"obstructive" poems
i can't believe i'm living out my life's
10 seconds of stupidity with
an un-payable debit account security
of future credit, loans, debt and moaning...
**** me double twice blind with a joker in hand...
of course i'm stupid, i got educated in
a world that pays you back with menial
labour, to look pretty... seriously,
don't do the stupidest thing imaginable and
get yourself a university degree, unless
you're a woman, that's fine, you'll get to
meet and voluntarily wet your ******
with the next president of Romania,
but we need idiot mechanics, and believe
me, i'd rather oil up car pistons like
stroking giraffe necks of Myanmar women....
from **** generals cited through to Epicurus' citation...
believe me, i wish i was smarter,
most of posthumous fame is a regard of
obstructive i.q.,
we were believed to not take offence at our
exposure to systematisation
which educated both thief and banker...
none of the two differ... both excusable buffers...
we trusted people... trust was our biggest idiotic remark...
and now the earth in spin... for endless maxims:
it's like that... and that's the way it is;
no wonder i end up watching serial killer
documentaries.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 6:17 PM UTC
Allergies exist on a scale
From mild to severe
I once had a friend
Who did not understand why I had allergies
Why I always sneezed
And had to blow my nose
Why I always opened a window
And looked like ****
The allergies became a nuisance to people
Annoying
In the way
Obstructive
Then one day
That friend developed allergies
He came over sneezing
Is this what it’s like?!
I feel so bad for you
I never knew how it felt
My body is attacking me
It’s horrible
You don’t have to experience things
To show kindness
Simple acts of sympathy and empathy
Carry other miles
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 12:03 PM UTC
*He travels great distance against all odds,
reaches the border, but turns back helpless
she just stands there, impatiently smiling
with extended hands, but making no move
to cross the emotional wall, they built themselves.*
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
they say to love yourself
but sometimes
it's easier said than done
when all around you
there is an eddy of
slim thighs
flat bellies
long legs
and all you feel like
is an obstructive rock
marring the perfection
of the current.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
A couple wuz beading up
for a chi chi day
She drunkenly laughed
**** stained her dress
A olive skin woman
in golden glitter pasties
Offered neon *** shots
near 10 in the morning
A chubby girl dressed
in a black fishnet body suit
selling face paintings
while her supple *******
Jiggled in your face
A black man occupied
A most different plain
Sat behind two chess boards
wasn't gettin paid
Two SAP cars parked
At Royal Sonesta curb
idling to taxi exec sappers
back to the friendly skies
****** whippin glitter girl
Shakin her money maker
Lookin hard at her wares
What the hell she sellin?
Across the street
miked up bible thumper
Doin his groove thing
Raged against the ***** show
Ca ching ca ching ca ching
I ducked a bity bee
Flying at my face
I'm walkin Bourbon
Full of mighty grace
Hard Rock Guys
selling cannabis lollis
crowded corners bumpin
Ain't no trollies
boom box blastin
back beat samples
Who Dat Jazz?
muskrat rambles
Three card monte
Obstructive beggers
Kids banging on
5 gallon drums
Gimme a dime mister
Louie Armstrong Park
Congo Square
Where it at?
Gotta get there
***** Glitter still barking
Mardi ****** Gras tees
Snapchat Me Your *****
Ducked another bee
Kid put his two pails
In mid of the rue
Gotta pay the toll
Whatcha gunna do?
Music:
Mardi Gras Music
From NOLA Notes
2/18/17
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
Mos Def addict practicing my mathematics
multiplying gross deaths stacking high in my attic
banishing, your batting eyelashes in my hatchet
brandishing a reflection of death nothing can match it,
a packet of matches, three cans of gas am I mad *****
I’m a man mastering cracks of dark arts from a sad witch,
tears of evil, blasting apart marked hearts, sew they can’t stitch,
so I can cross your eyes and harvest every last inch
of your body I’ve got hauled high with my crass winch.
Dangling like abattoirs meat hanging upside down by your feet,
never is the time that I will retreat,
secreting discreetly in your petite physique,
desecrated secretly I never cease with the heat.
I’m a clever beast with the sweet smile of a pre-school teacher
I’m a leach, I’m an evil preacher,
I’m worse than a priest with someone not quite senior in reach.
