette smiling with him,
He looked over this,
wild landscape of lovers,
music playing,
women laughing,
kissing,
Being God would be terribly cruel,
he would say to himself,
lighting another cigarette,
this is his lover,
his music,
his,
girl in a bright yellow dress,
with her hair down,
and her eyes are large and brown,
her smile the wingspan of a crow,
Looking out over his Heaven
his window,
a tiny spider crawls across the glass,
stopping,
perhaps looking over the dancers,
the lovers,
the kissers,
the youth,
the night people,
He stared at the spider,
“i know that feeling spider”
he said
“looking over all these dresses,and these dancing feet”
he would say
“it's a curse”
“being godn' all”
and the spider would crawl away,
dissappearing into nothing,
maybe underneath the carpet,
where Dogs or mice have chewed tiny holes,
the clock on the dresser hit 1AM,
and the dancers,
the long haired women,
the men,
the dresses and red shoes and lipstick lips and eyes,
were beginning to leave,
Standing up he walks to his closet,
pulling out a jacket,
pulling out a pair of brown pants,
slipping on socks,
then his leather shoes,
his glasses,
walking down the stairs from his apartment,
he had forgotten his cigarettes,
down the hallway of his apartment,
walking back to his room,
a man and women laughed,
her teeth were white,
and she glowed like the flick of a lighter at night,
when the electric bill hasn't been paid,
he unlocks his door,
and grabbing his pack of cigarettes,
by his Heaven window,
he notices the spider on the window,
no body is out side dancing,
and the Street lights,
seem more peaceful,
and welcoming,
And he walks out into the street,
smelling to-do-soon rain,
his footsteps,
loud,
clacking on the pavement,
like a horses hooves,
and he lights a cigarette,
finally alone with the night,
no longer God.

when greener sits atop me earth
astride the human rind practically
eatage thrusted blueward hair
i'll innumerably chant life from
desiccated lips i'll sing life and
i'll say a whole ocean of upon
grass will lovers make dew
which (like me shall) make again
a body of beating and bragging
under stars and over me shall
make the feet of those miraculous
youth drunk kissers and i won't
be dead i'll be in every mouth
parted love hew imbued each other
like i did with you one summer ago
in sweetest juice of night honeying
every limb in suppler moonest light

The predictability of certain females
**** blossoms, ins and outs.
State social climbing potential woman -
lying obnoxious males - the types of women
they go ******* over
Certain people in the helping professions
who seem prone to be cliche uttering
Hardhats even though they might have
gotten their degrees from a liberal university
or whatever.
Sensing which people especially females
if you're a guy who might be interested
in you before you have had your first big talk
to, in most cases, and break the ice
since once is usually interested in them back.
Sensing who back scratched (you "do" me, I'll "do" you)
A-kissers, apple polishers and so on are if you're at all
military, or come from a military family
where you're really exposed to that member of the military.
Suspecting sudden outbursts of grief
coming on from a relative who doesn't appreciate
anything tragic whatsoever
but I'm saying maybe is
sensing the angry last man syndrome in
certain males
Knowing when to say "Well, don't get all hostile,"
with your arms outstretched
when somebody is about to scold you about something
starts within you.

Frienemies with benefits
I suppose that's what we are,
It's really not that bizarre.
Kissers, and snugglers and touchers,
not lovers.
We might only go so far.

But if one or no soul asks me,
I am grateful for you,
     And I.
How we're something new.
We're
Sometimes just two in a room.
Sometimes something good ensues.
I'm grateful.

****** rednecks and tabloid editors,
Choosing a big-mouthed wussy,
Voted into office a ****** predator who
Brags he grabs women by the *****.
He goes on and on about himself
Blows that he is highly educated
He only tells lies, braggadocio, or
Unpresidential rot that is R-rated.

He boasted he could shoot
Someone dead in the street
Even that ugly deed would
Not cause his defeat.

It turned out to be
Unfortunately true!
That’s the kind of thing
Ignoramuses will do:
They vote some dingaling
No matter how disgusting
And decide this grifter
Is definitely worth trusting.

He's just bright enough to see
That suckers love a good show
So he’ll dance and sing to them
For three and a half years or so.

