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Let me climb the intellectual bandwagon of Chamara Sumanapala of the Sunday Nation in Sirilanka, to recognize a world literary fact that Taras Shevchenko was the grandfather of literature that paid wholesome tribute to Ukrainian nationalism. In this juncture it has to  be argued that it is ideological shrewdness that has taken Russia to Crimean province of Ukraine but nothing like justifiable law and constitutionalism. Let it also be my opportune time for paying tribute to Taras Shevchenko, as at the same time I pay my homage to Ukrainian literature which is also a cultural symbol of Ukrainian statehood. Just like most of the European gurus of literature and art of his time, Taras Shevchenko received little formal education. The same way Shakespeare and Pushkin as well as Alexander Sholenystisn happened to receive education that was clearly less than what is received by many children around the world today.
Like Lucanos the Greek writer who wrote the biblical gospel according to saint Luke, Taras Shevchenko was Born to parents who were serfs. Taras himself began his life being a slave. He was 24 years a serf. He spent only one fourth of his relatively short life of 47 years as a free man. The same way Miguel Cervantes and Victor Marie Hugo had substantial part of their lives in prison. Nevertheless, this largely self-educated former serf became the headmaster, the guru and fountain of Ukrainian cultural consciousness through his paradigmatic literature written basically in the indigenous Ukrainian language. He was a prototype in this capacity given that no any other writer had made neither intellectual nor even cultural stretch in this direction by that time.
And thus in current Ukraine of today, Taras Shevchenko is a national hero of literature and collective nationalism. But due to the prevailing political tension between Ukraine and Russia, his Bicentenary on March 9, 2014 was marred by hoi polloi of dishonesty ideology and sludge of degenerative politics. For many us who derive pleasure from literature and diverse literary civilizations we join the community of Ukrainians to remember Taras Shevchenko the exemplary of patriotism, Taras Shevchenko the poet as well cultural symbol of complete state of Ukraine.
There is always some common historical experience among the childhood conditions of great writers.  In the same childhood version as Wright, Fydor, Achebe, Nkrumah, Ousmane and many others, Shevchenko was born on March 9, 1814 in Moryntsi, a small village in Central Ukraine. His parents were serfs and therefore Taras was a serf by birth. At the age of eight, he received some lessons from the local Precentor or person who facilitated worshippers at the Church and was introduced to Ukrainian literature, the same way Malcolm X and Richard Wright learned to read and write while in prison. His childhood was miserable as the family was poor. Hard work and acute poverty ate up the lives of the family, and Tara’s mother died so soon when he was nine. His father remarried and the stepmother treated Taras very badly in a neurotic manner. Two years later, Taras’s father also passed away. Just in the same economic dint poverty ate up Karl Marx until the disease known us typhus killed her wife Jenny Westphelian Marx.
The 19th century Russian Empire was largely feudal, Saint Petersburg being the exception, just like the current Moscow. It was the door and the window to the West. Shevchenko’s timely and lucky break in life came when his erratic landlord left for Saint Petersburg, taking his treasured serf with him. Since, Taras had shown some merit and knack as a painter, his landlord sent him to informally learn painting with a master. It was fashionable and couth for a landlord to have a court painter in those days of Europe. However, sorrow had to build the bridges in that through his teacher, Shevchenko met other famous artists. Impressed by the artistic and literary merit of the young and honesty serf, they decided to raise money to buy his freedom out of serfdom. In 1838, Taras Shevchenko became a free man, a free Ukrainian and Free European.
As it goes the classical Marxist adage; freedom gives birth to creativity. It happened only two years later, Taras Shevchenko’s collection of poetry, Kobzar, was published, giving him instant fame like the Achebean bush fire in the harmattan wind. A kobzar is a Ukrainian string instrument and a bard who plays it is also known as a Kobzar. Taras Shevchenko also enjoyed some literary epiphany by coming to be known as Kobzar after the publication of his collection.
He was dutifully speaking of the plight of his people in his language, not only through music, but even poetry. However,  there were unfair and censuring restrictions in publishing books in Ukrainian. But lucky enough, the book had to be published outside Russia.

Shevchenko continued to write and paint without verve. Showing considerable merit in both. In 1845, he wrote ‘My Testament’ which is perhaps his oeuvre and best known work. In his poem, he begs the reader to bury him in his native Ukraine after he dies. Not in Russia. His immense love for the land of his birth is epitomized in these verses. Later, he wrote another memorable and compelling piece, ‘The Dream’, which expresses his dream of a day when all the serfs are free. When Ukraine will be free from Russia. Sadly, Taras Shevchenko came to his demise just a week before this dream was realized in 1861.
Chamara Sumanapala wrote in the Sirilanka Sunday Nation of 16 march 2014 that, Taras lived a free man until 1847 when he was arrested for being a member of a secret organization, Brotherhood of St Cyril and Methodius. He was imprisoned in Saint Petersburg and later banished as a private with the Russian military to Orenburg garrison. He was not to be allowed to read and paint, but his overseers hardly enforced this edict. After Czar Nicholas II died in 1855, he received a pardon in 1857, but was initially not allowed to return to Saint Petersburg. He was however, allowed to return to his native Ukraine. He returned to Saint Petersburg and died there on March 10, 1861, a day after his 47th birthday. Originally buried there, his remains were brought to Ukraine and buried in Kaniv, in a place now known as Taras Hill. The site became a symbol of Ukrainian nationalism. In 1978, an engineer named Oleksa Hirnyk burned himself in protest to what he called the suppression of Ukrainian history, language and culture by the Soviet authorities.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2016
quite recently, I received an extraordinary complimentary message to one of my poems, from a comrade in arms, dare I call him friend, that cored, scored me.  I post it below.  Not from braggadocio, or vanity, venal poetry sins.  But, it could not stand orphaned,
unrequited and unreciprocated,
for that would be a sin of even greater magnitude,

ingratitude

<>

this poem begins unique,
am struggling with a problem previously
unknown, never before even
close encountered

how do I commence?

poet wonders repeatedly,
a tune on the not-so-natty brain,
set on the machine's "repeat"setting,
this problematical for de minimus - 25 hour day,
this scribbler, this constant nibbler
on the Graham crackers life bestows,
befuddled muddled
for

this is never an issue,
it's the windup, the shutdown,
knowing when enough is enough,
that is the sorest point of his
elongated, can't shut up skill set

it cannot stand, it cannot just hang,
it needs a rabbinical wise,
responsible responsum,
a simple
thank you
holy, holy, holy
insufficient

these words, an almost wet smackdown,
catch me exposed, crossing Sixth Avenue,
against oncoming traffic (naturally),
while on cell phone bad boy,
doing his three R's,#
reading, writing & errrrr, deleting,
(yeah, yeah, I know, I know)
amidst my multiplicity of incoming artillery shells of
automobiles and messages,
this one,
seizing me up, me like a screeching,
near dying engine, broke from being oil-less,
nearly dropping my two large
20 oz. McDonald's coffees which easy
could flood this four lane
thoroughfare

you want to write like this,
are you mad, man?

all I ever es-say is what I see,
throwing in a rhyme or two,
a pinch of a fancy word to impress the
hoi polloi, and plenty salty sweet
to provocate a sensory ah ha
confusion

sir, why write like me,
when you pen this?

