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Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
oddly enough i'm not bothered about existential Darwinism... i don't mind whether we die out and never have a second chance to draw cartoons, or whether we manage to partake in cushion making... the cure for Darwinism is existentialism... and existentialism just says: does it really matter? Darwinism is more an economic system than anything*

just like me... nuns;
whatever;
nuns are included,
Macarena became
pivotal...
**** Germany... hey
Argentina!
dale a tu cuerpo alegria macarena
que tu cuerpo es pa' darle alegria y
cosa buena dale a tu cuerpo alegria,
macarena hey macarena!
hey chi cheap chatter
**** Germany... hey
Argentina! ah'ya!
                     C A                RI           c a              TURE
      WHATEVER
                                                  blah blah blah blah
                                                  blah blah blah blah
                                                  blah blah blah blah
                                                  blah blah blah blah
etc., whatever...
                               **** & anomalies...
i take my art, as seriously as the fact it isn't.
N Schlegel Jun 2015
And we’ve all been there, me and my lovers,
we’ve all see our fair share of troubles.
cause Romance is Chance in the form of a Dance
and I’m sorry to say I still move like I did fifteen years ago.
Macarena with me and I’ll sweep you off your feet,
maybe someday I’ll learn to waltz and blow you away.

Until it all comes crashing down.  
Because inevitably it all comes crashing down
even the Flintstones died millennia ago.

My Anna Marie, I’m sorry you left,
Europe ringed and you answered,
I guess we couldn’t afford long distance
(is that even still a thing?)
and I couldn’t wait for you,
I was too young and too ready to love again.

Dear Jenna,
Darling,
as much fun as you are
we move at different speeds,
and mine’s stuck in the slow lane.
I liked *** on the second date,
but I wasn’t ready for the **** three weeks in.
God knows I’d never try and change you
even he doesn’t have the ***** to try.

And God bless you Tiffany,
cause it ***** to die,
but it ***** even more
stuck here saying goodbye.

Bachelor Status reaffirmed:

**** sites filled to capacity
with self-made men of audacity
come to satisfy their proclivities
“Dear phantom girlfriends,
you’re here to gratify
Please entertain us in our fantasies
and our impossibly similar tendencies.
Also, it wouldn’t hurt if it’s all free.”
Hello dudes and dudettes
Welcome to Jupiter moon
And last night I had my bowling presentation and my team got the third place trophy and here is a poem about it

Yes I know we deserved it
Yes I know we loved it
It was pretty cool, and
I feel like partying with a few methane smoothies sprayed all over the place
A great night for celebrating
Every single one of us
Party party party
To say what a great team we were
It wasn’t second place
And not first place either
But third place gets a trophy
So we celebrate it as well
I remember doing the Macarena fast
Just imagine how tired you feel afterwards
The methane gets through your body
And you party like hell
Not in hell, for there is no such place
Ya know mate yeah
Doing the air guitar and doing the dance moves
While your trophy is in the box
Congratulations and celebrations
Brian Allan won third place oh yeah
It is a time to celebrate and have fun
Yes it’s time to really show our skills off
Yes bowling is a fun sport
And we all get together and have some fun
Giving high fives to everyone
As you won oh yeah
Partying is the time to celebrate
Winning the third place spot

And I mentioned the Macarena and here is the bowling celebration version
1 2 3 4 perform well at bowling
Don’t give up even if your bad
Because when I was a kid I wasn’t very good
But I got better with age
1 2 3 4 you see you concentrate hard
And you could do it
Just keep your ball in the direct centre
And the rest of the story writes itself
And all the glory
And you will be on your way to winning a trophy yes
1 2 3 4 come on ya ****** pin
Fall the **** over I want to be a top bowler at the end of the year
But you have to say with your feet stamping on the ground fall fall fall
1 2 3 4 you see I had my moments
But I still got there in the end
It was good it was grand as I understand
That yes if we win more games together as a team it will be fun
So much fun yes party on

That was the bowling Macarena
Which is pretty cool
And I am going to start my cruise around the cosmos celebrating my third place trophy with a few methane smoothies but before I go here is a little cool number

A B C D E F G
I kicked but at my presentation yeah
Everyday when I went to the alley
I came one step close to getting third place
It was fun and it made me glad
Drinking water and having fun
H I J K L M N O P
I celebrated up here in nirvana
Telling the cosmos I am the boss
Yes party on and never stop
Yes dudes party like you will never drop
Q R S T U V
Yes my score of 213 was the best of that week
I am happy as I charge my methane glass
Yeah mate yeah I kicked some ***
W X Y and Z
Come on dudes try and be on the same team as me
Perig3e Dec 2010
I saw the best behinds of my generation destroyed by muffins,
strudel hydrolyzed aphids dragging themselves through Chicano streets at dawn for tickets to fix,
bagel headed tipsters yearning for flagrant connection to the sorry dim sum macarena nights ...

*apologies to Allen Ginsberg
All rights reserved by the author
Perig3e Jan 2011
Oh, phalo skeptic,
part your wave for skirted ***** surfers,
tho, trout, tripe, and titmice thrill thrice..

Will duct tape save us?
Urge the Zamboni machine,
to microwave ice.

Quince down that pouting sphincter,
Oh, the tides do swell
on the morrow of passing fish.

Wheelbarrow pious.
Swift, awesome biblionauts,
Fire! Fire! Pail, Pail thy watered pitch.

Know this, every potato is somewhere vane ...
I'm busy now, rude duuude,
have you sweated a recumbent lout?

Indent chill mots,
Pete, I'm big in Europe, pal,
Have seen me dance the Macarena?

