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Fred Schrott Jun 2014
A drive-by piercing with a lemon going haywire
Some day-old sushi seen floating in a milk shake
Biplanes soaring on a river made of goldfish
Hamsters running like a maggot being stepped on
T-Birds flying on a highway made of spike strips
A sleeper hold keeping pleasure from the culprit
High-speed boats with Bond at the Olympics
A Cheshire cat that is famous for his slow wit
A hands-free call using carrots as a pitchfork
Motel 6 giving buckets full of sunshine
A loser shakes when he’s calling for a train wreck
Two horned-toad dogs seek pleasure from a princess
Pineapples dance on a table made of tall grass
Swimming pools run like the nostrils of a cokehead
Lawnmowers chase televisions made of chocolate
A headrest pops like a package full of mayonnaise
Full moon falling like a stock that’s made of pennies
Some ring-toss games using members as a target
Horse-drawn buggies have turtles for a driver
Captain Crunch cracks three teeth with his product
Unicorn strippers charge nothing for a snow cone
A fig tree shoots his rifle like a marksman
Time-lapse photos lend credence to a journey
A night jog leading to the starting of a win streak
Cotton ***** fighting like the heart of a palm tree
Rabbit holes filled with a rocket made of red glare
Alien red giants just as sure as I am breathing
A high-speed rail system travels without leaving
Lamborghinis resting on a bed of melting ice cream
Then there’s a cuckoo clock riding on a white mink
I saw a cowboy yesterday atop a pile of hay
Leaches lurking everywhere really like to play
Red newspaper taxis burn at the pole in June
Hearts of gold at harvest time, hear my drum in tune
Playing in the band was my only decent goal
Rake, a shovel, and a pick dig working with a ***        
Prince without a pauper will rise from down below
Hot tamales drop like hail the radar never showed
Squids sign a new record deal using their own ink
Octomom wants it all; such ***** I’ve never seen
From, The Transitive Nightfall Of Diamonds, due out 8/14 from iUniverse books
John Smith Oct 2013
Yo, VIP, Let's kick it!

Polar Polar Baby, Polar Baby
All right stop, Collaborate and listen
Polar is back with my brand new invention
Something grabs a hold of me tightly
Flow like a harpoon daily and nightly
Will it ever stop? Yo – I don't know
Turn off the lights and I'll glow
To the extreme I rock a mic like a vandal
Light up a stage and wax a chump like a candle.

Dance, Go rush the speaker that booms
I'm killing your brain like a poisonous mushroom
Deadly, when I play a dope melody
Anything less than the best is a felony
Love it or leave it, You better gain way
You better hit bull's eye, The kid don't play
If there was a problem, Yo, I'll solve it
Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it

Polar Polar Baby Vanilla, Polar Polar Baby Vanilla
Polar Polar Baby Vanilla, Polar Polar Baby Vanilla

Now that the party is jumping
With the bass kicked in, and the Vegas are pumpin'
Quick to the point, to the point, no faking
Cooking MCs like a pound of bacon
Burning them they ain't quick and nimble
I go crazy when I hear a cymbal
And a hi hat with a souped up tempo
I'm on a roll and it's time to go solo
Rollin' in my 5.0
With my ragtop down so my hair can blow
The girlies on standby, Waving just to say, "Hi!"
Did you stop? No – I just drove by
Kept on pursuing to the next stop
I busted a left and I'm heading to the next block
That block was dead

Yo – so I continued to A1A Beachfront Ave.
Girls were hot wearing less than bikinis
Rockman lovers driving Lamborghinis
Jealous 'cause I'm out getting mine
Shay with a gauge and Vanilla with a nine
Ready for the chumps on the wall
The chumps acting ill because they're so full of "Eight Ball"
Gunshots ranged out like a bell
I grabbed my nine – All I heard were shells
Falling on the concrete real fast
Jumped in my car, slammed on the gas
Bumper to bumper, the avenue's packed
I'm trying to get away before the jackers jack
Police on the scene, You know what I mean
They passed me up, confronted all the dope fiends
If there was a problem, Yo, I'll solve it
Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it

Polar Polar Baby Vanilla, Polar Polar Baby Vanilla
Polar Polar Baby Vanilla, Polar Polar Baby Vanilla

Take heed, 'cause I'm a lyrical poet
Miami's on the scene just in case you didn't know it
My town, that created all the bass sound
Enough to shake and kick holes in the ground
'Cause my style's like a chemical spill
Feasible rhymes that you can vision and feel
Conducted and formed, This is a hell of a concept
We make it hype and you want to step with this
Shay plays on the fade, slice like a ninja
Cut like a razor blade so fast, Other DJs say, "****"
If my rhyme was a drug, I'd sell it by the gram
Keep my composure when it's time to get loose
Magnetized by the mic while I kick my juice
If there was a problem, Yo – I'll solve it!
Check out the hook while DJ revolves it.

Polar Polar Baby Vanilla, Polar Polar Baby Vanilla
Polar PolarBaby Vanilla, Polar Polar Baby Vanilla

Yo, man, let's get out of here! Word to your mother!

Polar Polar Baby Too Polar, Polar Polar Baby Too Polar Too Polar
Polar Polar Baby Too Polar Too Polar, Ice Ice Baby Too Polar Too Polar
Joshua Dedricks Sep 2017
It has been a couple of weeks
since the rigor of being McGregor
boiled down to nothing,
and Mayweather
had an Irma of punches
ricochet off of him.

I recollect this seemingly regular
pre-big-match rumor,
that the game was arranged.
These verdicters
pronounced a loss for Conor.
If so, Mc. man there
took way too many hits for the money.

Now that McGregor is left for dead,
and verily, Floyd
may or may not have added
a few more Lamborghinis
from the Billion bucks prize !!!
Many fortunes have changed.