"yet all of this could
just as easily be,
the sum of two,
grateful hearts in equal parts,
the beat of two in rhythm thrum,
march in time upon one drum"
^

which pretty much says
what needs saying
all in one perfect stanza humming

but this note, is so far,
way deficient,
a mockery of what the situation requires and is deserving,
so multiple lovely muses redirect me
back to my email,
where I find this waiting,
in repose, this prose,
perfect

A compliment is a complement—
this I know, just as the clock
will always strike midnight
and history repeats. This is how
I can wake up the next morning
and love the world again.
^^

blossoming notion, this is but a complement,
where the line dotted allows free passage
from reader to poet, from poet to poet,
permitting the peaking reciprocity of completion,
and this complement
I accept, unashamedly, profoundly
for this is my 1/1,
for to make a whole, we still require
numerator, denominator,
of equal value

on this basis,
and this basis alone,
I accept your words

when prowling scowling late at night,
or early sun rising, old bones enthroned
in my Adirondack dis-comforter,
will come a-sneaking, a-peaking,
nobody-around-real quiet like,
for another look-see at this kookery,
in my solitary poet's by-the-bay nookery,

the thought comes,
maybe it's time to lay that pen down,
the Israelites have crossed that Red Sea,
dry and on their way to a land of promises,
when sure enough my coffee mug
spills onto an ant hill hard by the beach,
and oops, soiling the soil,
the Lesser Antillean inhabitants making an unholy ruckus,
and oops, ther goes another rubber plant, high hopes, poem aborning,^^^

but sir, be advised,
your excess foolishness is warming,
but we cannot without each other,
march to one drum,
our steps surely mismatched,
it is the reciprocity of
complementary numerical worthies that unites the fractions of us
into a singletary winter pea,
a whole of us,
in order to
"let us love the world again"
yes, a true 'story'
<>
#reading, writing and 'rithmetic
-----------
"some time back
this notion became clear to me.
have wanted to say it since;
this, your words, the perfect segue.

i have come to love
the style of your writing,
so much so as to adopt it,
as my own, though perhaps
in my own tone, voice, and
life experience.

much of how i write today,
I attribute to your influence...
no kidding, no hyperbole,
no gush, no mush, just truth.

whomever taught or influenced you
is to be admired most,
for in the style
i see most encapsulated by yours
is a conveyance that goes
well beyond words,
well beyond mere ideas...
it incorporates heart and emotion,
and more so,
the heart behind the heart,
in a way rather uncommon
to most poetry."^

S. Reimer
"After-math"
<>
^^ "On Being Told I Look Like FLOTUS, New Year’s Eve Party 2014"
by January Gill O’Neil

<>

^^^ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S94Bh3Qez9o
st64 Dec 2013
crackle.. crackle..
flicker-flicker
auburn-licks in tiny-spits
roast a pail on terra firma
then ask.. how steady ground-nutmeg falls in drizzles of mercurial-flow



1.
school girl gets pulled off her books
sorry, gypsy-girl.. but *you no welcome here

   free-style don't cut it here
we give you cash to make like a cow
and go home
surprise as youth stand up against old-guns
then folk get called names and puppets turn ugly
as terms like demografix get flung
like a band-aid over an open-wound

when diva is denied a croc
out of the blue.. plop!
three apples fall to the ground
and cheap bar-lines seem catchy
but get raucous laughter echoing from hay-strewn tree-top rafters
mocking-tirades.. lazy-suitor, hard-recruiter

women wearing missiles on their faces
induce a fear like no man has seen
earth-quaking in boots of unreasonable-fear
near ponds of web-toed frog-giveness
catching the sing of plastic-ridged bullets in eternal-flight


2.
you can work your crafty-*** off
and still be without water or a roof

teabaggers get tagged
and innocence is frisked
while a good man dies
and the world mourns
very few know the real-hardship  
of those soldiers
who served duty-bound years
yet swallow anguish for long whiles after

now learning comes fettered
with resistant-glass to ward off
ricochets of unwanted-strays
and tax is almost everyone's burden
interest defeats pure-growth
as indigent-footsteps keep crawling
while high-flyers keep raking it in.....
on the backs of hoi-polloi

bursaries offer step-up to some
but so many fall along the side
thanks to the malice of profiling
as your mail is leaked to bots and ads
another gun-shot goes off..
and affluenza gets you a cosier cell
as the lesson is sad-skipped
and rats keep lining 'em pockets with fewer parolees
so, who will really bat an eye-flip
when a judge breaks the law?


3.
so correct
it's all rather crazy upside-umop
adolescent-boy remains adamant against expectations
will not cede a kidney
to his father's burst one
drink, daddy.. yes, drink some more!




stoke the embers to keep lit
that which begs life







S T, 15 dec 13
oh, how 'enlightening' the news, at times
oft, I take a deliberate break from news-reads
just to ease the over-raked eye.. a tad :)
.......to.. to.. to style in some harmony in rare muse-curls
even by a full or half-day later

something I read, though.. a touch positive
not to wait for leaders to emerge to effect change.. but to be part of that.. be it.
prends la parole!



sub-entry: hello poetry

hello, poetry
good-bye, doldrums

or is it.. see ya later?
ha!
There are bumble bees around the corner,
Waiting to land on the tip of your nose.
Thick, flower nectar, dripping from above them,
Fated, to catch you in your, "Hello."

When the beaming sun beams,
We say lovely things,
And spread them about,
For those near,

To feel it within,
To take part in -

To share it with those
Who will hear.

When the sun disappears,
The moon's light rears,
Sprinkling taboo gems about,

For us to tiptoe and choose,
To place in a ruse,
Of words to enjoy during, Lights Out.