Fool, fool on that high hill,!
Take care when licking spiny urchins
Oy! I scare myself.
All rights reserved by the author
The schitzophrenic


You see I am sitting at the mall
I am having dillusions of people teasing me, and I wish this will all stop, oh please, just leave me the f..k alone
And then I hear voices that aren't really being said o hear Jon killed my best friend named Fred, the thing is I have no best friend, oh year
1 2 3 4 do the schitzophrenic
From the first diagnosis till the day you reach 45, you see if i take medication it can be controlled yeah oh yeah
I am schitzophrenic
Then I went to see my psychiatrist and he told me, to try and get a life, I told him I was blackbeard and John F Kennedy, he just threw a smart *** comment my way, I thought that comment was rude and ******, yes it is hard to be liked when you do
1 2 3 4 do the schitzophrenic
Yes it's easy to do, just let me hang out
You see with my medication it can be controlled, ooooh
I am schitzophrenic
You see I get paranoid when I see people around and right wing governments want us locked up
It mighty hard to have this illness and I cab say this
1 2 3 4 do the schitzophrenic
Do it once and you get all hooked and after that you feel like a geek, cause your a schitzophrenic, and also with medication it can be controlled
Oooooh I'm a schitzophrenic
Yes, that's true
Clive Saffron Mar 2021
To the blushing bride to be,
This rite of passage you’ll not be spared.
Let your hair down, be wild and free,
Allow your tales and secrets to be bared.

Not designed for hearts too weak,
This night’s when us girls misbehave.
In our tutus, fairy wings and pink feather boas,
We’ll paint the town red and rave.

We’re like one dysfunctional family,
But we’ll bond and shout tonight.
Cocktails and Prosecco will flow freely,
As we dance the “Macarena” ‘til morning light.

We’ll have a blast and be merry,
For girls just want to have fun.
Adorned with “L” plates, you won’t stay sober
And your makeup will inevitably run.

On this, your last night of freedom,
It’s your final fling before the wedding ring.
Your head may be sore tomorrow,
But, oh, the stories these walls could sing!

Remember this night always,
With all your girlfriends at your side,
For you’ll soon tie the knot and be married
And embark on a magical ride.
My name is Clive Saffron, a published poet with the desire to use my writing skills to bring the feel good factor to others. Creating rhyming poetry is my passion and favourite art form and born out of my joy of the English language. For me, it is a wonderful form of catharsis and self-expression. As somebody who likes to sing too, the rhythms and lyrics of so many songs inspire me to play with words and arrange them in metrical patterns to create rhymes. I have established Rhymes For Times to offer a fully personalised, bespoke and rhyming poetry and speech writing service for individuals and businesses worldwide and for any occasion. I always take exceptional care and pride in creating poetry and aim to touch the hearts of those who read it and have them connect with the deeper meaning of my words. It is a highly satisfying feeling to arouse people's emotions with my poetry and make them laugh and cry and put smiles on their faces.
Desde el amanecer, se cambia la ropa sucia de los altares y de los santos, que huele a rancia bendición, mientras los plumeros inciensan una nube de polvo tan espesa, que las arañas apenas hallan tiempo de levantar sus redes de equilibrista, para ir a ajustarías en los barrotes de la cama del sacristán.

Con todas las características del criminal nato lombrosiano, los apóstoles se evaden de sus nichos, ante las vírgenes atónitas, que rompen a llorar... porque no viene el peluquero a ondularles las crenchas.

Enjutos, enflaquecidos de insomnio y de impaciencia, los nazarenos pruébanse el capirote cada cinco minutos, o llegan, acompañados de un amigo, a presentarle la virgen, como si fuera su querida.

Ya no queda por alquilar ni una cornisa desde la que se vea pasar la procesión.

Minuto tras minuto va cayendo sobre la ciudad una manga de ingleses con una psicología y una elegancia de langosta.

A vista de ojo, los hoteleros engordan ante la perspectiva de doblar la tarifa.

Llega un cuerpo del ejército de Marruecos, expresamente para sacar los candelabros y la custodia del tesoro.

Frente a todos los espejos de la ciudad, las mujeres ensayan su mirada "Smith Wesson"; pues, como las vírgenes, sólo salen de casa esta semana, y si no cazan nada, seguirán siéndolo...
¡Campanas!
¡Repiqueteo de campanas!
¡Campanas con café con leche!
¡Campanas que nos imponen una cadencia al
abrocharnos los botines!
¡Campanas que acompasan el paso de la gente que pasa en las aceras!
¡Campanas!
¡Repiqueteo de campanas!

En la catedral, el rito se complica tanto, que los sacerdotes necesitan apuntador.

Trece siglos de ensayos permiten armonizar las florecencias de las rejas con el contrapaso de los monaguillos y la caligrafía del misal.

Una luz de "Museo Grevin" dramatiza la mirada vidriosa de los cristos, ahonda la voz de los prelados que cantan, se interrogan y se contestan, como esos sapos con vientre de prelado, una boca predestinada a engullir hostias y las manos enfermas de reumatismo, por pasarse las noches -de cuclillas en el pantano- cantando a las estrellas.

Si al repartir las palmas no interviniera una fuerza sobrenatural, los feligreses aplaudirían los rasos con que la procesión sale a la calle, donde el obispo -con sus ochenta kilos de bordados- bate el "record" de dar media vuelta a la manzana y entra nuevamente en escena, para que continúe la función...
¡Agua!
¡Agüita fresca!
¿Quién quiere agua?

En un flujo y reflujo de espaldas y de brazos, los acorazados de los cacahueteros fondean entre la multitud, que espera la salida de los "pasos" haciendo "pan francés".

Espantada por los flagelos de papel, la codicia de los pilletes revolotea y zumba en torno a las canastas de pasteles, mientras los nazarenos sacian la sed, que sentirán, en tabernas que expenden borracheras garantizadas por toda la semana.

Sin asomar las narices a la calle, los santos realizan el milagro de que los balcones no se caigan.

¡Agua!
¡Agüita fresca!
¿Quién quiere agua?
pregonan los aguateros al servirnos una reverencia de minué.

De repente, las puertas de la iglesia se abren como las de una esclusa, y, entre una doble fila de nazarenos que canaliza la multitud, una virgen avanza hasta las candilejas de su paso, constelada de joyas, como una cupletista.