I've fallen deep down
into this cemetery
where my thoughts lay dead,
and from the abyss sprout up a paradox
that stands for all fortunes:
We all fish in the same waters;
if one stirs a ripple,
driving the fishes away,
another is gifted a school without much labor.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
feminism is pretty much a failure like communism... the latter wanted the workers of the world to unite... but they didn't... each working man took too much pride in his earnings an expenses to the extent that he sought no idealistic solution... the self-preservation element... feminism is very much alike to communism... it comes from the same source, the bourgeoisie caste... which explains why prostitutes in France defended their pundits... they basically said: ******* little Freudian undecided *****, with us it's 100 ***** a week... with you it's only about 100,000 interpretations of a **** in clingfilm at a Hollywood premier: your choice, either 100 *****, or a ***** and the cinema of the would-be agonies or a man resembling Richard Burton, sober, and being a Swedish patent for a house-husband, and a closet poet, and a chef, and a, and a, and a... can i suggest a kaleidoscope as the safest investment?

imagine sitting in a brothel waiting room,
there's about 10 of them -
and they're looking at your like you're
their father and they're about to skin you alive
like piranhas with their eyes -
it can be quiet intimidating,
what for £10 entry fee and £110 and hour
baggage of silenced ******* -
you're basically ******* Ferraris and Lamborghinis -
but it's worth the while,
you genitalia turn into a pavlova before
it's baked mush - your testicles are soaring
angels with the ticklish bits added
to what feels like a shiver of goosebumps -
you sit there for a while, it's the hardest time
to be making choices, you ask for a cup of water
(i always did),
you get it, Keith Lemon is doing his talk show,
the older prostitutes are un-amused -
they're the ones who'd skin you alive,
pick one and she turns into a sadistic
vacuum cleaner in the realm of oration -
you think these terrorists and so-called
martyrs would have the ***** keep up with an ante-chamber
like that? these women can sniff out perversity
like they might sniff out a woodlice in damp wood...
or the spiders that complete their weaving
and never take the central role on the stage,
but ****** their spiderweb before scuttling
into the frenzy of making a body of other insects
into immobile dough to **** into on the sidelines,
they're the out-of-body experiencing their architecture,
there's no ego in them, not central nervous system...
i always thought that spiders compensated the
cartesian problem with their spiderwebs -
they extended their nerves through their *****
into an architectural project of nerve endings / extensions...
see, that's the thing about poetry: pure narration...
no technique, no nothing, no need to create a
third person or first person ******, no characters
to study and incubate into a thrill ending: poetry
is the purest form of narration, easily a ricochet
into digression that in fiction would only mean another
grey matter character to involve in the plot.
. and - (dot and hyphen, as suggested by Nietzsche,
is steaming along forgetting the semi-colon).
- i swear insects are the perfect telescopes into
alien life... on that micro level you get to
understand the many hazards of differentiated life
elsewhere... it's the microbes you need to
mind as the real hazards and blizzards -
but this one time i broke the brothel rule
denoted as choice: i didn't make one.
i asked for one to make a choice for me...
one talkative gall said i shouldn't be asking...
so i replied: well aren't you the talkative one...
you'll do. told you a butcher's supermarket -
i turned myself into a piece of meat -
the ***** butcher said: he'll have to do,
he prompted me to talk the heretical *credo
...
the outer-body experience, prostitutes are the experiment,
i asked of the 10 present and my penguin **** solo
shrivelled up newspaper of ******* to chose -
and she did... it's funny giving choice to someone
who you payed to choose from... these Muslim martyrs
will find it had to keep it level headed like Solomon -
these boys will really struggle to reap their rewards...
they just blow up ten people but never sat in
the company of ten prostitutes...
ten blown up, in the company of ten prostitutes...
you really don't know what it's like trying out
whether you could stomach a harem, let alone keep
one like a walrus...
ever stole a kiss from a ******* who's saintliness
involved never giving one but merely ******* more ****?
hmm? oh i can get pornographic after all...
it's a joyride troupe of force in thinking the joys i
nourished in such places... although i have to admit
Amsterdam would never feed such poems...
it's just common place everything's worth clapping
(or too much clapping by the serfs at a Bolshoi ballet),
you need the thrill of something being illegal...
in the case of itemising England it's the brothel owners
that are the culprits, not the prostitutes, nor the pundits,
which is why i asked to perform oral *** once in a while
for the extra undocumented 10 quid... that didn't fall
into the hands of the madame... so it ends...
feminism alright for you, in that ivory tower of yours,
unscathed, belligerent and with sulphuric toxic gas
to **** out from your mouth as the proper argument?
the heart not steady? i see... i guess you have a hard fight
ahead of you... young men go to prostitutes undiscriminating
their age and **** as **** would do too,
but young women don't go to prostitutes,
professional women do... and they'd always probably
**** some young dude... see the difference?
young men go to prostitutes... young women have all
the eye-to-**** candy they can have... older women order
**** and limousine, a night out, a date, a dinner...
young men are like: broken pipe, need a plumber,
stillson pipe wrench! and where's that ******* spanner?!
and contrary to popular beliefs, cats have
a second weak spot other than petting their heads
and playing with their whiskers... the point
between the evolve coccyx and the spine...
they really love a rub when the coccyx turns into
a tail... it's almost like a reverse test for prostate cancer...
every cat sitting down when rubbed in that area
will do a marching army band salute of raising its
hind in anticipation of a rainbow -
and yes, urinating with ******* is pretty much as
exciting as a woman massaging her ******* with
a shower head with pulverising pressurised water.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
for all i care to remember...
        looking into the mirror was more or less...
something akin to:
"squirting"... **** me! SQUINTING...
      well... the contortion of the eyes...
"worrying" about a double-chin...
and of course... enough stealth acne
to make me... the bride of beelzebub
how i'd joke to myself...
         beelzebub sat on my face and *******
a tonne of... dead maggots...

           i never knew i was athletic standing
before a mirror...
i probably know that i am less athletic now...
but... looking into mirror made
sense... once...
   this russian girl...
    in st. petersburg...
   we were in "love"...
       and there was this great aventurine bed...
and... a closet with two mirrors...
and... we'd be at it...
i was looking into the mirror...
and she was looking into the mirror...
it was like: the opposite of *** on l.s.d. -
because it was like...
beyond the missionary -
the "******" of the mirror...
   as in ***... it leaves you wanting
to ******* to the *******...
because... hell...
without a mirror...
could you capture the face moaning
contorting like an experiment out
of the gehenna harem?

     for all the *** toys sold...
all those exceses of... woman's lingerie...
outfits... nurses...
   blah blah... it really takes a mirror
to spice things up...
this dead-eyed mirror canvas...
the dire-dead-necessary...
    tooth-fairy: ref. the red dragon...
i needed to see that she needed to see
that i was ******* her... and that she...
was being ******...

           mirror mirror on the wall...
**** the fair and the fairest and the fairies...
i have come to understand that mirrors...
work best...
when... not stressed to exemplify...
a concern for beauty...
   or... something that is worn...
clothes look... terribly important in a mirror...
esp. by someone wearing them
when allowed to be digested / investigated
by a mirror...