I beseech you to keep my smile in mind when I breach
the regular limits of sin, an when the victim begins
spinning within the rhythm of my limb precision
positions a physician would think weren't natural
constructions. Causing concussions with my bone crack percussion
discussing the disgusting repercussions of being obstructive
with a kind as destructive as mine its reductive to imply
that I’m stuck with a mind superior to thine, let the subtleties shine,
you’re an inferior design, obsolete, so the premise is supremacist
there’s no preventing this, the evidence is left in every crevice of the premises.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 6:14 AM UTC
the blatant frustrations of live feed editing.
enter the tablet, joystick free, one touch games,
quiet interesting that it’s so hard
to get a gaming addiction with such games
as candy crush soda, family farm,
bubble witch 2...
you will not see an adrenaline tornado on these
platitudes, no movie like involvement,
no plot... just time contraints, money constraints,
the adequate reflection of life: hey mort! when you coming?
hey forthnight debility cheque! when you coming?
(i too thought tetris originated in japan,
but it was actually of soviet design!
so in conclusion: games designed to be as reflected
by someone doing a crossword - i'm crap at
those, being bilingual is obstructive -
i'm in constant translation mode looking
for picturesque synonymity - or doing sūdoku -
which i'm not too bad at.)
a bit like that jesus debacle, so gott insisted on giving
proof of his existence to a baby... bad move...
the kid grew up in a bubble and thought he could do anything...
elijah just said to the priests: but if your god doesn’t exist,
what’s the point of having you? later he repented
on mt. sinai where god was but a whisper...
like the whisper of the dream of what rome was at first:
a republic. i believe in republicanism, i don’t believe
in that shamble that’s known as democracy, and is currently
the biggest export from america... exported to usurp
other nation’s republicanism - the elders of afghanistan
will never be modern family mr. jason wordsmith and
mr. jack wordsmith, raising an adopted / surrogate mother’s
kid... not in a million years... nor will revised buddhism
in western europe ever be original shinto of japan...
not in a million years... we’re not a monochromatic people.
back to jesus: there’s not one shred of christianity in
jurisprudence (philosophy of law /
etymology: prudence of having a jury) - but when you’re faced
with an enemy who’s a lawyer, and has connections...
and you’re a poor idiot who was forced into a paranoid schizophrenia
simulation for 7 years... you don’t set out to attack
and get compensation like that woman schopenhauer pushed
down the stairs... you set out to prove god -
and subsequently leave the ******* in his own waiting
line for karma - i hardly think there will be an oliver twit
in him to ask for some more.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
Blithe golden cloud, that once tugged at my heart strings
enigmatic pubescent,warm master work of raising steam,
you did drift too low, to be real for my sun scorched world
but deliberately pretended cold,when I waved, repeatedly,
I ardently wooed, to the alarm of your admirers, a legion
how I longed for the secrets, you whispered,know you more
aren't you fire within, that burns heart,lightening concealed?
Formed in sensual, undulating softness, hiding, fiery desires?
I waited, for you to touch ground, as you promised,to explore
being naive, you inadvertently tangled with the tree branches!
Obstructive self seekers,who craftily trapped you in thickets
and little by little, in grey strands you vanished in thin air...
A lesson to all straying cloudlets,I had to be sadly a witness.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
*Time...a puzzle
to realists and surrealists alike
Time...a puzzle
of grand pieces
obvious if obtuse
obtrusive and obstructive
laboriously laid to waste
constructing a picture of existence
solid yet stolid
Time...a puzzle
of fine pieces
subtle if sharp
spacious and serene
pensively placed at random
culminating in a mosaic of life
fragmented yet feeling
Time...a puzzle of pieces
contained within a box
...or...
in a different dimension altogether...*
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
In meadows, rich with clover, I have seen them here before;
those industrious little creatures at their pollinating chore.
Now the land is strangely silent, was Rachel Carson right?
Are we killing all the bumblebees? Have they made their final flight?
There are those who point to climate change as the source of all our pain.
If the bumble bee is dying, it is heat stress that’s to blame.
Others theorize a virus as the cause of their demise;
an illness ravaging the hives and emptying our skies.
I even heard one scientist make the hypothesis
that our overuse of cell phones is the cause of all of this.
Could it be that our usage of glyphosate is to blame;
As GMO spreads on our fields, our crops are not the same.