He said he keeps the best
People to back up his boasts,
And when he chooses one
His accomplices all toast.
It won’t be very long until
As his TV show has inspired,
He’ll open that ugly mouth
And snarl out “You’re fired!”

He knows he can keep on
In his lucrative term of office
If he just keeps the rich happy, and
Fools who can’t see he’s bogus.

He’s busily going about
Taking the rights of the poor
And wadding all of them up
Then kicking them out the door.
The only people he wants to succeed
Are him and those ***-kissers
Who hang with him out of greed.

He's just bright enough to see
That suckers love a good show
So he’ll dance and sing to them
For three and a half years or so.

I dig when you like my poems
And I’m really glad you know them
But you are being too critical
If you demand I not be political.
I’m not the most passive poet
You have ever heard or seen.
I am rather an outspoken
Liberal-minded poetry machine.

I’m not patient with ***-kissers
Or those who applaud crooks,
And flashy overspending creeps
Who got rich cooking the books.
I’m not impressed with how well
They behave at flashy photo-ops.
If they’re criminals, I really think
Someone should call the cops.

Nixon and Reagan, taught us
Being famous doesn’t get it.
If that’s all they have going on
Then, no thanks. Just forget it.
I don’t want to give them keys
To a worldwide nuclear disaster.
Kicking their ***** off the throne
Should be instantly if not faster.

So, if you came here to read
Of flowers, June, moon and spoon,
You’re bound to be disappointed
And it will happen very soon.
As I am in love with words
Not just the sound they make.
I try to move souls and hearts
And shake some people awake.

Kiss my.
Oh, not that part.
But my lips.
And make me feel every feeling within it.

You know how.
You have the skills.
And have done it for years.

Rookies needs practice.
While veterans needs nothing.

No slob.
No spit.
Those kissers are complete idiots in need of an instructor
Cause a simple kiss should be an expression of a person love.

It's different than a friendship smooch.
And the approach of the ways to do it must be known.
Before you proceed because of the responds.

Or you might face some reprisal  and harm.

Don't kiss my hand.
Don't kiss my neck.
Cause things might get started.

But that can happen too.
If you just kiss my lips.
And put that special feeling within it.

Color me refuse
Mud in the underbelly
The loose form of a man shoveling **** with a plan to tunnel out and hand the sentence to my master
Lose the chain around my neck and find a plot of land to dance tomorrow

It’s so far away though

Will I tread the sea of bodies strung along the ground
between the sphinxes gate to claim the crown, that even now glimmers past the smog that attempts to fog my vision my decision to walk on tested with every sound.

Bury my pride and carry the burden in stride refuse to tarry or cower or decide to turn around
Push the pen to the page with bleeding fingers
Paint with all the colors of masterpiece until I force something out

Will I?

Or will the tar on my lungs erase me
Will I be wrung like a towel thrown in
Drunk on futility
Chasing with impotent rage
Caged in a circus of ****** on a stage cuz I can’t raise a kid on minimum wage

Furious clouds are born storming throughout luxurious tapestries torn by ******* apathy ask me if My potential still holds sway when my energy has me using my hands to stop the rain.
Torrents pour in to clear my storage of scraps and sheer force of denial implores the whip on my back to pretend it’s on my side while it slips in a crack and adores the dough made from my heart attack

Bedazzled prizes consume the whipping allies beside me
inventing new ways to cope with bottom feeding society
assuming truth’ll be derived if so behooved are the masters and their plastic constituents which I guess makes sense, but
poor judgement lends my flesh up to communion if I dare to walk in and say union.