Los espectadores, contorsionados por la emoción,
arráncanse la chaquetilla y el sombrero, se acalambran en
posturas de capeador, braman piropos que los nazarenos intentan callar
como el apagador que les oculta la cabeza.

Cuando el Señor aparece en la puerta, las nubes se envuelven con un crespón, bajan hasta la altura de los techos y, al verlo cogido como un torero, todas, unánimemente, comienzan a llorar.

¡Agua!
¡Agüita fresca!
¿Quién quiere agua?Las tribunas y las sillas colocadas enfrente del Ayuntamiento progresivamente se van ennegreciendo, como un pegamoscas de cocina.

Antes que la caballería comience a desfilar, los guardias civiles despejan la calzada, por temor a que los cachetes de algún trompa estallen como una bomba de anarquista.

Los caballos -la boca enjabonada cual si se fueran a afeitar- tienen las ancas tan lustrosas, que las mujeres aprovechan para arreglarse la mantilla y averiguar, sin darse vuelta, quién unta una mirada en sus caderas.

Con la solemnidad de un ejército de pingüinos, los nazarenos escoltan a los santos, que, en temblores de debutante, representan "misterios" sobre el tablado de las andas, bajo cuyos telones se divisan los pies de los "gallegos", tal como si cambiaran una decoración.

Pasa:
El Sagrado Prendimiento de Nuestro Señor, y Nuestra Señora del Dulce Nombre.
El Santísimo Cristo de las Siete Palabras, y María Santísima de los Remedios.
El Santísimo Cristo de las Aguas, y Nuestra Señora del Mayor Dolor.
La Santísima Cena Sacramental, y Nuestra Señora del Subterráneo.
El Santísimo Cristo del Buen Fin, y Nuestra Señora de la Palma.
Nuestro Padre Jesús atado a la Columna, y Nuestra Señora de las Lágrimas.
El Sagrado Descendimiento de Nuestro Señor, y La Quinta Angustia de María Santísima.

Y entre paso y paso:
¡Manzanilla! ¡Almendras garrapiñadas! ¡Jerez!

Estrangulados por la asfixia, los "gallegos" caen de rodillas cada cincuenta metros, y se resisten a continuar regando los adoquines de sudor, si antes no se les llena el tanque de aguardiente.

Cuando los nazarenos se detienen a mirarnos con sus ojos vacíos, irremisiblemente, algún balcón gargariza una "saeta" sobre la multitud, encrespada en un ¡ole!, que estalla y se apaga sobre las cabezas, como si reventara en una playa.

Los penitentes cargados de una cruz desinflan el pecho de las mamas en un suspiro de neumático, apenas menos potente al que exhala la multitud al escaparse ese globito que siempre se le escapa a la multitud.

Todas las cofradías llevan un estandarte, donde se lee:

                      S. P. Q. R.Es el día en que reciben todas las vírgenes de la ciudad.

Con la mantilla negra y los ojos que matan, las hembras repiquetean sus tacones sobre las lápidas de las aceras, se consternan al comprobar que no se derrumba ni una casa, que no resucita ningún Lázaro, y, cual si salieran de un toril, irrumpen en los atrios, donde los hombres les banderillean un par de miraduras, a riesgo de dejarse coger el corazón.

De pie en medio de la nave -dorada como un salón-, las vírgenes expiden su duelo en un sólido llanto de rubí, que embriaga la elocuencia de prospecto medicinal con que los hermanos ponderan sus encantos, cuando no optan por alzarles las faldas y persuadir a los espectadores de que no hay en el globo unas pantorrillas semejantes.

Después de la vigésima estación, si un fémur no nos ha perforado un intestino, contemplamos veintiocho "pasos" más, y acribillados de "saetas", como un San Sebastián, los pies desmenuzados como albóndigas, apenas tenemos fuerza para llegar hasta la puerta del hotel y desplomarnos entre los brazos de la levita del portero.

El "menú" nos hace volver en sí. Leemos, nos refregamos los ojos y volvemos a leer:

"Sopa de Nazarenos."
"Lenguado a la Pío X."

-¡Camarero! Un bife con papas.
-¿Con Papas, señor?...
-¡No, hombre!, con huevos fritos.Mientras se espera la salida del Cristo del Gran Poder, se reflexiona: en la superioridad del marabú, en la influencia de Goya sobre las sombras de los balcones, en la finura chinesca con que los árboles se esfuman en el azul nocturno.

Dos campanadas apagan luego los focos de la plaza; así, las espaldas se amalgaman hasta formar un solo cuerpo que sostiene de catorce a diez y nueve mil cabezas.

Con un ritmo siniestro de Edgar Poe -¡cirios rojos ensangrientan sus manos!-, los nazarenos perforan un silencio donde tan sólo se percibe el tic-tac de las pestañas, silencio desgarrado por "saetas" que escalofrían la noche y se vierten sobre la multitud como un líquido helado.

Seguido de cuatrocientas prostitutas arrepentidas del pecado menos original, el Cristo del Gran Poder camina sobre un oleaje de cabezas, que lo alza hasta el nivel de los balcones, en cuyos barrotes las mujeres aferran las ganas de tirarse a lamerle los pies.

En el resto de la ciudad el resplandor de los "pasos" ilumina las caras con una técnica de Rembrandt. Las sombras adquieren más importancia que los cuerpos, llevan una vida más aventurera y más trágica. La cofradía del "Silencio", sobre todo, proyecta en las paredes blancas un "film" dislocado y absurdo, donde las sombras trepan a los tejados, violan los cuartos de las hembras, se sepultan en los patios dormidos.

Entre "saetas" conservadas en aguardiente pasa la "Macarena", con su escolta romana, en cuyas corazas de latón se trasuntan los espectadores, alineados a lo largo de las aceras.

¡Es la hora de los churros y del anís!

Una luz sin fuerza para llegar al suelo ribetea con tiza las molduras y las aristas de las casas, que tienen facha de haber dormido mal, y obliga a salir de entre sus sábanas a las nubes desnudas, que se envuelven en gasas amarillentas y verdosas y se ciñen, por último, una túnica blanca.