Monsanto is an Agri-Corp with bought friends in D.C.;
A “friendly Legislature insures profitability.
The F.D.A. is slow to act; Congress drafts obstructive laws.
It seems to me, just possibly, they already know the cause.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 11:16 AM UTC
The overwhelming pull and flow
The doubtful peace we may once know
Surf and wave that disrupts the sand
Never receding except on command
The foam that's left up on the beach
Something the breakers can't seem to reach
Pops and bursts all in due time
Not truly obstructive nor truly benign
The tides come and leave again and again
A cycle continued never with end
The beaches will change and water grow warm
But the tides, they will forever perform
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 7:41 PM UTC
Bow down to the kings of fact evasion
evading the truth on every occasion
occasional lies put into the equation
equating to a killing persuasion
persuading others to join the foundation
founded on this murdering fixation
fixated on their own classification
classified as private information
informed minds can be more productive
producing a way that is less obstructive
obstruction stopped by thoughts constructive
construction of the less destructive
Last word must be used in a different form for the first word in the next line.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 7:30 AM UTC
eyes rolling
about in their sockets
like bowling *****
rolling,
rolling
meadering through
such vivid hallucinations
what is truly real
may hardly exist at all
scenes created
the obstructive pins
of our lives
(b.d.s.)
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 11:23 AM UTC
Marvel at the Moon
The ultimate protector,
the watchmen of the evening sky.
How the moon comes so stoically,
asks for nothing,
gives all he can,
all because he can.
Illuminating the evening
deep into the night,
Watching over the night workers,
construction engineers,
a nurse's late shift.
Marvel at the moon
the night-light of the dark.
Some ask him to leave
so they may glance at the stars.
His light is too obstructive
and they'd rather him be gone another day.
but yet he holds firm,
with a stone look on his face,
he cares too greatly,
to let those people get him down.
Marvel at the moon
he turns to a sliver to a whole dollar,
without doing a thing.
Marvel at the moon
his light guides the evening,
when we sleep and are washed in dream.
Marvel at the moon.
He sometimes shows up along side the sun.
Out of the suns way.
And can suddenly take day-notice,
by standing in the suns path.
Marvel at the moon,
for his presence is needed for those whom are lonely,
a poet, a musician, a warewolf.
Marvel at the moon.
Marvel at the moon.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC
The child was reluctant, obstructive, rudely derogated the rules of night-time. In return, the mothers smile crusted over; her anticipating face raged with love, with tenderness, with necessity.
Hold back desperation: “Shall I read you a story?” Yes, a boring story, a story to bore your little eyes closed and your little head droopy and your little snores out.
All children learn to say no and this one was a champion already. Still gentle and formless it was not quite male, not quite female. It was androgynous, sexless, precocious with the possibilities of a gender unslated -- as if pigeon-holes could be sated at a later date. A choice depending on pointing out a celebrity from a picture in a magazine, and saying: ‘that one’.
“I don’t want to be in bed.”
This was said from bed, defiant, huddled and muddled within the pastry of the sheets and wriggling like a still-living filling. Four-and-twenty blackbirds, all singing.
Isn’t this a pretty dish thought mother.
“But bed is good,” she reasoned, “bed is a fine fine thing to be in.” She eyed it herself, covetously, the crispness of the linen holding the warm buttered biscuit smell of a child’s hair.
“Bed isn’t good. It’s lonely.”
Yes, lonely, sang the mother to herself, alone to be with myself only. Swaying with sleeplessness, mother’s voice burst with secrets.
“Bed is good. It is. It is where you were made.”
And you, child, are a good thing. Making you was good. Therefore beds are good.
Mother blinked dreamily, lies rushing unbidden to fill the gap between a child's world and the truth; the question came immediately.
“Have you ever seen someone making a *** out of clay?” she asked in response. Her arms raised in front of the child’s face. “Have you ever seen the clay sculpted, squeezed?” Then she lowered them. “And this was the oven. This is where you were baked.”
She wondered what kind of dreams these lies would bring, dreams of whispered fertility, Freudian dreams of plumbers removing bottoms and widdlers. Dreams of children baked out of clay and, rocked from the cradle; falling, smashing.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 11:07 AM UTC
An admiration for abolition.
Close quarters conversation, and demolition.