but... a mirror during ***?
when you're not performing inverted missionary...
doggy... and she's lying with clenched ****-cheeks...
i was in love once...
which also implies:
i ****** like a race-champ pony!
the mirror always helps...
i wouldn't know: whether s&m leather
and straps would... and whips...
made much of a difference...
when... the mirror... the ghost ******...
the: satan you could get away with...
if you didn't utter a comprehensive word...
but ensure a strict rigidity to...
onomatopoeias and syllables...
and... exfoliating nouns...

        upon memory being summoned...
i'm getting a bigger hard-on thinking
about all the encounters i've had with the police...
there's always at least two memorable
encounters...
getting poisoned in a nightclub...
getting on the bus...
getting off the bus... dropping like a pancake
onto the cement...
     being roused... asked by the police officer
whether i was o.k.:
making a slurred and lengthy apology...
giving my address...
and being... taken in a police van... in a cage
for a sinner... like a taxi...
back home...

    losing my virginity to a pair of handcuffs...
for ******* in an alleyway...
getting screamed at...
one officer cuffed me...
the female officer had a pen and pad ready...
in an alleyway where it was discussed:
and who's alleyway is it?
i'm too drunk already...
if i walked into a pub on friday come
10pm i'd be asked to buy a pint
in order to use their toilet...

         it's one sort of luck... gambling...
betting on a horse...
but another... being hand-cuffed...
  and then... having the hand-cuffs...
taken away...
              as this dialogue happened in the...
"invisible" shadow of the alley...
i can't exactly imagine what the onlookers
saw...
           a teasing of authority...
drinking a beer on a bench outside
a pub on a friday night...
which is... basically... taking away
the revenue... of being sardine packed...
and pyramid schemed... for failure...
but my... what a glorious night...

so i asked: and where am i... permitted...
and blah blah...
that ******* mirror... and that aventurine bed...
the same thrill during ***...
like... the thrill of stepping into a brothel...
without a need to ***...
the 9 of them: all nazgul attired in scrutiny...
before "the pick"...

   *** toys... can i please get a mirror in here?!
it has to become a standard for a healthy
sexed up relationship...
    a mirror can overpower any...
frivolity of during-***: attire...
  the imitation ******...
a mirror is... just that...
                 *** with: in third person narrative...
but... smirk-giggle:
you catching her eyes getting ******...
and she catching your eyes: ******* her...

so tame tame... unlike reading...
  the tame blushes of marquis the sade...
never to mention... this philosophical adventure
of ******... which it really is...
impeccable... trouble with: thought put into
practice...
                yes... that horrid... Fritzl case...
but unlike the idealist scenario...
the mother was notably pushed away from
the grandiosity of the sin...
and it was done... in public... with...
a purview of... shaking established social norms!
it wasn't... a rabbit-hole of horror...

              which is why i'm glad i do not
have children of my own...
   i once spent an afternoon with...
my... grand-aunts son... my uncle...
don't ask...
         and i looked like him and thought...
well... i have most certainly had more
fun with cats and dogs...
i was a complete mute...
i didn't feel like cuddling this piece
of cubism... it looked human and even
contorted like one...
perhaps if it was mine...
i could have... somehow...
            "relegated my inhibitions"?
                 n'est ce pas?
         to have children and begin with...
that ******* of differentiating vowels from
consonants... and then... building consonants...
what... 5 vowels... 21 consonants...
5 x 21 = 105 variations...
       prefix: ab, ac, ad, af, ag...
                     eb, ec, ed, ef, eg...
                           IF only! oof!
                 the suffix - ba, ca, da, fa, go...
                                 bat cat dad fat god...
and then... the 21 x 21 consonant variables...
squared to the power of 5...
because... chinese is... frankly...
so simple...

   - it's summer and...
            since i would otherwise... require ink...
to write... and the paper would somehow
be always readily available...
no need for ink...
the summer months are terrible...
for no requirement of ink...
what is ink?  ink is...
                         i need october...
i need november... december... january...
february... half of march...
i need to borrow ink from the night!
i can't scribble in these arab / kenyan months...
these sun-seeker months
of idle by the dream-pool... load of...
overtly-talked... less thought...
therefore... no need to scribble...

    i need the night for my ink...
                           "punctuation marks are in
the constellations": oh yes... honey sweet...
what's it called? cliche? we've all been there...
i too would sacrifice Hector before the altar
of Achilles if i were Priam...
                   only because: he was called Hector...
and the other was Achilles...
and i was called Priam...
       in such times... what were...
the trully... common-place names...
of stunt-men and extras?
   i'd like to know the equivalent of a john smith
from ancient greece...
what would one call: him?
            
        perhaps: i tend to think about *** when
i... most probably had a dream...
jerking off is a bit like...
checking one's blood pressure...
or as a diabetic might... ***** his index
to check the sugar levels...
i write about "***" when i've had a dream...
the dream...

i was talking to a man about cars...
notably... cars from...
america and germany...
circa the years... 1920s through to...
                the 1970s...
          and... then... the talk of... a motorcycle...
a specific motorcycle...
   a triump street cup...
                 a BMW R18... but not quiet...
whatever it was...
                    for the love of a double-decker
bus and a pair of legs...
                which is not...
to have emotionally invested
in *** was something a much younger
version of me would have done...
i thank the prostitutes of curing me of this...
debilitating disease / dream...
              which, i, prescribed... myself...
so no... i hardly think...
there were any... mummy or daddy issues...
i would skip several scenarios:
as much as i love riding a double-decker
bus... i abhor... taking a taxi...
       even if it requires me to walk...
2 miles... i'd rather walk:
for the love of legs and... voodoo dolls hanging
like corks... bend the knee: they might say...
bullet to the knee-cap... if you ask me...
again...

     perhaps i wasn't born english...
but... after... 26 years among them...
                          it "sort of" grows on you...