Neither a shortage of daisies,
To pluck from this field,
Nor, unwelcoming nuances met,

Only waves of inspiration,
Covered in chosen sensation,

An oasis for the itching poet.
I love the people on Hello Poetry.
=)

© 2011 Elephants & Coyotes
sobroquet Apr 2013
So you think you are a master of techniques of persuasion?
You shallow pips-squeak, mediocrity is your mastery
the obsequious hoi polloi that surround you are the pitiable averageness of conciliation
Sophistry and subterfuge are your game of compromised facts
syllogistic  arithmetic conceptualizing  doesn't make anything so
your addition is flawed by your bungled bombast of banality and guile
fortunately for you, your crowd will never study logic
fortunately for you semi-literacy is  de rigueur

You pompous swollen grandiose mass of hyperbolic gas
Fear is what you offer, lies are what you sell
your rhetorical flourish is as the stench of a waste  dump
fetid, corpulent, fallow and febrile
toxic
half-truths, innuendos, ambiguities, conjecture and asinine aspersions comprise your specious fare,
fostering rumours,  manipulating facts, you are the purported Biblical brood of vipers so extensively reviled against
Your relevancy is attributable to the dull stupidity so profusely prevalent today
Your "success" is the stuff of taint and treachery
You'll probably choke to death on a stuck piece of poorly masticated  flesh
so appropriate  and  befitting the demise of a professional liar
Anderson M Jan 2014
Glitzy gowns, crisp suits
Dainty personalities, well-groomed gentlemen
The crème de la crème of society
Poised reveling in an aura of importance
Flex their financial muscle
In the name of philanthropy.
Handing out gifts to hoi polloi
Their hands gloved
Smiling from ear to ear
Their noses twitching
Apparently un-accustomed to the “smell” of poverty
Has poverty…a smell?
Self-aggrandizement overwhelming their souls
Having warmed the hearts of the downtrodden
It’s a deal…sealed
Effortlessly
Scar Jun 2016
What is a guitar, but something to smash off the bedroom walls or throw from the roof?
"One thing good I can say about the hotel,
There were plenty of skanky crack ******
Strolling the boulevard.”
So began my Expedia travel review.
As usual, I got less than I’d paid for.
My review title:
“Next Time, Sans the Engineering
& Construction Inquietude.”
Pulling into the parking lot
One immediately recognized the scene,
A modern version of Cecil B. DeMille.
The 10 Commandments.
Pyramids of Egypt
Reconstructed, Escher-like
As a 21st Century construction site.
Oh, yes,
Everything Habib had in mind
When he subcontracted
The entire task to Hershel--
Hersh from Kanersh--
The famed,
But cursed
Jewish architect.
I digress, yes, but only partly.

Noise-induced stress, anyone?
The electrified multi-frequency drone,
Saturates like a post-war Levittown
Sea of Cape Cods . . . cods?
Bacala: stiff, salted, yellow & oily.
Cacophony:  a Festivus for the rest of us.
Oh yeah, Mr. Costanza.
Post-war?
Hardly, the mahogany wax
Still faintly, freshly sober,
New cards shuffled.
New cards dealt.
At that mahogany conference table
We weep at stacked decks,
Aces & Kings for the privileged few
Deuces & treys for the hoi polloi.
That hinky Bretton Woods poker game,
Convened while the war went on,
WWII still raging, guns still firing,
Tanks still rolling & rolling along.
There sat the Ruling Elite,
The 1%--as they are calling us these days--
We didn’t even offer
Our Gold Star mothers,
A moment to
Hold their breath.
Not one decent interval of silence.
Nein, nein, nein.
It was let’s get back to business.
Capital resuming its
Uncivil War on Labor.
First, add decades of slow boa squeeze.
Inflation, insidiously mocking Calvin--
Your ethos of work
In smithereens--
(Smithereens.
[From Irish Gaelic smidir n,
Diminutive of smiodar,
Small fragment.] ...)
A recipe for Sisyphus,
Your down-the-ladder warped reflection
Stares back at you as your
Up-the-ladder false hopes
Go escalator bye-bye; and by,
Staring at you,
Pinning you to a wall
With Econ 101 clarity,
As taught by Karl,
Another wily Jew:
It is a treadmill, after all,
Noting again the clever juxtaposition
Of a Jew and a handful of Christians,
Devotees of random Protestant sects.
The following link is a gift to some struggling writer @wattpad.
(Who Cares ON HOLD INDEFINITELY Chapter Twenty - Page 1 ...
www.wattpad.com/4225578-who-cares-on-hold-indefinitely-chapte­r-twe...‎
Apr 22, 2012 - Leanna was totally stunned by this and immediately halted in her tracks and began to scream at such a high decibel, Opia could hear her ears...) That’s right, another commercial in the middle of a ******* poem. The proceeding link was a gift to some struggling writer @wattpad.@*******.
Expedia Review:
The Windemere.
Its last syllable from Old English 'mere',
Meaning 'lake' or 'pool'.
A magical name
Reeking, swirling through your mind,
Lavender & English lakes
With steam ferries.
Ne c'est pas?

I arrived at the front desk?
The computers are down,
Having earlier that day
Been hacked into.
No restaurant.
No bar.
Nowhere.
Scaffolding & drop cloths,
Everywhere.
Construction materiel,
Everywhere.
When you finally get your swipe card,
You Notice that the “Buy One, Get One”
Pizza promo, laminated on one side,
Expired about 5 months ago.
The drive to the room
Is wry recognition that
The Windemere Hotel
& Conference Center*
Is actually a ****** motel.
Backhoes & cranes,
Everywhere.
Multiple, out-door spaces
Sectioned off with police
Yellow crime-scene tape.
Everywhere.
Railings on balconies
Appear to be seconds away
From giving way.
Odor, anyone?
You can count on it,
The moment that electronically-challenged keybox
Gives up its flashing green dot ghost.

Most times you get less
Than you pay for.
$47.00 a night?
Please ask,
Next time,
What's the catch?
“WHAT DID YOU LIKE ABOUT YOUR STAY?”
Again, Numb-nuts,
You think it’s a poem.
But it’s actually my
Fakokta Expedia Review.
WHAT DID I LIKE?
This one I had to think about,
Coming up, quickly . . .
(An advertisement generated by algorithms for your amusement follows)
. . . ***** Spray for Premature ******* - Web Site - the home page. www2 rochesterhomepage.net/...Premature-*******/CHedfhhlmkmt-i...‎­Aug 2, 2013 - ***** Spray for Premature ******* Spray Helps Men Last 6 ... 54% of the men in the placebo group delayed ******* for more than one . . .
Coming quickly with Dwight David Eisenhower,
The man we liked & called IKE.
When asked if his VP Nixon--
Running for President himself,
In a tight race with JFK—
Had distinguished himself in any way
In his 8 years as his Vice-President?”
IKE replied:
"Give me a minute and
I'm sure I can think of something."

Not a ringing endorsement.
IKE knew something
The rest of us had to wait for 1973,
Reserving a room at the The Watergate,
Close to Foggy Bottom & Georgetown:
THE WATERGATE HOTEL
& CONFERENCE CENTER,
Just like The Windemere,
Another ****** motel.
**** me! What was I thinking?