Cuando suenan las seis, las cigüeñas ensayan un vuelo matinal, y tornan al campanario de la iglesia, a reanudar sus mansas divagaciones de burócrata jubilado.

Caras y actitudes de chimpancé, los presidiarios esperan, trepados en las rejas, que las vírgenes pasen por la cárcel antes de irse a dormir, para sollozar una "saeta" de arrepentimiento y de perdón, mientras en bordejeos de fragata las cofradías que no han fondeado aún en las iglesias, encallan en todas las tabernas, abandonan sus vírgenes por la manzanilla y el jerez.

Ya en la cama, los nazarenos que nos transitan las circunvoluciones redoblan sus tambores en nuestra sien, y los churros, anidados en nuestro estómago, se enroscan y se anudan como serpientes.

Alguien nos destornilla luego la cabeza, nos desabrocha las costillas, intenta escamotearnos un riñón, al mismo tiempo que un insensato repique de campanas nos va sumergiendo en un sopor.

Después... ¿Han pasado semanas? ¿Han pasado minutos?... Una campanilla se desploma, como una sonda, en nuestro oído, nos iza a la superficie del colchón.
¡Apenas tenemos tiempo de alcanzar el entierro!...

¿Cuatrocientos setenta y ocho mil setecientos noventa y nueve "pasos" más?

¡Cristos ensangrentados como caballos de picador! ¡Cirios que nunca terminan de llorar! ¡Concejales que han alquilado un frac que enternece a las Magdalenas! ¡Cristos estirados en una lona de bombero que acaban de arrojarse de un balcón! ¡La Verónica y el Gobernador... con su escolta de arcángeles!

¡Y las centurias romanas... de Marruecos, y las Sibilas, y los Santos Varones! ¡Todos los instrumentos de la Pasión!... ¡Y el instrumento máximo, ¡la Muerte!, entronizada sobre el mundo..., que es un punto final!

¿Morir? ¡Señor! ¡Señor!
¡Libradnos, Señor!
¿Dormir? ¡Dormir! ¡Concedédnoslo,
Señor!
De sombra, sol y muerte, volandera
grana zumbando, el ruedo gira herido
por un clarín de sangre azul torera.

Abanicos de aplausos, en bandadas,
descienden, giradores, del tendido,
la ronda a coronar de los espadas.

Se hace añicos el aire, y violento,
un mar por media luna gris mandado
prende fuego a un farol que apaga el viento.

¡Buen caballito de los toros, vuela,
sin más jinete de oro y plata, al prado
de tu gloria de azúcar y canela!

Cinco picas al monte, y cinco olas
sus lomos empinados convirtiendo
en verbena de sangre y banderolas.

Carrusel de claveles y mantillas
de luna macarena y sol, bebiendo,
de naranja y limón, las banderillas.

Blonda negra, partida por dos bandas,
de amor injerto en oro la cintura,
presidenta del cielo y las barandas,

rosa en el palco de la muerte aún viva,
libre y por fuera sanguinaria y dura,
pero de corza el corazón, cautiva.

Brindis, cristiana mora, a ti, volando,
cuervo mudo y sin ojos, la montera
del áureo espada que en el sol lidiando

y en la sombra, vendido, de puntillas,
da su junco a la media luna fiera,
y a la muerte su gracia, de rodillas.

Veloz, rayo de plata en campo de oro
nacido de la arena y suspendido,
por un estambre, de la gloria, al toro,

mar sangriento de picas coronado,
en Dolorosa grana convertido,
centrar el ruedo manda, traspasado.

Feria de cascabel y percalina,
muerta la media luna gladiadora,
de limón y naranja, remolina

de la muerte, girando, y los toreros,
bajo una alegoría voladora
de palmas, abanicos y sombreros.
¡Viva Sevilla!
Llevan las sevillanas
en la mantilla
un letrero que dice:
¡Viva Sevilla!

¡Viva Triana!
¡Vivan los trianeros,
los de Triana!
¡Vivan los sevillanos
y sevillanas!

Lo traigo andado.
La Macarena y todo
lo traigo andado.

Lo traigo andado;
cara como la tuya
no la he encontrado.
La Macarena y todo
lo traigo andado.

Ay río de Sevilla,
qué bien pareces
lleno de velas blancas
y ramas verdes.
Metro mágico y rico que al alma expresas
llameantes alegrías, penas arcanas,
desde en los suaves labios de las princesas
hasta en las bocas rojas de las gitanas.
Las almas armoniosas buscan tu encanto,
sonora rosa métrica que ardes y brillas,
y España ve en tu ritmo, siente en tu canto
sus hembras, sus claveles, sus manzanillas.
Vibras al aire alegre como una cinta,
el músico te adula, te ama el poeta;
Rueda en ti sus fogosos paisajes pinta
con la audaz policromía de su paleta.
En ti el hábil orfebre cincela el marco
en que la idea-perla su oriente acusa,
o en tu cordaje armónico formas el arco
con que lanza sus flechas la airada musa.
A tu voz en el baile crujen las faldas,
los piececitos hacen brotar las rosas
e hilan hebras de amores las Esmeraldas
en ruecas invisibles y misteriosas.
La andaluza hechicera, paloma arisca,
por ti irradia, se agita, vibra y se quiebra,
con el lánguido gesto de la odalisca
o las fascinaciones de la culebra.
Pequeña ánfora lírica de vino llena
compuesto por la dulce musa Alegría
con uvas andaluzas, sal macarena,
flor y canela frescas de Andalucía.
Subes, creces, y vistes de pompas fieras;
retumbas en el ruido de las metrallas,
ondulas con el ala de las banderas,
suenas con los clarines de las batallas.
Tienes toda la lira: tienes las manos
que acompasan las danzas y las canciones;
tus órganos, tus prosas, tus cantos llanos
y tus llantos que parten los corazones.
Ramillete de dulces trinos verbales,
jabalina de Diana la Cazadora,
ritmo que tiene el filo de cien puñales,
que muerde y acaricia, mata y enflora.
Las Tirsis campesinas de ti están llenas,
y aman, radiosa abeja, tus bordoneos;
así riegas tus chispas las nochebuenas
como adornas la lira de los Orfeos.
Que bajo el sol dorado de Manzanilla
que esta azulada concha del cielo baña,
polítona y triunfante, la seguidilla
es la flor del sonoro Pindo de España.
Briano Alliano performing a west coast eagles party on Saturn