- man can perform a thousand:
dodo project genocides in one sitting:
on the throne of thrones...
before jumping under a baptism:
fully attired in the ganjes pyjamas
in one sitting: on the throne of thrones...
to "squat" while *******...
*******... *******...
"scented candles" of taking a shower...

i write about *** every time i have a dream...
it's to succumb to the lesser...
escapade of me...
i can stomach subjectivity...
but having to stomach idealism...
is another matter: altogether...
i would like to worship the men who
have had their fill...
and settled for the swan blockade
of the widower romance...
the widow swan...
the black widow: a ******* spider...

none of it... i ****** good i ******
well... come the prime of the age 21...
she was a gamer side-kick bedded...
she prescribed me...
                        Bulgakov...
              reading a ****** to a prussian...
or reading a ****** to a RUŚ: example: ditto...
                  i have heard of how
love supposedly closed and opened borders...
we are so antithesis "different"...
we aren't... some western "communist"
zoo study:
the people who say and then...
lucky us paupers...
who have to "loot" the infrastructure
of the vacating ****-tunnels...
because... someone has to ****-off...
their tongue and... gerbil fidgety!

albino chimpanzee and...
boxer gorilla fed on...
the promise of bulk... with nothing
but... the promise of fruits of your
labour... and nothing relating
to protein... or fat... of complex sugars
known as bread... none of that!
still: that fudge-packing bulk of
gorilla bicep protein: amass!

   - as ever... the murk: before the deep-water...
the... inverted demigods
of h. p. lovecraft...
because... cthulhu is... "somehow"...
not the ******* son of Poseidon?

acid-quasi-monkey asks...
   placid-didgeridoo...
                a constipated: not funny...
attempts! at solving a crossword!
-frankenstein-myrhh:
                        ******* dangling...
                                    (-) - Fatima...
is this... "Syria" yet?
  concerning the second coming...
concerning...
Syrian civil war... something...
*******... miraculous...
has happened...
or was about to happen...
and that it didn't happen...
better that it did:
but since it... didn't...
best we cover it up...
                corpse bride:
               Khadija **** Khuwaylid...
if ever: Stephen Vizinczey...
was a (prophet) Muhammad...
in praise of older women...

    ...a Fatima... fleeing the Syrian
civil war... because... Ramses II
was... telling apart the 7 good years
from... the 7 ******* years...

tell you what... it's no fun...
when you've been given the need
to bend the knee before the altar
of phantom power...
if i were 16 and she was 14...
if i was 18 and she was 16...
if i was 60! and she was... 20!
would it matter?
               if i was jerking off aged 8...
you want to know...
what... the last prize is...
the last... difference between...
"consent" of two adult adult...
with their *******-riddle
of a theatre of ***?
     you want to know?
the thought of ******* someone...
under-age...
no! no barbie! no ken!
the theatre of thought...
of ******* someone... underage...
who is... displaying...
teasing ***... in that primodial seance
of grief to ward of mother from
the ******...
and father from the parentage of
school!

               you ever want to see...
what... a kick in the jaw looks like...
omnipresent onlooker...
of some... unpardonable crime...
that it has to be ***-related...
              i wish i performed some
unpardonable crime on a *******...
i guess a kiss is a kiss is an unpardonable
crime against a *******...
i need this heart to shelter itself
in stone! i need: a heart!
of hard-earned: rock!
               with each sentence:
i find it impossible to not....growl!
to howl! to spew a bickering of...
wolves... of hyenas...
a wake of crows!
            
              i want toi write an echo!
hye! anoooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
i want to hear...
the microscope itching
of a marrow...
of maggots working toward
a closure of expressing: scotch fudge!
i want! maggot marrow!
i want! the lost sounds of...
what the fox already minded...
in...                       χαoς! ρει(γ)νς!
yes... the gamma is a surd...
                 in this... english... equation...

last time i checked:
the cognitive theatre of the forbidden...
****** "lax"...
it's enough to tease the affair with
mere thought...
to have... people "bothered"
that one thinks... such "things"!
while the girl... prime... aged... 14...
teases you with...
exfoliations of...
                      script and... censure...
like a skirt...
but of course...
you're the dodo-project genocidal maniac
about to sport a new: cushioning
extreme...
of an ******* like...
you're minding teasing...
a high-blood pressure!

          can i allow myself a giggle?
a crown of: a dozen demons laughing
as relevant: to the 12 strong cohort of...
cognitive lapses of reason?
          
  ******* before a mirror is my...
my memory and my last concern for...
"adventure"...
a ****** ******* a russian girl so freely...
she fed off of us as...
     spinning a willow to confine itself to:
those rhubarbs in... "retro"...
no... i'm pretty sure... "they"...
the western communists would have minded
it coming across as...
  rhubarb... dreads... stiff 12" drizzle /
drool bits of a tight-knit white sporting ***!
my... oh... wait...
not exactly 16... so... no...

my... what?!
    this has to become one of those...
most... "unspectacularbly": "a least"
in what's to be digested... "fogiven"...
when... there's that teasing-**** of a per-se
readied for her rite of horror to be
met with ******* the...
upper... echelons...
to the queue! to the loiter!
to the...                cue: no dry martini equipped...
sort of... joke as... a variation
of... escapism: to excuse...
fixations... of social hierarchy...

    i am hardly a misogynist...
            it's almost... fake...
how feminists point out... death-pull...
the misogynists...
clinging to philanthropists... i suppose...
it's like...
"someone" forgot...
to... mention...
the benevolent in misanthrophy...
the happily allied to the ivory tower...
whether you're a man or a woman...
or a man pretending to be a woman...
or a woman pretending to be a man...

who is... the misanthrope?
            the solipsist...
the atheist: should you be god?
the altruist... the... fiddly-bit... extreme...
the... autist?
         who is... your... claim for...
******-****** ruleZ the world?
mother of all perfected children...
a bit like jerking off to...
those gravure beijing models...

ava lauren? she is... an aged looking
*******... closure: madame...
she earned it...
her skin is like leather...
you dare to: wear it...
   but... oops: the ubermensch...
these chinese "brides" are not...
photoshopped...
they're genetically edited...
it was apparent that china
didn't have a soul...
in its summa summarum...
or in its christ redeemer...
when... india has its rich
polytheism... pedagogy:
shiva the antithesis of vishnu:
the thesis...

    i can feel... at least!
i can feel abbreviated with the raj master...
sport...
sending a few "*******" to beijing!
let's hear a story...
no... i'm fuming mad:
i'm dying! to hear that coin-flip
of a tail: of bending the... fuckning knee:
capping... as one might!

there's a <100million of "me"...
there's... a >1billion of "them"...

   while:
            i ****** off to...
          genetically edited creatures...
the western world can hide
behind its setting sun: metaphor...
photo-editing... while...
the hot-**** beijing is...
gene-editing...
west-world 1972 bronze age:
"staging a coup"..

             yeah: gurran-gu-dag...
the arabs and their bangladeshi...
queen-bee sorted...
           elizabeth II...
royal ascot...
  i.e. lamborghinis raced on knightbridge...
because: arab playboys are to be...
minded...

write long... to ensure...
people read short... little chance
of censor-loved-up-pseudo-i.q.-heroes!
100 years later: you become a pseudo-Proust /
a Joyce... but... that also implies:
you're stiff up at the neck...
in death and sand... and worms...
in a grave! so? no turkish kebab:
no malmuk / no janissary resurrection!
George Atkinson Dec 2013
Monochrome buildings pave the way,
It's another monotonous day at the office.
And so starts my favourite routine
The required daily dose of caffeine
Sickly sweet sugar supplements
Occasional visits to the gents
Where in the tranquility
I can ponder what I'd like to be...