Not to mention lack of privacy,
Be it acoustic or visual and,
In one case a veritable DEA bust.
Crack ***** in residence next door,
Cranes her neck around the balcony wall,
A would-be nurse, perhaps,
Offering home hospice &
Concern for your raspy,
***-smoking cough.
Her pox face bursting in on
The long anticipated
Marijuana Miller Time.
On the veranda, early evening,
Lighting up your first joint of the day,
Desperately in need
Of some herbal peace of mind.
Ne c'est pas?
Her big crack-***** head
Giraffes like crazy around the wall,
Invading your balcony space.
*******? Who was that?
Let’s lock the doors.
Let's hunker down for the night,
Taking turns keeping watch,
Like a couple of shitless scared
Grunts of the DMZ.
(Urban Dictionary: scared shitless www.urbandictionary.com/define. Ph?term=scared%20shitlessIt's when you scare someone to such an extent, you scare the **** out of them, at times causing them to excrement all over the vicinity . . .)
The Expedia Review goes on:
Anything interesting about the surrounding area?
Oh, yes, as previously mentioned:
Plenty of crack ******
Strolling the boulevard.


Hey, Windemere Hotel,
*** am I doing in Mesa, Arizona,
Two days shy of the summer solstice,
And 119 degrees?
That's another story.
But for now,
Hey Windemere,
Here’s a tip:
Next time it's total facility makeover time,
Shut the **** hotel, please.
Anderson M Jul 2013
Out and about
Amidst the hustle and bustle
Of ultra-modern cities
Is a phenomenon that escapes my mind’s grasp
Penniless famished hoi polloi huddled together almost in unison
Arms outstretched eking out a living from begging
Pitiful downcast eyes that tell stories untold
A sad sight to behold
Begging the question
Haven’t humankind a shred of tenderness?
The beggars of the 21st century live and dwell in wall-less edifices(the streets)....
Jolan Lade May 2018
Educated people                                          
That think they                                      
Know everything                            
There is a need                          
To know                            
-                                
To them                      
I have                  
A mind      
To blow
I don´t mind, being a little behind
Yenson Nov 2023
Come go and go come
hail, hail, hail us the hoi polloi
united in powerless power we control
creating our delusions to control these delusions
for in witless semblance not substance
we live, act and muck around
dense and blinded is ok

Push pull and pull push
hail, hail, hail us the hoi polloi
ours is to obey as inglorious puppets
in Plato's cave we find our realities in shadows
we donot need the brick of education
for we can make it up as we go
ignorance is bliss innit

By Hoi Polloi for Polloi
hail, the salted fundermentals
herded in prideful dunces' group think
amock in their heads evoking delusions to chase
tell us no truths, tell us lies an fantasies
lead us gladly down garden-paths
for reality is just a dream

Union in union disunited
gainsay faffing faffing around
art for art sake, money for charlathans
paying peanuts to flying monkeys on fools' errand
hey comrades, its all remote control
we manipulate you simpletons
and fool you to believe
you are controling
“The Allegory of the Cave” likely serves as a wake-up call for people to seek the truth and not settle for what they see in front of them as reality and truth. In the allegory, the prisoners in the cave symbolize what our human existence is like if we do not question things and seek the truth.
Robert Ronnow May 2018
I'm dead. Unlike Frost and Yeats
nothing I've said will be remembered.
Unlike Roosevelt and Lincoln
nothing I'm thinking will win the war.

I'm going to go to my grave unsung
like almost everyone. These mountains
are my grave. A good grave
to go to. There's no such thing

as being saved. When you're gone
you're done. At least 60 million
people don't believe it, don't believe
in evolution. Man, that ape,

can heap a peck of hurt posthaste
with earth movers and machine guns.
Information technology
cannot save your soul, heck,

I've tried. Every morning
I total the polloi
coming to my site for wisdom.
The number's usually zero.

A good number to know.
When my heart fibrillates
I lay my head
against my sleeping wife.

Solace, comfort. She says,
Take your pill, fool.
In an hour at most
I'm feeling great again!
www.ronnowpoetry.com
Alan McClure May 2012
The mother of invention lies asleep
and sated yet again beside the fire
It’s no surprise she should so quickly tire
Restrained by offspring turning us to sheep

Our need to overcome, explained, expires
And we , too tired to weep, feign boundless joy
For what we’ve lost and gained - each wretched toy
We keep can strangle resource in its wires

And rendered gutless, idle hoi polloi
we stagger dumbly higher, grinning, keep
believing we could buoy her from her sleep
Ignite her brain, and our minds re-deploy.
Scar Aug 2016
I haven't felt this in a long while
That same old, beautiful teenage rebellion coursing through my twenty year old veins

Remember the grass we'd tread on during days of
Extracurricular activities all hungover and dread locked

Or the Saturday night in late September
When three girls first inched their way toward a mirror
In the thrift store and the coffee shop
Gourds and games and locking ourselves in the car to listen to that rust colored song
Amid the high school hoi Polloi
Three girls, still, getting closer to that mirror

There were books about the body in a Goodwill
About the diseases that afflict our tiny bones
And science hung from a rack while she put on an old mans sweater and fantasized about the death that could have taken place in each stitch

Catholic school boy bonfire
Doing donuts in the field because, well, life is a highway
And can you believe it? She hit her head again
Oh our blonde believer, knocking her brain out of her skull and onto the highway
While our other friends smoked secrets in the woods out past the driveway

When we parted from our dear doe eyed psychopath
And found ourselves a trifecta for the first time in months,
There was only one thing to do -
Admit there were robots among us, chug a beer, and say goodnight
sarah minks Dec 2011
In darkness of early morning
I write
I cannot think of the inspiration I had before
I have no muse today
Neither in man nor daughter as I usually do
Nor mother father sisters or brothers
And wretched is the thought of writing
A prophetic surging poem based upon
The crazed and lazy cat
So I turn to the morning coffee
And the sleeping world  
About to wake
I do not want to fight today
I do not want to hear complaints
Or admonishments
I want to scream
******* IT SHUT UP!
Today is the day before Christmas Eve you fools
Could you for once and for all stop bickering
Could we have peace?
If not on earth in this house
Could we just be excellent to each other
Without having to party on
Dude!
I think I see snow or frost on the roof tops
No such luck on the ground
And the weather guy didn’t sound too hopeful
Dawn is breaking
Soon both brother and lover will emerge
Resulting in a new day
Of grim territorial battle
I tire of this
So glad today I will be with my mother
And the hoi polloi at the swarming mall
Or some such unbearable place
Defined by the teaming masses of morons
Some daft young girl sizing me up
As head of the fashion police
And former captain of the cheerleaders
She and my mother will decide for me
What I would like for Christmas
And so I write
Hoping for the best
Longing for Christmas to be over
Yet still anticipating and anxiously awaiting
With an unwavering hope
That Christmas will bring peace
And joy
And all that Christmas promises Year upon year
I hope , Merry Christmas
annh Oct 2019
Hire purchase, Hewlett-Packard, hand phones and - just maybe - Harry Potter have got nothing on Hello Poetry. A house party of honey pies, head pixies, and horizontal plotters hot piping their harmonic power from Hyde Park to Hunter’s Point, the High Plains to Himachel Pradesh. Household profilers, home porters, health practitioners and - it may be said - the odd human particulate here to engage in high-priority human performance.