Obstructive outbursts, constructive concerts,
and outraged rebellious rallies.
They preach round words, and mastered mortality catalysts,
soaked like dish towels.
Pen and paper,
barbed double edged razor wire,
and sharp teeth.
Hand tapered fine meats; an electrified man- reviver.
Perplexed attire,
liquor bottles and glass houses.
Insane models, fake **** in skin blouses.
Weaved baskets of silver trash,
and packed ground ashes.
The masses, pained by stained caskets,
and back lashes.
Oblivion shoves, and the brain passes.
The sadness.
Fertilized territories,
and athletes with vein madness.
Getting laid, and LED light brigades,
November no-shave, and long hair with viking braids.
Homeless, with no car and bike less.
Filling lungs up with nitrous.
Instantly flightless,
and magazines full of white ****** spiteness.
An officers flashlight kiss.
Nervousness, and ****** lips.
Love confusion, brought on by a ****** fist.
Lucrative ways to hang and sway.
Dangle from the chain of a rich gang banger,
as he fades to grey.
Rude assumptions, and high heeled country bumpkins.
Cracking the asphalt with their steel toes thumping.
What a great place to be.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 9:37 PM UTC
gods out of the night
out of the nights unnavigable light
luding rosy from the underworld
broaching
how you push through my faces
the posings
hooking behind the dense furs
poaching out the peppish reasoning
dissolving its obstructive code
you rap me faint between the eyes
every failure drapes away
in chronicle and uttered hurt
all so familiar
seeming foreignly a warm tutting family
all volatile material is subdued
i am voidable soldier
but you hold me in keep
you are truthfully inclusive
i feel beloved in animal and otherly
pandered into the pattern
all beyond belonging
and yet traceable with my many uses
a healing visit and now to business
footage provided to make a mood-less operation
i'm kept swaddled throughout my information sift
silt is taken and exchange given
for a heady ****** charge
i've been amazed in the dreams
you provided
suspended in a solving liquor of theatre
i hope my report was a good one
i woke well rested
with a light feeling of reassignment
Mar 22, 2022
Mar 22, 2022 at 5:51 AM UTC
*it would be easiest to switch the lights off
and bemuse whether there's a light-bulb
in the room.*
but of course psychoanalysis originated
in the upper tiers of society,
where people found dreams unappealing
unless interpreted by third party
associates of psychiatry and put into nice
and neat boxes of theory...
of such people we know as perhaps neither
butchers or surgeons, who's only
obstructions in life were but dreams,
and dreams in themselves also obstructive
because of lack of coherency and soluble
meaning, perhaps even not sexually potent
enough; only now the backlash of
digging into the unconscious greedily like
dwarfs mining for precious jewels,
to have merely woken a flip side of all
that theorising that came from the 19th century,
you hear so much of the balrog that slay durin vi,
this bane of durin: oh it walks among us,
it does indeed - with a cartesian duality whip
of medicinal splinters etched into an almost
dark ages account of knowledge: to have us
treat mentality and physicality of a negation
of ease as equally paired to be chiral -
indeed politicians speak of mental health and
physical ailments as distinct - but gentler
the thought pressing down on the cranium
than an elephant in stilettos likewise - but why
so? for all this previous theorising ambitions
in a safe environment of natural hallucinogenic
encounters of sleep - safe there the egoistic scalpel
of this branch of medicine of a straitjacket -
safe there indeed, and perhaps even more with
a placebo effect acceptable; but by god!
this scalpel wants to censor thinking, even
thought that extend into our ontological bereavement
of being but mortal - even if suicide is a problem,
the more methodological such thinking becomes
the more ineffective it becomes, and for some
strange reason, thoughts of suicide (when trained)
have this strange way of prolonging mortality,
the carpe diem of reasoning, after all, all things
possess the concern for two things that interchange,
and in that interchange the + can become a -,
or as i say... take to committing yourself to
a gruesome end... hara-kiri (seppuku), and you won't.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 9:02 AM UTC
I felt like a scotch tape stretch screech screaming out to hang pictures of tigers teeth
[Teeth dripping of the colorful swirling primordial ooze that is forming and foaming in the corners of your mouth.]