...Living so high the clouds are the sea,
No responsibilities!
I don't have to dress,
The butler can take care of the mess.
Jacuzzis, cruises, friends who I choose,
Admiring reflections in gold plated loos',
But perhaps I digress...

...Back to reality I guess.
If time flies when you're having fun,
Then pressing keyboards all day long
Makes every second crawl a marathon!
But I can multitask a bit.
I can breath and walk and talk and sit
While simultaneously pressing a button
And at the same time doing next to nothing!
But even then I can scavenge my mind,
And if I'm lucky I will find
That little paradise of mine...

...And faster than the eye can see,
I am covered in girls in bikinis
Whilst crashing Lamborghinis
Into modern art reflections,
Of my many types of perfection.
And I'll roll out, unharmed and afar
There's a feast for my eyes like caviar...

And if you find that hard to believe,
My imagination comes for free!
So I understand your private confession
That I must have the perfect profession.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
it was 1994 - the offspring just did their most infectious
drum beat with gotta get away from their album
smash; years later their most infectious
riff off americana with pay the man,
they set up a charity foundation
with the quote: any hacker who downloads
our entire album gets $1 million -
true story, heard it when i heard it -
but this thing about imitating a fox's
mating calls, Keith Lemon would know
via his sketch show - wazza wazza poo p?
listen, when the offspring's smash came
out i was 8... introduced to them via
my uncle... when **** took off for them
the dreadlocks were sheered, Kerrang!
inspected the case and they were playing
arenas rather than the Brixton Academy...
so the laughter... well, you gotta laugh...
a saturday the times magazine flow:
pages 6 - 7 the sheikhs of instagram,
Lamborghinis (bikinis?) gold plated parked
with a £350 fine by Harrods, the cheap
shop for the rich - the £1 store for the rich...
Knightsbridge - call it what you like with
capitalism's Hajj of eager bargain hunters on
boxing day - shtampede! indeed, a stampede...
then on pages 8 - 9 'i knew i needed a chemical
crutch. get back on the antidepressants. be realistic.
feel no shame.' she fell off her love machine
like Catherine the Great in a bed with one
to seize the craving of the appetite - horses,
wheelchair, you get the picture, ask the Übermensch
christopher reeve -
then the crescendo - pages 10 - 11
would you re mortgage your house to save your
fur baby?
- yep, arabs as decadent as the westerners
with the poor wheelchair bound woman in between
them - the vets doing brain surgery, MRI scans,
kidney transplants on dogs, cats...
i've actually never felt happier to be alive
given how the world looks right now,
and let me tell you, if Muhammad came back...
ha ha... he would do the same as all these jihadi
peasants are doing to europeans, he'd slit their (the sheikhs')
throats... at the same time wishing islam was kept
in a tight circle, passing the baton of observation to
Ali - the patron "saint" of Iran -
rather than enshrining it in the caliphates
for widespread scheme of conversion ranging
onto the borders with Catalonia -
how early the schism then! how early the schism!
the genius of the egg: yoke and white -
for years the Vatican the yoke and Canterbury and York
and Cologne (etc.) the white.
Twigzy Aug 2023
You can have your gold chains
and necklaces of diamonds.
You can ride your white stallions
and drive your Lamborghinis.
You can dance with the stars,
have the favour of all,
but all these things
will not get you near heavens wall.

You say you want to go to heaven?
but that gateway is not open 24/7.
It has no latches,
hinges or lock.
It is not made of steel,
plastic or rock.
The gate is Jesus
who lay down his life,
and for you to enter,
He paid a heavy price.

He died on the cross,
the criminals death.
His body was torn.
His ligaments wrenched.
He was speared in the side.
With His  own blood,
He was drenched.

I am the Christ,
the sacrificed one.
I am Gods only begotten son.
I am the only gateway in.
On that gate is it is written,
“Jesus, the King”.
I find those who seek me.
I turn none away.
Come wash in the water.
With my own blood I paid.

I spoke life into existence.
I displayed myself in creation.
I gave you my words and written formation.
I birthed myself on earth in the flesh.
I ate at your table.
Some of you laid on my chest.

I did this to display my fathers love for you.
But you were stubborn and hard hearted,
and killed me instead.
But I conquered that darkness
and I broke every chain.
I rose from the dead
to lead you through the same.
I then returned to my Fathers side
and sent you my Spirit to save,
heal and guide.

Come follow me,
for I am life.
Full of abundance,
all joy and delight.
Let your ears hear
and let your eye see.
There is no other God beside me.

So don't seek after the favour of men,
or desire the things you hold in your hand.
Your time is short,
so do not delay.
Enter my kingdom
before I return with my Sword.

For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son that whoever believes in him shall not perish, but have eternal life. John 3:16
Written to a friend 🙏
Bryce Jun 2018
In the fragments of my dream-state, I saw a past I didn't wish to uncover.

My old home-street.
It was the summer of a childhood memory, and the air was temperate-- like lukewarm water, suspended and perfect, almost vacuous-- without breeze or gust, as if strung up in some test-tube of a world.

The suburban houses lined the path, it felt the dawning age of autumn-- that though the trees were green, I could feel them ready to release themselves. to fall and die-- but not yet.

In the front lawns of these houses, exotic vehicles-- Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Maseratis-- an Italian road show strange and deeply uncouth.

With bright fantastic colors of cherry red and enamel white and neon green and twilight blue and midday yellow and magenta-- they portrayed as monuments, movable statues, and like a hometown get-together the families of the houses stood next to them, proud...waiting. For something.

I walked past, the spectral calls of my childhood friends and neighbors following and whispering inaudibly behind me-- a muffled shadow of voice that I yearned to understand, but could not. They laughed and spoke of illusory things, and within their voices dictated golden, pleasant memory, and a creeping sense of melancholy.