P.S. Heart points and historic preservation aside, what the hoi polloi is up with those hit-by-pitch holding patterns, Eliot?

On Friday afternoon I had a conversation:
‘Got much planned for the long weekend?’ asked the checkout operator clicking the tips of her dark lacquered nails together while we waited for the till supervisor.
‘Catching up on some well overdue reading...HP...y’know?’
‘Do I ever! Mind you take a squiz at the small print. Those repayment schedules can be a real killer.’
Needless to say, by Saturday evening I was snorkelling for acronyms.

‘The machinations of ambiguity are among the very roots of poetry.’
- William Empson
.and if we went beyond wonder and wondered where we were
would we bother if we ever got there
together
would we wrap our dreams and tether them to the walls of our longings
in stockings would we walk
into the soft lilting talk of desirious strangers
and be aware of the dangers of
the femme fatale.
Fatal or not I think that's what we got
when we opened the lucky dip
when she tore that strip off you
for the man you could not be
and when she did see you were the man for her
you weren't even there
but were in Germany
building the bijou's they see in glossy magazines
pulled out of the fancy dreams
of the hoi polloi
boy
you didn't see that as you sat in your hightower flat drinking tequila
she served up your head on a platter
to friends who chattered inanities
above the
the lamps and the canopies.

Life is tough I told you so
the woman will know when you've had enough
and stuff you full of her vanity
another profanity on your lips
but it all slips away when you hear her say,
'are you coming to bed dear'
and you know that the end's near.but you cannot decide
between her and the ride
down to hell
Selma Bee Jun 2015
I asked her why she wouldn’t say a word to me
She, as the problem stands, didn’t respond
And so it became my turn to tell her my side.
I now have to tell her how I think she’s being.
Without offending her or making things worse,
I have to be blatant and tell it like it is. Oh joy.

All I have to do is explain how I could understand her
While also telling her what I am really thinking now.
It’s what she asked me to do. I should keep my word.
She doesn’t want people to lie to her anymore.
I never want to lie to her, but this is different.
Maybe that’s why she doesn’t believe me one bit.

I may not be any better than the lot of them.
The whole hoi polloi may have gotten to me, too.
Try as hard as I may to avoid the status quo,
Being one with the crowd may be all I know how to do.
“I’m not your average Joe,” I happily told her once.
Now, like the rest of the masses, I have a big mouth and big ears.

This is exactly the issue at hand to me.
As much as I don’t want to be like the rest of them
I really don’t know what to do to help her out.
She expects me to always be on her side,
And I really always will fight for her, always.
But what happens when hers isn’t necessarily right?

So she looks at me with pleading baby blue eyes
That want me to tell her my true thoughts about everything,
And, believe me, I really want to tell her everything.
But how am I supposed to without breaking down in tears?
This may not be just for her own good. I also will say
Words to her that mean a lot more to me than she’ll ever know.

She may think that I couldn’t know anything about this.
Now is not the time to spring on the stark reality to her.
But doesn’t that mean that I’m, only like the rest of those people,
Holding back from being real with her
Because I’m too afraid to tell her the truth?
How is doing something like that to her justifiable?

Then again, it may not be the worst thing to happen.
I could be honest with her and give her the reality.
Yet, I really don’t want to hurt her anymore than she already is.
However, it would be good for us both if I could do this.
If I could do this one thing for her, everything would be solved.
Or at least I hope that, that’s all it takes for it to happen.

“Listen to me,” I tell her, my voice soft and not very clear.
“What?” she murmurs, barely audible, eyes looking into mine.
“You wanted me to talk to you like anyone else, don’t you?”
She nods at me. “So, here goes nothing, my love.”
Even though I called her love, I don’t think she thinks I mean it.
I inhale a deep breath and look into her eyes, hoping it will go well.

"So, here goes nothing," I tell her, not fully believing myself, either
"You think that you're the only one who's going through something like this?
You think that you're the only one who has felt so much pain?
If you think that's true, at all, then let me know, so I can leave right now.
Because other people out there get it, more than you'd care to admit."
I look at her, realizing that I may have cut too deep. But this, she asked for.

"If you want me to stop, you just have to say so,"
I tell her, knowing that she doesn't have the heart to.
I wish that she would.
Even if just so that I could think she's okay.
But she's nowhere near okay, anyone can see that.
And here I am, trying to force her out of it.

She looks at me, and I try not to see the pain in her eyes
I try to not look at her with pity
I know that she wouldn’t like that one bit.
“I know what it’s like to feel like no one cares about you,
To wish that you could leave the world behind.
But I want you to know that you cannot leave without a trace.”

Staring at each other, she nods, as if to let me know
That it really is all okay, and that I can continue on.
“But if you think for one second that no one will care
Then you are mistaken and you’ll have to deal with that.
And there is no one out there who will tell you that there are people,
People out there, who won’t care. It won’t change a thing.”

Once more, I peer into her eyes and enjoy the long stare.
“If you really want to know what it is like to not be seen,
Then you have to go to the edge of the Earth and stare at the sky.
You’ll have to watch the world pass you by.
But I don’t recommend it.” I stop and wait for a response.
As though it was planned, we both begin to cry.

“So, there will be people who don’t care about you at all.
So, there will be things that you can never undo, no matter how hard you try.
And, you know what, don’t say that no one will love you or care.
That’s ******* and you know it. I will always care about you.
If you think that you’re allowed to leave me,
Then think again, because I do not go down without a fight.”

Her lips open and I am ready for her to scream back at me.
She could, she should. I know that I deserve it.
But she does little more than talk about a whisper.
“You think that it’s easy to walk around, wanting to die?
If anyone understood, then everything would be different.
There’s no one that I can talk to. They all say the same things.

And don’t tell me that you’re different.
Sure, you’ll admit that people may not miss me,
But does that really make a difference,
In the grand scheme of things?
Because I don’t think that it makes things change at all.”
So I now have to respond to this poor, lonely girl.

