I don’t believe a word you say;
You voted for Trump, so go away.
I don’t want your opinion any more
On literally any kind of issue.
Though you now begin to realize
What you did to us all. Get a tissue.
Go stand in the corner and let us
Adults fix up the mess you made.
None of you paid attention
Further than the second grade.

It’s not truly all your fault, I confess.
We have to lay blame on the press.
I’m not much happier with the
Millions who didn’t even vote.
They stayed home and ******;
Made the country miss the boat.
A lazy, worthless population
Is a shameful kind of circumstance
But a stupid loudmouthed bunch of fools
Is at the prom without any pants.

Then we look to a political group
That rolls around in their own ****
By electing a pompous baboon
Who can barely read or spell
Who spews out daily jabberwocky
That drives us all to a kind of hell.
He's an attention ***** and monster.
A spoiled rich brat with no brains
Who wants to set fire to the USA
Then urinate on the remains.

The horror is, though it’s all visible
Your lack of care about facts is risible.
You gladly go along with him when
He blames his predecessor instead,
Saying the fault is what your idiot did
Not keeping the truth firmly in your head.
It’s no longer campaign rhetoric.
So please wake the hell up and see
What your stupidity is doing to us
Because we can’t bend you over our knees.

An Actor's life
My life as an artist lasted long although no one saw me acting
only that my behaviour changed if I had read a book and liked
the hero in it, or seen a western movie; became that person.
I could remember pages of lines from a book and the dialogue
in a movie spitting words our, whispering them or roaring like
a wounded gladiator, I had many friends, but they lived in my
head and when at sea lived like a frugal monk who had taken
the vow of silence spending time reading and dreaming.
Walking down the gangplank going ashore I was an FBI agent
on a secret mission and if there was a loud noise I reached
inside my coat-jacket like a had a gun there and looked where
the din came from; people noticed this and moved away from
this odd person at the bar. My favourite act was the as a man
with a writer's block, walked around with paper and pen, what
I hoped was a soulful look women liked that, but less so when
a boozing loudmouthed cowboy.
These days when reading poetry my wish is to be a good poet
that doesn't slam doors when leaving; you see I find myself so
tedious I have invented a character interesting and full of life.

i am dreaming of the apocalypse
Satan coming down in all blue
declaring the color of suicide today is yellow
that the color of pain today is red
and that the color of god today is blue.

i am dreaming of the supermarket where
god and satan talk, loudmouthed and offensive,
consistently telling the other to *******.

i am dreaming of massacre and all of her
unholy penumbras / i have colored a sun named
after her and left it hanging from a noose in
the color hell of this bedroom. marking off her
endless questionnaire:

Are you suicidal? yes
Are you insane? Yes
Are you the discoloration of the world of tomorrow? The way the future looks drab from this point in time and seems even weaker from that present that belies you with the temptress of future? ...maybe?

i am not dreaming. i am cold and alone in a room
somewhere between purgatory and massacre
where both are a disaster and the real name is
probably something to do with psychiatry and
institutes. i am greeted by satan in blue,
god sulking half silent behind him, mumbling
something in streams of cadmium red.
he tells me; you’ll be staying with us.
he tells me; i wish you luck and hope you get better.

i am not dreaming. the floor is rising in rebellion.
a white flag raised from my side of the battle
both sides truce and lie themselves down
in the unwanted nowhere of persistent ailment
in a bed with paper sheets.

and the question is; am I insane? am i suicidal?
am I the discoloration of the world of tomorrow?
yes. yes. maybe. the question doubled in on itself.
so are you here for suicide? she asks.
yes. yes. maybe.
my disaster is rolling down my throat like
molasses and i want to die. satan’s color was
blue today, right? i look down. i am in blue.
are you here for satanism?
yes yes maybe
are you here for *******?
yes yes maybe
are you here for real?
no.