I could see my house at the end of the street. As we walked, it was as if a million summers came and went-- fathers pruned their oak trees, waxed their automobiles, pantomimed cooking and eating and drinking and mirth-- while the sunless sky glowed soft and infantile, a cloudless blanket.

Deep in my consciousness, I felt dread to return home. There was something off-- and as the dream world strips you of your familiarity, of your defenses and rationale, the raw beating flesh of fear spasms.

We reached the house, the procession of childhood friends all but dissipated. The old oak tree in the front lawn had been removed, the soft scent of lavender replaced with the vibrant colors of red rose and lanky yellow tulips that stood in piqued attention, long leaves of perfect green-- a new garden for a new soul.

An unfamiliar girl/woman-- perhaps the new owner of my lost home-- opened the garage, guided me inside.

Inside there was a McClaren, grey and yellow and unbelievably beautiful-- but dark and covered in dust. The garage was always dusty. How interesting that she would leave her prize hidden from the festivities...

She opened the door, in I walked.

In dreams often what we understand of geography and place shifts radically-- so that we may encounter a more unfamiliar world, to recognize it as distinct from waking memory. Perhaps so that we do not get lost-- to give us a way out, a logical incongruity to feed ourselves-- to convince ourselves that this world is imaginary, that it is irrational and inexplicable.

Yet when I entered my home, it was as if I had never left. The television cabinet, the floral couches, the wrought-iron fence through the kitchen door-- all of a sudden I was home again. For all the times I wondered, imagined the new family that took my childhood home--it was okay. It was safe. it was respected.

In the living room, the new family was unpacking posters. Old cartoons and comic characters next to the Christmas fireplace. Upstairs I heard muffled conversation-- bouncing off the vaulted front atrium to my ears, they were in the rumpus room-- the room I had so often called my own-- where I lost myself in books and games and puzzles and dreams. I wanted desperately to see it, yet I felt a slight unease-- I did not wish to push further than I would be let.

The woman guided me to the family room table, where we would so often have our family dinners-- and I would hide myself underneath the legs of unknown relatives, playing with the dog or tracing my finger along the exposed, unfinished wood of the underbelly-- and these memories flooded my dream-- a daydream within a dream-- calling with it a deluge of melancholic nostalgia-- a sort of hypnogogic recollection.

I could feel the stinging ache of these memories. I could hear myself weeping against the chair leg, looking out the french doors into the garden full of roses and grass and lilies and tulips-- familiar yet alien, alive and dead, lost and found. The ache was painful, yet when I suddenly awoke I found myself overcome with a sort of exhausted pleasure-- the kind of feeling one gets after crying for a long time, crying into the end of one's breath-- at the end of a long period of pain, or a resolutive tantrum.
I'm still thinking about this dream, and the one of the night before. Long has it been since I have had such vivid hallucinations, as with indiscriminate drink and smoke managed to mostly eliminate them from my life. It is both disturbing and satisfying to see them once again-- to perhaps withdraw meaning from them once more.
Butch Decatoria May 2021
Sin City with blinders,
Bird **** on the windshield

A herd of burly men in pastels and summer shorts
A row of parked rental Lamborghinis
Commiserating and taking selfies,
Loudly showing off,
Posting on social media or
Dating Apps
Snapchat snapshots
Hotshots in Sincity with the bling ca-ching!
It's a ****** rental, for christ-sakes!
Where's Dateline's to catch a predator,
What good is a thousand words when the picture is telling lies?
What happened ? In Vegas,
Bright lights' bite, vice, and ****, looks like magic.
Sin city running with blinders.
Birdshit on the windshield.
A dry desert thirsts for rain.
(Empty swag bags....)
****'s all the same.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
that the EU was over... i could have told you...
way back in 2004...
when the "project" expanded by a gravity
of 8...
             plain and simple...
                   thank you - dear west...
                      sprechen deutsch!
nein!
              sprrrrr-ECHEN deuTsch!
danke - liebe abend...
                                         liebe... abend...
the hounds and the workers from under
the curtain...
with iron teeth and bones and smiles...
  the hounds...
                   i composed a list...
                  almost all of them are the former
conscripts of the WarshauPakt...
                    the idea was... though...
to postpone their entry... to... strenghten
the common currency... the shared currency...
zu stärken die währung!
    too bad... well... the british would never
exchange fiat or gold... without Lizzy's face
donning the coinage or paperaeroplanes
of in-debted over spending...
           i do live on debit...
i'm trying to get a credit card...
since... i heard... all credit can be regained...
a credit is a safety-net -
   debit tenticles into your details and there's
very or little chance to argue against:
a zombie affair of debit -
an amazon 30-day free trial...
                it's not like they'd cut you off...
they'll keep on *******...
god forbid... vampirism... and the romance of...
a bit like a h.i.v. epidemic...
     illness of the blood...
   vampires are a romance...
      time to get on the bicycle and practice
a run through the village on a whim
of ****** hunger... about to be tested...
a single currency...
well... the germans always loved the idea
of a unified Europe...
              unlucky for them... they weren't
supposed to gain access to Charlemagne...
        but even Nietzsche cites this ambition...
too bad... there was no... scandinavian model
of teaching: an omni-present bilingualism...
or a switzerland model of at least three languages...
hardly... possible... when dealing on the outskirts
with: hissy-fit proponents of culture...
when the ottomans came, the mongols...
a list of the EU expansion:
the baltic states would cower and...
some if not all... do have the shared currency...
just out of the blue...
the tri-colour... why is the german football team
attired in teutonic knight colours?
oh i can just see it...
   a black shirt... red shorts... and yellow socks...
as emblematic as the fwench...
    unlike the Italians in blue...
oddly enough i don't associate rome with blue...
more... purple and red...
even the irish don't exactly show off their
terrible orange...
        schwarz und weiß:
                  arbeit macht frei... it's all a very german
"thing": this unification of europe...
why call it the EU at all...
   why not call it...       the vierte *****?!
         well... however long it lasted... it outlasted
the dream of Barbarossa invested in through
heat-leer...
                          i won't deny that i live
in england... but... it's sometimes worrying
too...
           never mind that... the currency...
well... i know of: the czechs with their koruna
the hungarians have their forint
  the polacks have their złoty
    and the invested amour of the germans...
for the swedes... the swedes still have
their krona... how many is, that? i count...
                               4...
                   the new... "european" enclave
into russia... whatever the **** and unnatural
was... the vicinity around Kaliningrad...
the same ****: different cover with...
estonia, latvia... lithuania all in the euro single
currency... the good old days of the teutonic
knights waging their northern crusades...