Hi welcome to Saturn and tonight I will celebrate the west coast eagles winning the 2018 premiership with our first song
West coast Macarena

You see the mighty west coast eagles
They won and they are mighty
They looked like they’ll lose it
But they kept fighting and pushed it
Each player played well
They go back to Perth with the cup yeah
Yeah party all night all ****** night go the mighty eagles
1 2 3 4 go the mighty eagles
Keep the fight up till the final siren
It is all worth it as we lift the cup
Go the west coast eagles
Then the fun began they started
Bringing our team to the stage
After barnsy
Everybody was cheering
Saying go the mighty eagles
1 2 3 4 go the mighty eagles
Yes we won the cup
And boy are we happy
We are planning to get drunk all flaming night
Go the mighty eagles

And now here is the next song
Clap for eagles

3 6 9 the eagles are fine
We just won the cup
And we feel divine
The crowd at the mcg were happy mate
Can’t wait to get back to Perth
To see the crowd that couldn’t make it yeah
We put our hands up and lift our voice and cheer
Everybody joins us when we say
3 6 9 go the eagles tonight
The cup is ours all through our lives

And now here is the west coast victory song
We won we won we won
The mighty west coast eagles
The cup the cup is ours
Yes we are celebrating
You see we are the best mate
Winning is our friend
We never ever gave up
Right to the very end
Go eagles go eagles go eagles go
Winning the cup means everything to us our gracious team
You see we are fighters
And we are bad and mean
Never giving up and
We got the prize
Yes, we were keen
Go eagles go eagles go eagles go
The cup is ours
Go the mighty eagles
Till the day is done

This is a cheer I had in the past with the eagles

We are the eagles the west coast eagles
We the ones who will win this game
Each goal we score
Will be a blessing dude
Yes we will win this game
You see mate the cup is ours
And mate it was a bit of a fight
We are the eagles the west coast eagles
We are the winners of 2018
Go the mighty eagles yeah
Every single day go west coast eagles

The next cheering song says this

They never thought we would fail it no the eagles are the best the 2018 season is over yeah
And the eagles come up the best the eagles had their heartaches at the start oh yeah
But they kept on fighting and
We won it yeseree
At the end we cheered for them
And the supporters are cheering in Perth saying go the mighty eagles yes we are so great
Now we are coming home
And we are expecting an almighty roar go the eagles
The west coast eagles
Yes we won and we are happy
POETS AND SINGERS AND DANCERS AND BELL RINGERS

ARE IN MY HOUSE TONIGHT, I PARTY WITH ANGELS

AND ALL I EAT IS BAGLES, AND THAT MAKES ME FEEL SO DIVINE

I WENT TO THE POETRY SLAM, WITH VOICES IN MY HEAD SAYING POETRY IS FOR GEEKS

BUT I AM A GOOD PARTY POET, WHERE EVERY POEM

EXPLAINS HOW I WANNA PARTY HARDY WON’T STARDY

MOVE IT ON UP, MOVE IT ON UP

AND SHOW US HOW TO HAVE FUN

AND TONIGHT THERE WAS A POET BLASTER WHO HATED POETS

SHOOTING AT ANYONE GOING OUT FOR SMOKES

YOU SEE WE HAD TO DESIGN A WEAPON TO **** POETS

AND MINE WAS TOO EXTREME, FOR THEM

YOU SEE, I DEVELOPED CANNON ***** AND 1 BILLION AMMO HERE AND 1 BILLION AMMO THERE

AND BULLETS, AND LOADS OF OTHER STUFF AND POINTED IT AT THE POET READING

AND BLASTED HIS HEAD OFF, SORT OF WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME TONIGHT

MY OLD MATES, SAYING, IS BRIAN INTO WRITING POEMS AND THEN THEY SAY POEMS ARE BORING

AND I SAY, NO MATE NO, YOUR BORING, SURE I AM DISABLED, BUT IT DOESN’T STOP ME FROM WRITING A GREAT POEM THOUGH

DISABLE DISABLE I MIGHT BE A BIT DISABLED, IT’S NOT MY STYLE TO NOT JOT IT DOWN, YEAH IN A POEM YA SEE

I HAD COKE TO DRINK AS WELL AS A PACKET OF CARAMELISED ONION AND SOUR CREAM CHIPS, ****** AWESOME DUDES

I AM DISABLED, TOO DISABLED, FOR THE GOING TO BED MEN OR KIDS OR LADIES

I DON’T WIN VERY MUCH, BUT THE ORGANISER REALLY LIKES MY WORK

I PARTY LIKE I GET HEADACHES FROM CHAMPAGNE, THE PURE ALCOHOL DOES WEIRD THINGS TO THE BRAIN

AND MY FAVE, THE SCHITZOPHRENIC MACARENA, IT GOES LIKE THIS

1 2 3 4 DO THE SCHITZOPHRENIC, FROM THE FIRST DIAGNOSIS TO MY CURRNT SITUATION

AND NOW, WITH MEDICATION, I CAN BE REFORMED, OH YEAH MATE YEAH, I AM SCHITZOPHRENIC

AND FLY BURGERS ARE GOOD ENOUGH TO EAT, FLY BURGERS ARE SUCH A TASTY TREAT

JUST CATCH A BLOWIE BETWEEN TWO BUTTERED BUNS, ADD SOME LETTUCE AND TOMATO AND HAVE SO MUCH FUN

YOU SEE MY POEMS TALK, ABOUT HASPPINESS FOR A GREAT PARTY, HAPPINESS FOR GREAT ART

AND HAPPINESS FOR THE OLD SMELLY MAN WHO FARTS, WHILE HE PLAYS AND BEATS ME AT DARTS

MOVING ON UP, MOVING ON UP MOVING ON UP, MAKING AN EGG SIT RIGHT IN THE CUP

THEN WENT OVER TO PAT HIS PUP, AS HE ENJOYS MOVING ON UP
Dishes Nov 2016
What a drop,
To fall from this height what a drop indeed,
To fall from up here would be foolish.
Mortal, perhaps.
As just before u splat u remember exists those imaginary boot straps,
And that knot you learned in 1st grade way after everyone else,

And those wings you grew yourself.