A slightly sickening substance you don't perceive as gathering worries reminding you saliva leaves a maniacal residue
[A film of acidic copper coats your mouth as the tension in your mandible builds with each passing milisecond relieved by jagged popping motions, but if only for a moment as your hands melt into the carpet making a pool of creamy peach nothingness, but if only for a moment.]
The ripple relief is tension relieved yet a remix of images perceived as water washing over eyes cleansing and clearing obscurity but still obstructive and obtuse overwhelming
[The filter is flipped off,conscious activity roams free as if it were a rain dance of visual, tactile exploration of serotonin amongst limitless creativity. Never ending like the far reaches of space but just as tiny as a molecule.]
A never ending meandering mingle of the mind with minuscule details coming to life and finding a force unlike anything you've climbed, realizing the mountain of motion and the commotion of sparked senses is a let loose expression of deep down inner desire
[Teasing its way to the surface and tingling under skin like ants in an endless procession of drone servitude. Consume, **** die. And realizing the meaning of it all, the sole driving forces of life is *** and death.]
An endless one by one two by two march in line behind other droids digging lines in the sands of time again and again obeying their inner desire design by the man with the magnifying glass in the sky. And all we can ask is why don't we just be us, ourselves and fly saying **** the confinements of our meaningless antennae lives we have wings and all we must do is express it in jumping and believing in flight
We are butterfly's and birds feeling wings we once thought worthless and it's because of this substance stance we are taking and the dance we are waltzing that we get to have this enlightening experience
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 12:18 PM UTC
Chicago,
Your energy rumbles up my knees and out my esophagus.
I speak your language with each vibration,
And while others find it annoyance purely,
I treat it tenderly and loop it through each tooth,
Threading the words you teach me.
While your speech turns to sentences I come to understand your purpose, why we are here
On this gravity defying sidewalk.
I feel your kinesthetics with every breath I take,
Whooping back out cigarette tar and gasoline vapor.
The river, long and un-obstructive, flows down to the base
Of the brain stem which you funnel your strength and wisdom through.
The geese tickling your nerve endings in the water
Never realized this liquid is no longer their home,
It was taken hostage a century before.
This city,
With its echoing winds and cloud scraping apartments
Understands me.
A symbiotic sphere.
It sees the future while others greedily pull the veil over their faces,
But He is unwilling to accept the imaginary.
Someday the stars will no longer glisten,
While every building, innocent and newly ******
Loses the fluttering heartbeat it once composed.
The windows will project no faces,
Only empty chairs and tables
Collecting dust and milky residue of the putridity its children once carried in lungs.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 10:09 AM UTC
Your hands were crisp with the cold chill of autumn;
The spherical time bomb had transitioned into winter,
And your hands had crumbled into nothingness-
Only remnants of frozen ash had remained in the palm of my hand.
I saw far more in those ashes than most though.
I saw *** and lust and passion and want for hands to be against skin and skin to be against hands.
I saw the ashes as lust-full summers;
pure ****** and rose cigarettes.
Every time a cold wisp of winter air brushed against my scarred and pink knuckles,
I was reminded of the loneliness your hand had once provided me with,
And the way it simply gave up into mine, never to return again.
Goodbye said your hand,
And my hand soaked in all of your absolute nothingness,
Leaving me as absolute nothingness too.
Your hands were tight and hot and sweaty with the blinding scent of summer;
Pollin living within the beds of my moist eyelids
and cheek bones swollen with exhaustive heat.
The creases of my hands relishing in vitamin D;
Vitamin D relishing in my human skin-- am I normal yet?
Next to mine, your hand soaked it all in,
I soaked in the yellow, the yellow soaked in me, and you soaked in us both.
You drank our souls through a purple straw and puked us out onto a hotel bathroom floor--
Is this what summer's like?
It hurt how tightly you held onto me and how I was stitched into your lung, into your stomach.
My only escape being a bathroom floor,
And I was just hot.
Throbbing eyelids, throbbing cheek bones, throbbing hands--
I swore my hand would collapse into yours eventually. But it didn't,
Ironic isn't it.
Your hand was warm and soft with the feeling of compassion.
Your hand upon my neck and entangled amongst my falling hair,
It was sympathetic with the feel of a skinny stomach.
Where had mine gone?
Where did my skin go?
You held me and against the frail bones of my decaying skeleton
Suddenly I was feeling some sort of togetherness again.