“All I know is that some people are going to bring you down
And some people will never care that they are.
I know that you cannot allow that to destroy you.
You cannot allow that to drag you way, way down.”
So I look at her, tears in both our eyes.
And as I walk away, I swear I heard her say “goodbye.”
Third Eye Candy Jul 2018
You can be polite. Or you can tell all the Julia’s in the world the things you think about when they’re talking to You.  You could just…  Start. Talking.  It would be delicious and taboo and all that, and maybe a little awkward for all the Julia’s but the mainest thing… It would be impossible to ever. give. a ****. ever. again. You Know This. You Know It Like you Know how many bottles of champagne it takes to even Begin to be enough champagne. This skill is highly prized. And you can DO this. You can do this Sophia. Right here. Right now. You can - tch. You’re not even listening to me, are you?  That is awesome.
    I can see it all now… one, two maybe five Julia’s all yapping away in a Vera **** pincer formation and then….! You open your mouth. The stars fall. The Julia’s are like “ What the-? “ and you, Sophia… Drowning the Gallery. Using all the colors you discovered on your expeditions. A Rainbow made of Lions. I can see it. And you can DO this. You can do this Sophia Conasta. Right here. Right now. You can even begin with a… You’re not even listening to me, are you? My God! you’re beautiful.
Like a bomb that uses a fork because ground zero was no place be Un-Civilized. In fact. Ground Zero wasn’t even a Place until you got there. And let your Self, drop! I mean to say…. You can be polite. Or. You can be Sophia being sophia. period. There’s a lot of tuxedos at this Event, have you noticed that? When did they come back? And why lord! do they all look terrible?
    How long have I been gone? What the hell is Julia talking about now? That’s Leonard Maxwell and his assistant, April Alcott.  She burns money to watch it burn-Ironically, but she’s not sure if she’s doing it right because if it Meant Anything in the first place, she would be first to have no clue what it meant. So now she nails it, but never gets a prize. She bought a lot of my dark stuff from 5 yrs ago that paid for the flat in Portland. What the hell is she wearing? A rhinestone baby Jesus tongue stud? I love these parties. I hate these parties. I’m Sophia Conasta. Celebrated Artist whose Body of Work has astonished the Hoi Polloi of the Art World, and totally lost right now.
     What is Julia’s problem? Did she lose a Horse? Again? Somehow?Or Something? Open Bars Are Go! I’ll just weave my way over to the Gayest Cabal and Julia will be scraped off like a Barnacle* By GUCCI, and then I’ll be clearly Minus One Julia. That can only be a good thing. And - Open Bar. Breathe, Drink
Genius.

.
Stephen Gospage Aug 2018
The country’s broke, but we don't care;
There's opportunity out there
For the savvy billionaire.
But not for you, mate, not for you.

There is no deal, but what the hell?
For our gang things are going swell;
We have high-margin stocks to sell.
But you don't, mate, you don't.

Chaos reigns, but we won't worry.
We shift fortunes in a hurry;
Buy up mansions down in Surrey.
But you won't, mate, you won't.

Cliff edge? We take it in our stride.
We pick advisers trained to hide
Our dodgy money on the side.
But you can’t, mate, you can’t.

Our stooges in the gutter press,
Who helped to bring about this mess,
Will benefit from our largesse.
Unlike you, mate, unlike you.

The well-placed Lord, the Eton boy,
Are weapons which we will deploy
To keep at bay the hoi polloi.
That means you, mate; that means you.
Mary Pear Sep 2016
I do have a boat.
A poor  leaky thing it is
With a wonky rudder
And a quivering sail.
In fair weather it takes me where I want to go,
But when the storm breaks
I cling to the mast, rising to the crest of each new wave
And plummeting to the depths
To arrive in a new place with the lull.

One morning I heard a glorious song;
A full throated trilling
With the sweetest falling note.
I searched the trees and found a robin
Engulfed by the song;
His whole body puffing and swelling with each note.
His tiny beak seemed inadequate
For such piercing purity.
He was abandoned to the sound that occupied his tiny frame
And seemed to come not of him, but through him.
Then it ceased.

Great ships pass by
With engines that cut through the waves leaving white-tipped furrows,
All barren ploughing; no wind in their sails, but engines powering
Relentlessly forward
And back across the waves
With souls oblivious to the mighty mountains and the
Dreadful depths.

Cut through, forge forward to more ocean
Or more of the same.
Over the top go the great ships
Like  grand dams brushing away
The hoi polloi.
A flurry of exquisite cut and sparkling ore
Sweeping through
But surface dusting only.
No highs and lows, no bobbing,
No clinging to the mast
No robin.
Just a garden variety generic wordsmith
teasing out reasonable rhyme courtesy ploy;
self plagiarizing boot juiced barely abiding
by ruff dogma, with enigmatic joie
de vivre charisma,
which oft times witnessed
gentle green giant gentile goy
essentially me being a decoy
occasionally rocketing, outsourcing,
kickstarting, feigning
tubby an Anchorite, ahoy!

Life in the K9 corps
ain't so doggone ease zee
absolutely daunting, hence
lemme share with ye
haunting, and unnerving, the whee
kid nasty, short, and brutish
ways, and truth be told,
I would rather be outwardly
hidebound, gagged, and flagellated
(threatened tubby slowly

strangled to death by bonafide vee
numb muss snakes, yours truly
screaming ****** ******,
viper esse scent chilly resembling
caduceus), and/or re:
peat head lee bitten
(till death do us part)
by vampire (weekend) bats pre
dominant lee inhabiting
spooky attic, nee

above cattle crying
abattoir, bovines bull heave -
meeting grisly demise, where prowling
hoodlums - vicious murderous electric
kool aid acid tested gang
infesting mean streets -
viz hit head hay be us corpse lee
ving shot up desolation
(think skidrow) role much
more blood curdling, key
ping adrenaline heart pounding,

and sweat pouring directive hee
ping helplessness 'specially,
when this gree
gear re: us macho foo fighter,
accompanied by my grateful
dead cutting crew - on free
key Friday the 13th
assigned directive to man
the most crime ridden, and be
dev filled violent bailiwick,
donning head to toe
bulletproof suit vests.

Nevertheless, yours truly fraught with
horrendously extreme
difficulty, and more
challenging, enduring, and grueling
than surviving training
undertaking associated
with elite military clique,
and attendant rightfully
earned linkedin prestige
joining: Raiders of United
States Marine Corp,
Green Berets United States Army
Special Forces, or Navy Seals.
The jar is mostly empty -
Firm packed words and phrases
Taken handfuls at a time
And flung at parchment and the world

They did not boomerang to fill the void
Replenishing what was taken.  

The clotheslines of the hoi-polloi
Are burdened with the excess,
Straining in the winds of nonchalance
Exhibiting the lack of contemplation.

Do the thoughts that ride those words
Accept that they will blow away like dust.
         ljm
Still struggling to recover the vocabuary the stroke took away.
Rahama May 2018
I don't watch the news on TV;
Or listen to it on the radio.
I skip it in my timeline;
I hide it from my mail.
I don't read the newspaper;
I don't listen to the gossip.
I shut my eyes and ears;
Because all news is bad news.