The reagents and *** kissers call into question mindsets infected by a weakness of character
I shed my pride and inquire with an open hand the law layers of the land to relinquish a sparing of its crumbs
Spun from a singular purpose of a daughters meal the judges glaring does little to impair my will to take the help I can
and spare the child the repercussions of her fathers failure and prepare a better plan

Further choral echoing discord turns it ugly head upon the scraps in my hand and posits that if they were taken it would make me work a lot harder instead of coasting on crumbs

So when the coal baron collects his second billionth he will surely cease pursuing correct?
Not do his best to dissect
Every millisecond of labor dug from workers he’s abusing to wring another penny out.
in fact
I think I see your point
Poised to join and help detract
Back peddle over to
Destroying. Prove lying
On your belly is the easy way out. To say
Today’s coin was well deserved. And serve stout drinks to the kings sleep on a rock and talk **** to the guy sleeping in a box because I’ve been taught to think I deserve where I am regardless of my environment but c'mon man ****

Let’s play a game of monopoly
I’ll start with 80% of the bank and y’all can be my ******* when I pay to write the rules and spank you up and down the board while barely touching the capital I have stored.

I’m getting pretty ****** tired of the stale story hard wired in our heads where the moral is free market prevailing for the pauper til he’s dead and social safety nets provided to the prince instead

it’s lead us to question
Methods of distribution sympathetic to tribulations
Endured.
Solutions ignored
For the poor because a single mother with a phone
Doesn’t deserve to be thrown a ******* bone
Apparently

All hail the welfare queen
Who hasn’t seen a day without the banks banner bearers walking tall
All over legislated brick walls enveloping more then all of her vision of a road to prosperity

Make it clear to me how she’s quote "taking advantage" of the land of the free while I see that you fail to ask us
How behind a mask of nobility a trillion dollar company still doesn’t pay its ******* taxes.

Everywhere you go is just like high school
Whether its college, work, or the military, you’re always trying to be or want to be around the kids that are “cool”
Everywhere you go is just like high school
Don’t believe what they tell you
It never ends
The misery and loneliness you felt then is here to stay
Those stupid cliquey chicks, *** kissers, and showoffs will always make you feel that way
Those people you hated in high school are everywhere, you’ll always be permanently annoyed
Just like life and pain, it’s hard to avoid
Everywhere you go is just like high school
Don’t believe what they tell you
It never ends
Everywhere you go is just like high school

A year since I first tasted life
No more filters or ghost kissers for me
A year since my body and soul were set on fire
In a long weekend's puddle, it came
It's my secret birthday
of love and pain
It all began with my glitter slippers in my feet
I walk the path of spring...
and its sunshowers
its storms
its weather...crazy

Thomas, go **** your self.
But you were the first.
I cannot forget.
Unworthy beginning.
A year since.

Where once there was unbridled hope and fearless confidence of mind and body, the burdens of physical affliction and debt have rendered me a withering, arthritic shell of my true potential. Framed by diplomas, a stacked, 4-tiered wooden bookshelf and a collage of vintage family photographs, I soothe my malaise of profound underachievement by spinning words into cryptic verses and esoteric pontifications on an array of topics, old and new. One rush of inspiration yields a collection of free verse poetry for the virtual world. Another, an op-ed on the fallacy of US capitalism. And yet another, a series of jazz-album-cover-inspired digital art crafted in Photoshop with bold color schemes, a super long shot for the coveted “t-shirt design-of-the-year” award.

Not one to point fingers or play the victim card, I fancy myself a driven, principled creative dabbler with an internal locus of control; an it’s-up-to-me attitude and approach to life; an itinerant entrepreneur with a string of failed ventures and a diverse set of underutilized capabilities. But time and circumstance, more specifically a once-in-a-century pandemic, moves those most at-risk, to contemplate their mortality, perhaps even their epitaphs. You stare a bit longer at your reflection in the mirror or listen more intently to the lyrics of Bill Wither’s “Lean on Me” and blackbirds chirping in the trees or savor the aroma of your favorite dish simmering on the stove top, as if today could be the day before your last. Your senses heighten in anticipation of the grand finale and you take a prescient lap around the finite wonders of your world.

Stricken by cabin fever, I sought relief in the outdoors and took a long walk yesterday along the winding streets of my subdivision, to observe those aforementioned finite wonders of my world. Having recently watched a video clip sent to me on WhatsApp about the various modes of COVID-19 transmission, I covered the lower half of my face with a red, green and yellow Guyanese flag bandanna, just in case those lighter, bio-aerosol particles of death were floating around in the air, as described. For a sobering moment, I wondered whether the sight of a black man with a bandanna would terrify any of my mostly white neighbors in the Deep South – I live in the rural suburbs of Georgia about 60 miles south of Midtown Atlanta.