You flapped those little wings in formation with your mother and brothers goose by your side till one day by some miracle you stood on one foot per day and danced a Macarena around a cage of crawfish.
Party on party on party on
Let’s have a beer and a few shots
And get on the dance floor
And dance to all of the charts greatest hits
I like to party all night
And go to bed at 6 am
And stay in bed all fucken day
After having a great party dude
C’mon guys swing your hips right
And don’t forget to do the nutbush and the Macarena
Even if it is the shitzophrenic macerena, which gets the party started right and then bring on pink with the song let’s get the party started and then we head off to a pub to play pool and the jukebox and party for the rest of the night there and hopefully you will win the game of pool
So you can celebrate till 6 am
Then you get down and rock this town inside out and straight and tall, party party party
Right till the end never never
Ever drive your mates round the bend and we can celebrate richmond tigers securing top spot for this year
Yes, they will really party dudes
Louise Jul 22
Here is a list of things that are bigger,
greater than all of the world's oceans,
bigger than the storms in the seas,
than all the islands in the Pacific,
connecting all of us together,
being one great channel of culture...
Telenovela, chismes, galeones,
teleserye, chismis, galleon.
𝘚𝘪𝘣𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪 𝘓𝘢𝘱𝘶-𝘓𝘢𝘱𝘶, 𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪 𝘔𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘯.
𝘌𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘥𝘢 𝘯𝘪 𝘔𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘯? 𝘒𝘢𝘩𝘶𝘭𝘶𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘨 𝘬𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘯.
Sangría? No, sangre de Magallanes.
𝘕𝘪ñ𝘰𝘴, 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘢 𝘦𝘯 𝘷𝘦𝘻
𝘥𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘻𝘢𝘳 𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘰 𝘨𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴.
And believe it or not;
Bulerías, danza, bachata, habaneras.
How do you like your coffee, bebe?
Con leche? Bueno.
Evaporada and condensada?
Tequila, San Miguel, Mezcal, Corona,
Cerveza, Serbesa, Cerrado, Sarado.
𝘈𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘰 𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘨𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘢,
𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘶𝘮𝘶𝘭𝘶𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘦𝘭𝘰.
Actually, how do you like your coffee?
𝘛𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘢 𝘦𝘭 𝘤𝘢𝘧é?
𝘚𝘪 𝘯𝘰, 𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘰 𝘲𝘶𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘦𝘥𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘶 𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘰.
So do you like it hot or con hielo?
And of course;
Canciones, c/kanta,
And nowㅡreggateon, budots.
Gasolina? Aserejé? Macarena?
Bad Bunny, being our new Columbus.
Playitas, islas, karagatan, nuestro paraíso.
Mas chismes, mas tazas de cafe.
How do you think we're so far yet so alike?
Of all these things? Con chisme? Claro.
So which one first? The juiciest or latest?
Dedicated to my Colombian, Mexican, Argentinian, Chilean, Dominican, Spanish, Filipino and other Latino friends (or Hispanameripinos as we like to call it).

Our friendship is my most favorite "galeon". ❤️
Thomas Goss Jun 2020
I accidentally filled her mind
with serenading cicadas
that erupted on El Dia De Los Muertos,
a piñata swarm of insects,
their nightmarish candy forms
eating away all the love in the universe,
splitting me into two broken halves,
heart snapping like the thunderous crack
of the lumberjack’s axe.

(Echoes, echoes reverberate
through a forest we used to call home,
where her eyes would blink like fireflies in the night,
where the alluring tug of her voice
would spin silky illusions of kaleidoscopic renewal.)

Butterfly wings full of peering eyes,
the precious gift of true sight given then taken,
the other half of me struggling
through the encroaching amber of a parallel world,
crawling like a lonesome ladybug down the trunk of tree,
oblivious to gravity in some small,
dainty way.

Smiles are everything I so long to be,
and they stretched out like infinity’s caress
as I felt the slow thirsty dance of her vivacious mind,
that juke joint of the soul,
ripe fruit underneath mistletoe,
kissing me like it might put out
all the fires burning across the land,
like we were the last match in a galactic cave of darkness,
the hope of all mankind boiled down
to a single, fiery instant.

The tantalizing flow of her heart dress
seemed to yearn for a more intimate glimpse
of this strange bag of quarks:
the tattered remnants of my fallible,
damaged soul,
a laughable patchwork of everything under the sun that means to be human,
a lumbering fusion doing a cadaverous macarena
across the slippery linoleum of the universe;
yet the sound of a soul bifurcating
into both midnight and noon can deafen eardrums
and dry up the most passionate waterways,
sending even the most beautiful rainbows of delicate intention to an early grave.
https://holdingbruisedroseblossoms.wordpress.com
Steph Portuguez Jan 2020
On the castrated futuristic **** a jump had been executed. I witnessed it, he adjusted his boots, felt like vanishing, the leaving of pure prudence.

Nothing makes any sense when the revision turns into continuity. The dawn is inexpedient to the lousy recumbent and its prosperities. The unawareness has made it to the core, therefore, the nightfall passes its independence and unfairness to our own.


Oh! My irrelevant donkey, that one, to whom I've seen tumble down and not approaching a grip. To his uncovered castration had been given a hopeless drop of newly celebration. That the donkey responsible for the path, the vintage tumbril cannot allow him to surpass.

Suspiciously probable for the conscious well wrapped up in the voluminous indifference, a conjugated apathy choir with granted presence and simplicity.