Last time I checked;
There was an earthquake -
Lives were lost;
Properties were destroyed.
Last time I checked;
The war was raging -
The greed of men blinded;
Their conscience and humanity.
Last time I checked;
Racialism was still salient -
Discrimination everywhere you turn;
Dark-skinned  hoi polloi screaming "BLACK LIVES MATTER."
But does it?
Does it really?
Because last time I checked;
Dark-skinned citizens were being stopped and harassed;
By the light-skinned citizens in the force;
And light-skinned citizens were being scammed and;
Bullied on the internet by dark-skinned citizens without jobs.

I don't want to be aware of everything; That is wrong;
With the government;
With the citizens;
With the economy​.
I don't want to know if corruption;
Still lives in our system.
I don't want to know if nepotism;
Is still the order of the day;
In our offices,
And our government.

What's wrong with not wanting to watch;
Or read;
Or listen to the news?
What's wrong with not wanting to see;
The degradation;
Discrimination and;
Death of my fellow human beings.

I have a heart and weak it is;
It cannot bear to see these things.
Out of sight,
Out of mind.
Right?
RIGHT???

I'm not ready to be hurt;
So I shut my eyes and ears;
To all the happenings in the world.
I wrote this poem because people seem to think it's weird that I don't like watching the news. Here I give some of my reasons for that. Thank you for reading
Chris Peers May 2017
Men with guns have always come from some poor mothers womb,
they were innocent kids who once played happily in their yards,
with no aspirations and yet to be tarnished by the world,
learning an obfuscated version of truth in the classroom.

Leaders of men are born out of society's frustration,
innocent boys can become greedy and power crazed men,
fulfilling the naive and unthinking of their desire to be governed,
carrying on with their heedless lives with a strange infatuation.

Killers in our streets and in countries they've never heard of,
innocence becomes tainted and men become idealists,
radicalized and propagandized by political media and religious authority,
killers killing men, women and children, they know nothing of universal love.

Men putting on costumes and killing people who are different,
blindly following orders and fighting for freedom and democracy,
massive bombs in the desert, people blown apart at a million dollars a head,
soldiers on the ground who can barely pay the rent.

Democracy and freedom mere buzzwords of selfish and ignorant patriots,
with many being intolerant, xenophobic and racist proudly waving a national flag,
and two faced Christians preaching love on Sunday and glorifying in death on Monday,
agent provocateurs infiltrate peaceful demonstrations, turning them into law breaking riots.  

Suits in congress and the White House determining lives and futures,
safe in their ivory towers and positions of imagined power,
we should put these policy makers on the front line and watch them cower,
and there's cowards in uniform who ****** and slaughter from behind computers.

The men behind the curtain orchestrate their agenda thru their chosen leader,
puppet masters and policy makers free from liability and accountability,
narcissists and psychotics giving a voice from the unelected and unseen,
the hoi polloi are regarded as expendable and merely unnecessary breeders.

Every ten years or so, a new boogeyman comes out to scare,
leaders of the governed make promises to keep them safe,
slowly eroding rights and tightening up national borders,
spending trillions on warfare and hardly a dime on welfare.

True terror is understanding what this world is all about,
innocent eyes only see the superficial beauty of this world,
while experienced eyes see the ugliness that is within,
all around the world people are screaming to be let out.

Self serving leaders look to expand their temporary empires of artificial riches,
utilizing its armed to the teeth military to ****** unarmed innocents abroad,
destroying histories and cultures and replacing them with expanding organisations,
replacing middle eastern infrastructures with emphasis on profit using slave *******.

The people police themselves and have become willing citizens of self induced manipulation,
there's a kind of mass Stockholm Syndrome of the patriotic citizens of so called free countries,
defending their leaders selfish decisions while wanting a share of the spoils of war,
the founding fathers must be turning in their graves as selfish greed has withered a once great nation.

Children made orphans and mothers made widows by far off decisions,
the enlightened ones break it down and see it as people killing people,
a general or a warlord has got to be king of his small patch of grass,
while the apathetic watch the carnage safely in front of their televisions.

We now live in a society that openly assails the critical and free minded intellectual,
people hiding behind their comforting lies and crying like a baby over inconvenient truths,
political correctness and the nanny state providing a *** to suckle saying you're safe with us,
while the millennials despise being labeled or judged and to be recognized as asexual.

The world is divided by nefarious political parties promoting freedom and choice,
setting up media outlets to emphasize their disapproval of the opposing parties stance,
while behind closed doors of power and influence, they are prostituted bedfellows,
slowly suffocating the rights of the people who still believe they have a voice.

Political and religious words echo in the minds of the patriotic and faithful,
empty promises made with a smile that satiate and calm the masses,
the wise and the skeptical see thru disingenuous rhetoric with clarity,
watching them on soap boxes and pulpits, they should be shameful.
PS Nov 2018
I still can’t find the words
Because, perhaps, a part of me feels
That you’ll look at me like I have ten heads
If I say how I cannot heal.

Perhaps I don’t want to heal at all,
Now I am a vulnerable, scorned thing.
The looks of realisation passing over their faces
As I tell my sorry story, my frightening fabula.

The tale of poppies and lilies and
The coldest winter I have ever known.
I was skin and bone with a ******* coat
And I didn’t like who it was that I was.

The tale of glassy eyes and cold ones
And throwing yourself at me
The tale of black and white pudding
Of Brett Ashley and Daisy Buchanan
Of ostentatiousness unrivalled.

I still can’t find the words
I’m angry, sad, tearful in public alone
Confused and bewildered.
Is that how you love someone?
Or claim that you do?

Is that the ‘nice thing’ you’re holding back?
Is that the swivelling chair or the casting couch?
Is that why I cannot seem to get over it?
Not over you, it.

And you say you weren’t well at the time.
I supposed we were both stuck clinging to each other
To broken to move away, to scared to be alone.
But no, this isn’t an excuse.

I still can’t put it into words
How profoundly odd I feel these days
You didn’t hurt me but you hurt me
And all I can see if your smirking face.
‘Calm down, you’re gorgeous.’

Oh, I could hate a hurt like that.
My sorry story, fantastic fabulam
Is it too posh if I speak outside English?
Why do you care? You knew who I was.
You know who I am.
You know.

And I’ll bet you also can’t find the words
So you hide behind cheap drinks and albums
And everything scummy because you despise who it is that you are.
Hoi polloi, the common man.
Whatever ‘common people do.’

I still can’t put it into words
And I don’t want to.
It’s too complex and I don’t have the energy to tell a story
To tell the world of the war I won
The hollow victory, the end of our empire.
Red lips, red boots, silver shoes.
Go to sleep, it’s over now.
Pretty sure I can’t speak Latin but who cares?
Bob B Oct 2016
Hold on tight! Weather the storm!
Don't let troubles disempower you.
Keep your focus. Stay the course.
Beware of sharks that try to devour you.