Sadly, no other demographic, particularly those of the Caucasian persuasion, would ever have such concerns. But this is 21st century America. This is Henry County, Georgia. Not much has changed vis-à-vis blacks, in the hearts of many white folks whose ancestors owned plantations and slaves; whose names can be seen on street signs across the county’s landscape – McGarity, Jackson and Buchanan. One of my neighbors even has a confederate flag flying high from his roof top. This is Trump country folks. A brother can’t be too careful or paranoid in these here parts.

My walk was uneventful. A few nice white people waved at me as we passed each other – maybe I was being too paranoid about them. Hmmm….

After an hour or so of fresh air, me and my creaky knees returned to the crib. Like many Americans (not all), I am listening to and observing the CDC’s guidelines and recommendations to stay at home, wash my hands, wear a mask or bandanna when outdoors and observe the physical distancing boundaries of 6 to 13 feet.

These are indeed trying times. Times to adjust and reflect and find ways to stay motivated and engaged and inspired. It’s even more challenging for people like me, a few months shy of 60, with an auto-immune condition and a weak ticker. Times to get tested if you can. To remove uncertainty from the isolation equation and eyes of loved ones. The scariest thing about this novel COVID19 virus is its asymptomatic mode of transmission. Untested, everyone is potentially an infected carrier. Rachel Maddow stated on her MSNBC show last night that less than a million tests have actually been done in this nation of over 300 million people. That’s scary too.

So will we ever go back to the way things were in 2019?

Are our days as huggers, dappers, kissers and hand-shakers over?

Are physical distancing, working remotely, and wearing masks and gloves our new norms for the near future?

Who knows. One thing’s for sure: if you are reading this lament, YOU ARE ALIVE!
Over 134, 000 lives worldwide were cut short by this deadly virus…and counting. That’s a whole lot of humans in a short span of time. This is indeed WAR my friends. There will be a time to worry about those all-consuming material things again. But until then, let’s all focus on STAYING ALIVE!

Especially those of us who’ve had a few skirmishes with the Grim Reaper.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

By Pablo (James G. Paul Sr.)

Blog: https://jpcreates.wordpress.com/2020/04/16/a-quarantined-brothers-lament/
Portfolio: www.jamesgpaulsr.com

Today is not as dark as two days ago,
there is light at the end of the tunnel.
Joe is a good man, and he knows when
to stay and when to go, for the good of
the nation and the world.

Now, with the VP, put Pete Buttigieg on
the ticket and Trump will be out of all our
lives and maybe in jail where he certainly
belongs.

I know a woman of color and a gay man may
sound implausible to many but I think the
country is ready. A near brush with a crazy
want to be Fascist dictator is a very sobering
wake up call, it changes opinions and scares
people to open their minds up to new and better
possibilities. Perhaps it will expel the crazy Maga
Trump *** kissers from congress so our nation
can heel its wounds and divisions and we can
rise from beneath the evil specter of Trump and
all his misguided minions.

Kamala and Pete are both very smart and super
capable people. Born leaders. It's time the voters
thought with their heads and not their lame skewed
and bias petty prejudices.

Are we addled sheep or thinking human beings?
We have 105 days to get our collective **** together.
I think we can do it. I just pledged $200 to support
the Dem Presidential Campaign, the first time in
my life ever donating to any politician's election.
If not now, when? I have a feeling I will not be alone
in this regard and desire for change.

Why can’t I be a dandelion?
So, when they cut me off at the crown
I can grow back up again.
These lil’ buggers have roots down
to the depths of the earth.
They need so little
to rebirth.

I want to be a field
of sunny, yellow kissers.
I would yield
a blanket of flowers
that children could pick
whiling away the afternoon hours.

Perpetuating my seed
in an aerial of cotton spray.
I love it when they’re blowing.
It makes my day
seeing fury fuzzy ***** floating in a marmalade sky,
amongst a backdrop
of formal trees wearing Scottish tweed.
Not bad, I think,
for a common ****.