the slovakians were duped too...
               the romanians still have their leu...
the bulgarians still have their lev...
            oh mein gott! what of the projected...
sleeping beuaty entry... of the former yugoslavia
territory? was that... planned for...
2004... 2007... what the hell happened in... 2010?!
what happened in 2010 that didn't connect
Greece to... Italy via a shortcut across the Adriatic?!

but they enlarged... the... cartoon post-"soviets"
came out flinging **** and rusty spare parts...
some would catch a nail some a *****...
to pick vegetables, do the roofing... the plumbing for...
very important and riddled western:
"chauvinists" and... "neanderthal" journos of the great
snooze...

can it really be... deemed... "journalism" as
it mere partakes in... the chihuahua and lackeys
of the editorial? of the opinion pieces?
are they the ones to soften the blow of a harsh...
editorial... ahem... re-a(h)-lee-tea?

what was all this hype and envy for attention
when Brexit happened...
relentless... one trough of dog **** and canines
and minced maggot flesh for the lap dogs
to slurp... another baron of: for those idle hands...
work! the crown... or in terms of terms...
kabbalah: the keter... ehyeh asher ehyeh...

today i asked myself...
what does make h. p. lovecraft original...
in the ocotpus riddled godhead...
i asked myself that question when looking
at very finely sculpted from tree figures
of elephants... and...
an octopus godhead...
            well... and there's... Ganesha...
  which... is a bit like the russian name: Nikita...
you have one Nikita in that video of Elton
John... but then... you know it's not the Nikita
of teenage boy wetdreams...
but some Khrushchev...

      anything from the seas... perhaps...
except for seeing a whale... a fish that... needs
to snorkel... and it's BoB or bOb with gills
plucking out Os from bubbles...
                        in that: -xygen...
                             what can be so... possibly...
horrid and original within the confines
of h. p. lovecraft's imagination beside...
the descriptive allure...
                        as man i couldn't conjure up...
nothing as spectacular,
imaginative and yet... somehow... sensible...
as an elephant's head...
                     i bring the hindu head of an elephant
to compete with the anglo-saxon priest
of the depths of existential angst...
     i bring my elephants head before the octopus
attached to a body...
                 i can imagine much worse...
              but i'll use the fear of the octopus
and the leftover ink...
                             the EU was dead in 2004...
perhaps these isles wouldn't be throwing such
a hissy fit of self-congratulatory gluttony
of gloating over the defeated...
       it wouldn't have happened if there was:
currency of one's own...
               the rest will happen... naturally...
of the countries that still have their currency...
they still have their sovreignity...
i'm not into bull-crap stipends of talking
politico and sharpening pencils and folding
pieces of paper...
                       it was dead when...
                              the labour market opened...
and "our" best postcards... "our" best people decided
to leave the nest...
             2004 was a siesmic shift...
back in 1994 i was a token slav...
       hell... back in 2002 i was a token slav...
                 after 2004... i was no longer a token slav...
and because, after all... the british people
are omni-good... glutten-free eating
dickens reading cricket lovers...
        there is absolutely nothing criminal to be
associated with...
                     well... imagine a st. peter of mongolia!

what became apparent after 2004...
returning to those friendships prior... in school...
i somehow had a reputation of a patriarch...
the mood suddenly changed...
i was... the good exponent...
then the bad exponent... then all the bad exponents...
compared the beatles': i am the walrus
with... killing joke's: i am the virus...
as a side-note...

                  there wouldn't be a Brexit...
without the pound...
                       the pound predetermined the success
of the referendum...
it's almost as easy as frying pancakes...
not... if Britain was buying toothpaste
or shoelaces in euros...
for me it's still the most obvious... cheap victory...

the call for self-determination and
sovreignity... well that's all nice and Pickwican...
but the money already had the loudest
voice... and it was in the minoty of
a single pound...

it still feels like a cheap victory...
              a load of bureaucratic papers -
hardly a signature of **** on should they be worth
that of toilet paper and a wipe:
no nation's sovreignity is ever questioned:
when its currency is the ultimate authority -
unshaken...
and in europe? there are still a few left...
with the same integrity of currency...
4...

      whatever happened to the spaniards'
colonial past? where did the money go to?
               doesn't matter...
the satellite hounds of the former soviet empire:
having to integrate into the german-lands...
was always going to be a bad idea...
a sore denial of leaving a dozen plums
"wandering" from chin to cheek and elsewhere...
it's hard to imagine...
that a people would somehow come from
under one handlers...
and readily agree to new handlers...
and a "capital"... in Brussels?!
of all places... Brussels?!

        geographically speaking... where
is the centre of Europe? at best Dresden...
Toruń... Prague... at worst... Brussels... Dublin...

or coming from a town that once could
boast about... a cohort 30,000 metallurgy workers
in its metallurgy plants...
diminished... to... 3,000...
what's 30,000 roughly multiplied by:
a wife and two children? 100,000 circa...
move to elsewhere in Poland...
or move elsewhere in general...
ah... the love of obstacles... a language to acquire...
well... here's the prior-mentioned
acquisition...

       looks like i haven't been such a bad
host... after all...
clearly it - the host and "parasite" can
relate to a song in quasi-finnish:
täppmarschen!
                
          of the people "supposed" to be...
none and all were not... supposed to be...
even with the dreams of german
19th century recluses akin to nietzsche...
who... if being put under the scrutiny of
Mr. Dickens...
would be found as being bound
to the style of stenography of a... mr. alfred jingle...

nothing more! nothing more of this
already questionable affair of sods
and sorts!
               didn't... just a little bit... couldn't
nietzsche be... put on trial for
writing in stenography? high-brow and
brows indeed raised: should any more
sycoiphancy relating to the style...
be found upon this "trial of errs and errors"...
the englishman... if not the most...
trialed by witness...
    the most... sympathy sodden sobrerity...
as with requiring him to be drunk...
he starts to play the rascal
with a ******* slingshot... and never:
the poached egg in a barrel of whiskey...
never that... pensive: brood quote...