For him, that was, the moment, the freeze, the calendar date, the burial, call it a day. Of this cursed sequence, uncertain, an emerged insomnia confined in a sepulcher of paranoia.

It has torn, that liberty of unknown. His frozen bowels, it spans, a recommended dealer, I now ingest the syrup, it has darkened a bit in this limbo. The glucose did not annihilate the glutton, enough insulin was more as to come to delicacy, the quadruple figure does not reflect with no lens nor ability.

A hanging genital, fully outworn, in debt to the swelling and proceeding bomb. The ****** hole has been closed to the visitor in roll. A relic since conception, sodden with my self-distrust, muzzled to the art of action and disrupt. Poor dehydrated, yet to inaugurate, an everlasting sedateness of demising absoluteness and abundance of self-reproach.

I **** you! You irreverent donkey, to a steady furore and irrelevance, quite a damaging endorphin. Your tutelage did never flood me with yearness, it had to disguise with this sugar barrel of stupidity and clenching. This untainted audacity will never lift a curtain hiding the unseen and revolting... thing.

The mentioned tumbril and diluge of fresh sweat, a dryed armpit but a head transpiring with a tiny leap. An immense extension awaits for the indolent sailor, outstanding intentions to be a renegade, but somehow those rails just... get to him.

Hallucinogens of the stepmother earth, it is time for the urged recess. Bell, bell! I beg you to blare. Esoteric prairies dance to the classic and strange macarena, transported plebs by European train, to Trainspotting it reflects. That turbulent, nostalgic and wondrous effect.

Oh! My irrelevant donkey, all you see and will come to see, will puff out as everyone ticks. Your indignated throbbing will pace as impatient as you may. Your pant for conclude, but also recapture will barely endure. Nevertheless, your undoing will bash up all you never cared to do and take.
Hi dudes and welcome to the Saturn community concert and our first guest is Kathryn Roswell who was my grandfather in her previous life and she is singing with Martin the Martian
With a top hat here they are
Their first song is agadoo
Which goes like this
Agadoo doo doo push pineapple shake the tree agadoo doo doo push pineapple grind coffee which was Kathryn’s fave song where she knows the words and the actions to and then she sang elvis Presley’s song love me tender which was a song she loved to sing to me ya know her last life’s grandson and then after that Martin the Martian who was John Mahoney from the tv series Frasier singing
I am a Martian with a top hat and I have no tie and I am ready to party all night when your young you will party
To forget about reality and have a little fun oh yeah party right
Yes everyone is ready to party with
Me and Kathryn yo here on Saturn
And I get my top hat and as I am wearing no tie
Just the perfect shade of green
I am a Martian with a top hat
With a naked green body
I am ready to party yeah
C’mon get out your top hat
And put on your dancing shoes
And party party party all night
And then Kathryn and Martin the Martian played a lot of seventies and eighties songs and everyone got down and danced, the songs were
Dancing queen abba
Sweet home Alabama
American pie don McLean
Standing on the outside cold chisel
Duncan slim dusty using all the names of the people here
And then they left the stage
And bon Scott came on stage with Michael Hutchence and Roy Orbison
Michael on drums Roy vocals and bon
On bass guitar they sang
Pretty woman
You shook me all night long
Suicide blonde
You got it
Who made who
Need you tonight
Handle with care
Thunderstruck
Devil inside
And then they bowed to the audience thanking them for dancing and left the stage
Then the crazy hip hop dancers from Jupiter who were Daniel morecombe
And Graeme Thorne who is me now on earth and Caleb Logan and they danced to great songs like
A hip hop version to YMCA village people and Stan from Eminem and another hip hop version of karma chameleon from culture club standing on the inside looking out which is a song I wrote and performed at the poetry slam and the last one was come on aussies come on the old cricket song and now we have some cosmic belly dancers coming out
Their names are Kim Davidson and Bridget bromhead and Ruth cracknell and they shook their bellies to chicken dance
And nut bush city limits and a Christmas song jingle bells and good ship Lollypop and rock and roll music
And after that the swinging yobbos came out slim dusty Alfred Waldron who was another previous life of mine and my currents life’s late father Barry Allan who is now Betty Campbell
And they sang songs like waltzing Matilda and fly burgers which was my first poem I wrote and a tisket a tasket which we showed our inner ***** and then we played all the afl theme songs starting with Sydney Adelaide Carlton Brisbane Melbourne
West coast Fremantle port Adelaide
The gws giants Gold Coast suns north Melbourne hawthorn st Kilda Essendon Richmond and Collingwood
And finished with the green machine
Canberra Raiders song and we left the stage then I came out to sing this song before the fireworks
It is called the schizophrenic Macarena
1 2 3 4 do the schizophrenic
From the first day you were born
To your current situation
With medication you can be reformed
Yeah mate yeah I am schitzophrenic
Don’t worry about my best mate
His name was rob butler
I wish I could explain it because I know
There was no best friend named rob butler
You see if I was married to Susan brown mate and if I had a family
With two sons David and mike
I know they don’t exist
But in a way I wished they did
And I am schitzophrenic
1 2 3 4 I am schitzophrenic
From the first day I was born
To my current situation
With medication I can be reformed
Wow yeah I am schitzophrenic
I like Christmas
But I am a Buddhist
I like the peace behind it
Despite being anything but at peace
With my crazy mental illness
Then I jumped in the back seat
Of my best mates cab
But the thing about it is
No mate of mine has ever drove a cab
Except Stan niemic but it is not him
1 2 3 4 do the schitzophrenic
From the first day I was born
To my current situation
I wish my childish dillusions will go away cause I hate being schitzophrenic oh yeah bow bow
And now here are the beautiful fireworks and that lit up the sky for 21 minutes, it was beautiful
Bye everyone and I will see you at the next cosmic community concert
Goodbye dudes
PARTY ON @ Brisbane bowling trip day 11