The way Depp and Ryder had reminded so many of passionate love,
full of furiously mad happiness,
I was now seeing that.
A crumbling hand had now manifested from the fury,
into some sort of crave for my touch for my soul for my love.
I could feel my stomach again
My skin was forming over the once decaying bones
And there I was in your hands.
Memories of autumn and crumbling finger tips and skin and tissue and bones were now vanished.
Memories of summer and sweaty and obstructive hands were now nearly ambiguous to my past.
It didn't make a difference,
Because in that moment your hands were warm and soft and showing me what it was like to be a living, breathing carcass again.
You were now Johnny and I was now Winona,
And this love hate relationship was being felt in my bones, in my skin, in my palms,
And I knew--
You would always be my autumn
You would always be my winter
You would always be my summer
You would always be the forever on.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC
He ran like the wind up the gangway
saw the door still open
ahead near the door stood four Port attendants
gasping for breaths he reached them
with hands outstretched they stopped him
No, No, No, he cried
I've got to get on, I've got to get on
Sorry sir too late, their voices rang out
I'm afraid Sir, you're too late
What! look the door is still opened
Please, let me in, pleasee for heaven's sake
let me in, I've got to get on board
Sorry Sir, against the rules, you are just too late
but the door is still opened,please I beg you let me in
Afraid can't do that,you are just too late,
just too late today
What Jobsworth you lot are
how inconsiderate can you lot be
the ****** door is still open,why are you being so obstructive
isn't your job to help passengers,isn't that what you're paid to do
do you realize how inconvenient this is, do you realize what this
will cost me'
Sorry Sir, we are only doing our job
You are too late for this flight,go back to the departure Lounge
They'll help get you on a later flight,sorry but Rules are Rules
And with that the plane doors were closed
Oh..how he hated these ********* ****** unhelpful inconsiderate
Jobsworth, ****** idiots, the whole lot of them, arseholes!
Dejectedly,he walked back to the ****** Departure Lounge
Fuming, dragging his ****** attache case, he sought out the
help desk
Cursing and muttering, he rued the ******* two minutes delay
that cost him this flight.
Angrily, he marched to the Air Ethiopia Check in desk
Sullenly he explained his plight!
Its a two hour wait for the next flight out, they informed him.
Still upset, he handed in his ticket and they did the necessary
Handing back his ticket, he walked away and sat in Departure
why, oh why did this happen to me, he muttered angrily
He sat miserably, he cursed again under his breath. **** God!
He had been sitting for about an hour when he noticed
people suddenly running around, something was happening
There was a real air of panic around, Officials were running
helter skelter, people were huddling in pockets, he saw
Police Official barking orders and Airport Staff talking excitedly
He heard some people shouting in a group to his right
He stood up alarmed
he stated walking towards a group to his left
Then he saw one of the Jobsworth that had stopped him from boarding his flight, the Jobsworth had a look of utter alarm
on his face, he was also sweating.
What's happening, what's wrong, he asked him, now alarmed himself.
Oh Sir, ooh Sir...the Jobsworth exclaimed, looking at him wide-eyed.
That Plane you missed has just crashed, killing everybody on board.....!!!
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 12:37 PM UTC
Folks say I'm struggling
That I'm old and confused,
They don't see all the haggling
Which leaves them bemused.
My colleagues are wordy
My enemies too,
But my willpower is sturdy
As I'm all for the Blue.
If now a bit slower
Even friends I seem faze,
But post Trump the bar's lower
And that's my fail safe.
The Media's a pain
What's with the shouting,
I shan't play their game
Their continual doubting.
Then there's old Bernie
And his Marxists galore,
With their bone headed journey
To simply point score.
Republicans matter not a bit in my mind
Obstructive and loudly they wail,
But Politics taught to never be kind
So let them act up and sullenly rail.
As to the Trumpers, what can I say
They live in a universe all of their own,
Their partisan anger a cause for dismay
While the stolen election they relive every day.
When all's said and done I'm proud of my job
Obama's on side to bring me relief,
My one secret weapon to quieten the mob
Sharing the load to make my weeks brief.
Oct 17, 2021
Oct 17, 2021 at 5:23 PM UTC
Disruptive, obstructive, elusive
Change is what it is
Change is inevitable
Change is abusive!
Sep 4, 2019
Sep 4, 2019 at 12:40 AM UTC