Let not the torrents of tempestuous talk
Affect your ability to maintain control.
Don't be driven off course by winds
Of hatred. Keep your eyes on the goal.

Be not distracted by waves of abuse
That brutally beat against your bow
And threaten to end your inspired journey
With powerful force upon your prow.

Ride the waves--the ups, the downs,
The forwards, the backs, the lefts, the rights.
Let your inner strength and stamina
Navigate you through starless nights.

Do not crash into fellow ships
Also caught in the stormy sea.
Watch out for damaging attacks and assaults
Surrounding you in the floating debris.

Beware of pirates; they're out there waiting
To stalk and steal, damage and destroy.
Protect yourself to further protect
The needs of the struggling hoi polloi.

Storms will come and storms will go;
Maintain vigilant command of your ship.
The ocean is a capricious host;
There's NO guarantee of a storm-free trip.

Therefore, be sure to hold on tight!
Though nights are dark and days are gray,
And though your ship is tossed at sea,
Safe harbor is not far away.

- by Bob B
and if we went beyond wonder and
wondered where we were
would we bother if we ever got there
together,
would we wrap our dreams and tether
them to the walls of our longings
in stockings would we walk
into the soft lilting talk of desirious strangers
and be aware of the dangers of
the femme fatale.

Fatal or not I think that's what we got
when we opened the lucky dip
when she tore that strip off you
for the man you could not be
and when she did see you were the man for her
you weren't even there
but were in Germany
building the bijou's they see in glossy magazines
pulled out of the fancy dreams
of the hoi polloi
boy
you didn't see that as you sat in your hightower flat drinking tequila
she served up your head on a platter
to friends who chattered inanities
above the
the lamps and the canopies.

Life is tough I told you so
the woman will know when you've had enough
and stuff you full of her vanity
another profanity on your lips
but it all slips away when you hear her say,
'are you coming to bed dear'
and you know that the end's near.but you cannot decide
between her and the ride
down to hell
Courtesy of Marx (albeit Zeppo,
Harpo, Groucho, and Chico), whose
acts (along Seuss iz Zacks Fifth
Avenue) brought generations of
laughter to Vaudeville, and then
the Silver Screen adlibbed, linkedin,
and ransacked skits zoid material
Bing very loosely based on his best
known writings (Oh *** Yet Of The

Masses) by Karl Marx (no relation
to Bros Grin), and Friedrich Engels
whar they **** instrumental qua
Cingular Capitalone political philosophy
paradigm as spit, and (shoe) shining,
seducing, and salivating players trans

formed Msn Netzero Linkedin Petsmart
Aleck outlook and pinterest, when their
collective insight did cents how masses
(i.e. bourgeois) took a rakish (otherwise)
up standing Norwegian bachelor farmer
for comic relief to break monotony of
agrarian obligations, and serve up one

heaping healthy portion per production,
sans whatever whims would crop
up by infusing thespian showdown
incorporating commune nic cache shun
(disproportionate) app peals studded terrain
with locked havens avast re shtetl ment.

Hoi Polloi re: common folk in sore need
of distraction and belief in a brighter side
of life, than saliva dehydrating brute nose
to the grindstone pathetic existence, yoked
as oxen to plows, where plodding tattered

shod feet scraped a pencil thin line, whence,
seeds sprinkled into futile ruts forecast angry
birds to shutterfly, twittering like bada$$
beastie boys Dharma bumming while On
The Tyellow Brick Road.

Inn ascent bystanders avian avatars initially
supposedly sprung from ergot, mushroom
and/or **** spores, whereas the myth of
one mortal idol (Matthew Scott Harris) did
rival Vladimir Ilich (frequently corrupted into

I gotta n itch) Lenin, where alien archeologists
from outer limits of the twilight zone unearthed
(com) bust stubble rubble yes likeness of Guy
Richie Rich Noir, whose couture, the best skid
row wardrobe.

He sported longish wavy (fluffy when washed
once every fort McHenry night), which character
wrist ticks evoked Chaplinesque down on his
luck Dickensian doddering dude, who cast an

immediate vagabond er dishabille, he happened
to be plenti none the poorer and ranked near
top Facebook listing of Forbes Plenty Of Fish
list, and whose trivial pursuit with flickr ring
idea to GoLong.

As a poet by fashioning his adversity into discord
ant clumps of clichés, facsimiles, idiomatic limply
mixed metaphors in a per verse manner reflecting a
discombobulated egghead delivered an ova night
fashionable fame, though syrup prize zing lee met
with profound success, and bore fruit of the loom

(one of his countless “FAKE” offspring’s begotten
unbeknownst to him iz this schlepper) constitutes
this blimey dorky and fluky guy, whose weakness
when communicating about extemporaneously usually
leaves the reader like totally tubularly confused like
ha cool and totally tubularly groovy man.
Lifeblood of democracy hemorrhaging
ousting the "FAKE" president only recourse
to staunch impending grim demise,
since forefathers drafted
United States Constitution
ratified more'n two centuries ago

hoi polloi must take to the streets
denouncing severe curtailment
impinging sacred freedom of speech
linkedin with paramount bedrock provision
accessing unvarnished flint ****** "truth,"
nonetheless commander in chief

he quakingly, staunchly, vociferously...
excoriates, lacerates, repudiates...
one damning hermetically sealed,
iniquitous airtight, vacuum packed
flagrant misuse of power,
(not to mention nepotism)

invidious, insidious, injurious... infractions
incontestable, incontrovertible, contemptible...
significant melange in führer
re: hating deplorably
crooked basely barren
factual exposé after another,

deft correspondents all not quiet
along western front
(I heard Maria - mull remark)
bring "to light" execrable,
lamentable reprehensible...
gross transgressions

commander in chief
significantly overstepped
Pulitzer prize winning
prestigious storied publications
scathingly trounced, pillaried,
lambasted, insulted, denounced,

butchered, critiqued, demonized,
fricassed, gored, humiliated,...
pummeled, quartered, reviled
courageously expounding fiend
ensconced within his Taj Mahal

impregnable donjon, whereat he trumpets
laurels asper, nonpareil administration
laying groundless accusations
baring his white fangs,
twittering, naysaying, mocking.. supreme
renown gifted by "honest Abe"

recalcitrant commander in chief,
who refutes objectionable
dogged investigative journalism
every step of the way,
where dedicated news gatherers
risk life and limb

firing line reportage troopers
ferreting (foxlike) he/she
doth gopher precious nuggets
uncover alarming undisputable details
impossible to refute raw bits
agent provocateur freely colluding

immediately hashtashed poppycock
smarmy, snooty, snappy
beastly capital one ogre
blatantly castigating diligent endeavors
oblivious pie in sky
delusional egotistic haughtiness
bobblehead vilified by silent majority.

— The End —