Today was a very awesome day
We started just having breakfast
And then brushing our teeth
And heading down to catch the two public buses
To the pier to aboard the lunch cruise on the Brisbane river
We got on the boat, and for the people who wanted alcoholic cocktails
That wasn’t good, so instead they had to have a mocktail
Which is a non alcoholic cocktail
I had two blueberry lemonades
And the buffet meal was ever so nice
And so was dessert as we sailed up and down the river
We took some photographs and videos
And the boat rocked and rocked
But none of us was sick
Then we got off the boat and caught the two buses home
And on the bus there was this schizophrenic or ICE sufferer
Getting really anxious, poor guy
Because we all crowded up the bus, which was his space
Then he got up, but he got anxious when he thought
The back door wouldn’t open
Then the bus let us off, and we had two hours to get ready
For the celebration Hawaiian night dinner
Then we all had our calypso Hawaiian on
And it took 50 minutes to get there
And when we got in there, there was a big
Line for the drinks, and when it was my turn
I bought two glasses of lemonade for $9-00, ****** rip off
And we were the first table to get the buffet main course
And it was ****** amazing food
And then we had a dance and got a few photos of us near the
Hawaiian poster, a nod then they drew out the lucky door prizes
Which out of the wizards bowling league, me and Jarrad and tony won
Nobody else, but it would’ve been fun whether we won that or not
Then after that we had dessert and when it was our turn
The cool music, we will rock you and we are the champions came on
And buddy, we were loud, but we were enjoying ourselves
And a lot of people shoved the dessert down their cake hole
And danced, and I got a good video of them dancing to nutbusb city limits
And then the Macarena and TNT and we left singing who let the dogs out
As I said in the title, PARTY DUDES
Then we got home after a 30 minute ride
And we went straight to bed😌😌😌😌😌😌😌😌😌😊😊❤️❤️❤️
After we have sweated the night away
it has come to this, myself, yourself,
a lamppost on the corner of Handler and Wilde
stained with the **** of many a dog.

Your cheeks, rivulets of black,
happy tears you said, your friends
for now and perhaps time to come, dancing,
heels like typewriter keys on the gym floor.

All Macarena-d out, panting
as though a Collie after a sprint in heat,
your found me two-thirds of a diet Coke down,
lopsided bowtie, pentagon hole in the shirt.

No kiss, but small talk. A botched triple jump
into the limo, hands linked, already spooling
back through the hours, the slow dance,
the walls dappled blue, a memory like all before.

Now the kiss. Brief. Nothing more.
This too, a memory. For a second,
marriage and children lucid theatre in my head.
The reality something else. I head home,

you wave and we're gone.
Written: April 2020.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time several months ago that I forgot to upload. Feedback welcome. Please note that 'Macarena' refers to the song of the same name, while 'Handler' and 'Wilde' refer to the writers Daniel Handler and Oscar Wilde.
Hank Helman Oct 2023
Maja wanted to party.
Pachanga and rage,
Yodel see oooma and tunnel sing.

No alcohol she said,
A stupid juice, no switchin' lanes.

We dance tonight, she said, macarena, gigging,
A grind fest, dry ******* on a stanky leg,
Be ****** and true.

The word spread.
By 11 p.m. a thousand isadoras from Devon,
Mud sharks and ****,
Everybody smigglin' and dimplin' out.

We only have this day, Maja said,
So we bustamove and shuffle.
Tonight. All night.
And we rallied.
I was singing in the 80s
Some really top radical songs
I was singing in the 90s
Oh Carolina and Macarena
I was singing in the naughties
Music that wasn’t in the charts
I preferring 80s music
I was singing in the tens
Music on the new young talent time
And some nights and we are young
Tim Minchin and I loved performing
In drama club and bing crosby and Kevin ****** Wilson with words that would not be liked nor
And Jenny talia Kevin’s daughter same thing
Slim dusty biggest disappointment and Duncan
And I sooner be a hasbeen than a never was at all
And in the 20s watching cool concerts
From all over the world Tim Minchin
Twisted sister saying seinfelds maistro plays the army mad dad it is true and Bon jovi with bad medicine and living on a prayer and watching and enjoying the Logies as well as sending Bert to his new life as a girl I watch YouTube family vlogs as well but I don’t give a toss what you think of me
You shut your mouths protesters
Over coronavirus
You need a good talking to anyway
Oh yeah bow bow
People who talk politics or argue over politics are troublemaking dudes
Protesting on the street after being arrested for social distancing
Well that is really bad
I say you put your vb in
And Carlton out
And party all day long
Try and be understood
That is the way to go
I think protestors of lockdown
Are total *****
What I hear that the government
Is looking after us
Instead of protesting why don’t they
Party at your home
With music that you buy
Or over the internet
Partying is way better than
People who protest don’t you think
Well that is what I think
You could do the hokey pokey
And Macarena and dance to bon jovi
Sing it loud and sing it strong
Make the troublemakers scream
Because what is see that
Nobody is stopping them from having fun
I believe in having fun
Having fun oh yeah
I don’t get drunk
Just get high on life
And boy I am so cool
Arguing with the police is wrong
Even if you mean good
Because the news is telling you
What is on and what is not
So get a life protesters
Of coronavirus fame
And go home where we are safe
And party online
If that is what you complain about
Go and **** yourself
Trapper wants us to protest and get arrested because that destroys our fun
Ohhh yeah bow bow
Chicka
I am moving up
And moving down
Up and down
All around the town
Pulling everyone around
Reaching down to get your cool kid out
Come on down and win a prize
Doesn’t really matter what is the size
Just squeeze your body till the juice pours out
Shut up you great big ugly snout
You don’t understand why people don’t get
I am trying to be a cool kid on the block
You see I had fun
My head is a mess
Johnny brown and his wife Jess
You see the other day
I went to a party
Being real cool for a smarty
Sing songs like you shook me all night long
Nutbush city limits chicken dance Macarena
Too cool to mention
Putting your best friend on detention
Making him pick up *******
And write lines annoying thing to do
But the thing is
Don’t be naughty and you won’t need to do it
King Kong is an ape famous in the movies
Then you get some young person looking
Really groovy

— The End —