i only wished that i had lived
about / among the pobl Gymraeg...
well... who can wish otherwise...
                   Cymry... when there's me
attempting to sharpen the chisel of my oyster's
worth of tongue in speech and none
of it reserved to the dog oyster's worth
of performing the suitable, otherwise...
personages of oral found in the gutter
or in the ***** of Venus... should her floral
womb open for: vaccanies:
only onomatopoeias and vowel catching
brothers H and H of the tetragrammaton
allowed in!

just because it's Cornwall...
doesn't imply i will not come with...
                                                      Çymru!
no point a base in Loon'don if York is left
intact and with only two left hands
to govern it...
     even now...
                lepiej dmuchać na zimne:
better safe than sorry...
eh... pity that proverb...
since there's no connotation
of the joke... it is better to blow on the cold...
tea...

      and what of my time among
the Picts... well... that truly is a sort of...
muslim man mentality toward a woman
wearing a niqab...
            it's one of those: for your eyes only...
shady strings... perhaps the lute is involved...
t-shirt madmen...
in the middle of February...
on... the north bridge... and just below:
waverley station...

                     only last night i had a dream
of inspecting sketches of me...
with a 6-pack... long hair...
and the hands that scratched my love-handles
when they had their torso pinned
to a trojan thumping in a *******...
she's still a ghost of mine...
every time i want to forget her...
she resurfaces...
  it's like... kissing a frog...
                       i am the ******* frog...
and she is... the sitting, poised...
always less alarmed than usual: Akhmatova...
one of those women that i could:
actually... i still do... **** of on a regular basis...
she was my Aria Giovanni...
she became my Eve Angel...
                in between she's a compliment
of cubism is (you read that right...
of cubism is and not of cubism in)...
   her bagel of a nose... and she is myopic and
she's a troll short...
                she'd find a kippah on her head
under my chin... then again...
when she had short hair she was the only
tom-boy in edinburgh to steal...
              looks like the hopes for a... an engagement
afresh... well... she morphed into
the grant Tsarina and i am...
the next *******-master of a Потёмкин...
                               i am also delusional about:
my currency of metaphors...
god... mother... nation...
                      what are these...
when you have made it... and are a citizen of...
Monte ******* Carlo?!
when i think of father... eh...
well there could be an outlet of metaphors...
but then... there's that quote that mentions
Elijah... and i'm all knees and pearly gates please...
primo et pronto!

point proven... i can't exactly love another
woman... i can **** anything that moves...
etc.,
        but it's not exactly love to begin with...
it's that genius of reciprocated nihilim...
i began to live for the promise of:
and i will spend a tenner with charles III
***** on a banknote...
before the next pope does a kicker in one
of death's lamborghinis: feet first out
of the church congregation of:
              i didn't come here to praise caesar...

         but here a coffin... and an abudance
of toothpicks! sometimes... it would seem...
one doesn't have the necessary wealth...
as there simply can't be "too many" teeth
when the economy and ergonomics of toothpick
application is concerned...

oh that victorian laissez-faire of applied
language... it's not short... it's Pickwican...
it's... insinuating an extension of the bracket of
inclusion of informality...
a commonality of staging a cordiality
with a dwarf... strapped to... a song...
no less... rotes harr... i can see these devilish
imps chained to a carousel of this infernal
dance... and there is no greek-god
of the german-romance myth in sight...
for that... sort of sell-by-date nostalgia...
a rotten apple... a a Helga for a lover...
and a Helmut for a luvvy-dubby-shy-bud
of a limp whittle 'ichard!

- she's like a burning splinter in my mind...
of a body... that's all but cemented into
the hands of a sculptor that only works
with copper, brass, marble or... custard for brains...
and this burning...
again to Sophia with all the baggage of
a priori...
or Medussa with all that comes with shadows
of... frozen suitors to fashion
****** from...
her entourage of suitors... three coronations
of engagements down...
however many lovers...
me and my brothel sand-pitting to the best
kept secret of:
a leverage of two bodies embracing
for minor pundit approval...
the man of supposed lies...
the deceiving harrower...
                      
god and this leeching telepathic embrace...
"god", this telepathic embrace...
and the subsequent telekinesis of me
writing these words...
last time i had this murmur...
i came to aid as she was cutting her hands
down the Nile...
and... not exactly at the crux of...
the Hoover Dam... shame... a great shame really...

so be it... as it has always been...
whispers and grains of sand
passed toward the post-office of the wind.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
/             i can't even conceive the concept
of "lounging"
   with a cool breeze of a refrigerator
ushering out
        mylo's: sun worshipper...
without thinking of dragging
my naked *** onto a plot cool, cool green
grass that hasn't been scarred
by this july sun...
              what, with the old people
dropping like flies,
      or rather hiding for the majority
of the day...
  is this a ******* metallurgy factory?
         sun?                *******
                            back to arabia!
- and take your knightbridge boyos
with you!
          i'm pretty sure they can drive
their lamborghinis in the riyadh heat...
                                        just as well!
well it's not like the arabs
    "invented" oil...
                     talk about sitting,
  and then ******* on the laurels of
                      passing on the annoying phrase,
there's no water in the desert:
                    well no **** sherlock!
        there are no camels in scandinavia either!
- as one bengali once expressed at
school:
                       ******* camel jockeys.
THEY won’t make forbes’ list
or the cover of vogue.
THEY won’t sink buzzer-beaters
on sports center and fox news.
THEY won’t ink bank-breaking deals
with nike
for custom shoes
like mike.
THEY won’t sail the pacific
in the history supreme
like a mighty malaysian tycoon
with billions to splurge
on luxury yachts
and lamborghinis.
THEY won’t have brass stars
on hollywood’s walk of fame
or win academy awards
like halle and jack…

but in your hour of need

THEY will be there,
masked, gloved and ready
to deliver the best medical care
money can’t buy
and stem a tidal wave of tragedy

that we might thrive
again.

ayo!

~ P
(ode to the medical warriors @ ground zero of the coronavirus pandemic)
sandra wyllie Jun 2023
falling from the skies
driving Lamborghinis
biting women's thighs
drinking ***** martinis
scoffing mincemeat pies

Oinking and grunting
rolling in the mud
look at them hunting
thinking they are studs

Beer belly’s hanging
over their blue jeans
wishing they were banging
like they did as teens

Hairless mole rats
out mowing their lawn
covering their heads in hats
stifling a yawn

Ogling women
younger than their daughter
squeezing them as persimmon
early morning potters

Wiry hair growing
out of their ears and nose
scratching their crotch and crowing
They're all pigs and it shows!

— The End —