Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
WhyamIaSpoon Jan 2012
My auspicious and audacious assault augments the annoyance of aged accomplices.

My bodacious broadside of boffolas berates and buffaloes bros beneficently.

A classy crusade Clownishly chiseling and criticizing childishness.

A devilish ******* of dillydallying dullards; devoutly denying dimwits the dulcet dream of defiance.

Excessive, exuberant edification, ebulliently eliminating education-evictees.

A fair-weather frolic in flippancy with furious fools floundering in flawed foppishness.

Gregariously grating glum guys gleefully, growing grander garnishes of gripping gallantry gaily.

Heckling hooligans highlights my heavenly humor.

Irreverently irking irritable, iniquitous idiots in inestimably infuriating and incredible instances.

A jolly, jocular **** joking with jerks.

A kreiger kicking kleptomaniacs in the karyotype. (Cut me some slack, this is 'k', after all.)

A ludicrous, laughing lambaste of lollygagging lunatics, loftily loosing luscious lunacy on lucky losers.

A magnificent masterpiece of malfeasance, a monstrous, malevolent mission of massive misfortune for the minor minors missing no malicious missive.

A noxious, narcissistic niggling of nitwits, niftily nixing the noisome naivete of niggardly nobs.

An offhand, off-color outburst of outlandish observations to outclass the obnoxious overtures of obsequious offal.

A pragmatic prediction of possible platitudes or platypi, a placid parley of pyrotechnic pleasantries provoking Pyrrhic protections by prurient prats.

A quixotic quibble quarreling with a queer quarry.

Ribald ribbing, ruining the robust reality of the repreachful, repugnant, and rapacious with risque ridiculousness.

A silly, slighting slander of sluglike slavishness, succinctly sinking sloppy simpletons sourly.

Tracing the titillating talent of towing tyranny to towering terrors to tactless, togless, terrapins of the times.
James Hill Apr 2015
Some people might not accept it
But don't you accept that
Any homophobes are just brainless prats
It's not our fault we are different
And define different anyway
Because it really doesn't matter if your lesbian or gay
Ignore any insults that come your way
Because the hate is a plate and the person is a tray
So knock that tray over and let them clean up the mess
And remember just because you love more doesn't make you any less
Pearson Bolt Jan 2017
in school they told me to keep politics and cursing
out of my poetry. from elementary education
to post-graduate work at the university,
no one really cared to teach me how to write.
certainly not the pretentious prats
who'd somehow forgotten
our words are swords
in the flesh of the State.

they told us flowery metaphors
were welcome, but critiques of the systems
that would eradicate flowers from planet earth
were choked by the weeds
of existential philosophies,
too much
for the average reader
to comprehend.

i was taught to keep polysyllabic words like "neoliberalism,"
"xenophobia,"
and "corporatocracy"
out of rhythmic verse
because the bourgeoise
want to read something ****.

witness the revolt of the proletariat.
i'm embracing a literacy
anointed in Angela y Davis's legacy,
"i am changing the things i cannot accept."
i'll fight like hell and bleed
the imagery from every stanza
if that's what it takes to show
that all art is always already resistance.

to be an anarchist
in the twenty-first century
is to refute practically every vestige
of contemporary society.
to embrace paradoxes and be skeptical,
practicing critique, an endeavor
Foucault termed "reflective indocility."
liberty and equity in equal measures,
an individual amidst a community.
hopeless, but still fighting.

the answer to the ills afflicting us
are available if we avail ourselves
immediately, parting ways
like divorcees,
finally severing all ties
with this American sham
of false democracy.

the answer is neither on the left
nor the right. we've peeked behind the scenes
and seen the corporate-state is held
on a short leash by the oligarchy,
bound and gagged, nothing but a plaything
satisfying the master-slave binary.

if we're to triumph over the bigotry
rising like seas bloodied by refugees
fleeing the endless wars the U.S. has instigated,
we'll have to get creative again.
dare to dream utopically, living
as if we're already free,
seeking liberty, equality, and solidarity.

so consider this a manifesto of sorts:
until i go to greet death as an old friend,
happily released from daily suffering,
i'll sit at my typewriter and bleed
for the least of these,
then climb to my feet and fight
to take back the ******* streets.
Tash Street Nov 2010
“Dear Lab,” started the angrily worded poem,



“We’ve put up with shenanigans and outrage and prats

And unfair bannings from you little rats.

We put up with no codes (quote) for our protection

And through it all you maintained our affection.



Now along you slither with your fancy new forum

And ask our opinion - just to maintain decorum -

but of our gentle requests: you deplore ‘em

Then leave all the mess to the red coated quorum.


pfft - Lab notified."
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
it's called the preliminary poem,
you can imagine why - all those godforsaken
years of the serf, the carpenter
the fisherman and all the other trades being
kept in the dark for the priestly monopoly
of literacy, the genetics kick in
and you're not exactly quick to care for
all the castles and labyrinths that Victorian
universal education gave to all -
was it Victorian what with child labour?
post-Victorian then, thank you Charles Dickens
(i have his entire collection in hardback,
old stinkers of books, edition date 1850,
the Gresham publishing company, 34 & 35
Southampton Street, Strand, London
,
i probably will not read any of them,
love of honesty, never aspired to get involved
in English novelties, esp. novels,
never pictured myself having an English
sensibility to read such murk of verbiage -
am i all the better for it? i don't know & i
don't care, novels aren't really my thing);
what i'm saying is that spending an entire day
looking at things, and so much colour attained
by them or synthetically attributed to them
i tend to drink a little to get me all groovy hot
and concentrate my thinking on symbols,
encryptions, when i'm watching the Olympics
i'm usually stunted in my vocabulary,
quiet literally a couch potato in terms of commentary,
that's how bad it becomes, but i know, deep down,
that there's an escape route that wouldn't
be available to me if i were alive in the preceding
centuries prior to the 20th... all these labyrinths
would have to be enshrined in the hearts of others,
to create meaningful relationships, professional
and private... not anymore... i have been access to
a realm of once the highest form of repression,
where i would end up writing an algebraic unit
to denote some sort of agreement and subsequent
duty to be faithful to it, like a conscript to a war, X,
treasure ******* island with Robinson Crusoe,
but not any more... sure, i'll drink a whole bottle
of whiskey like an off-duty surgeon,
but i need the preliminary poem, something to fire-up
the areas of the brain where all this knowledge is
stashed in... by the time this poem is finished
my brain will have morphed the labyrinth -
by simply looking at books passively, or by reading
is no actual provision for what the encryption utilises
in terms of dynamic, in the library of libraries,
on the throne of thrones (the toilet) you can read a passage
and get no simulation, why? one hand holds the book,
and the index-thumb pinch to flick the page is all that's
used, when you write... both hands are used,
equally, and you're working from the perspective of
a blank, and you're having to remember
the whole, and the fractions when doing the brick-work
layering - the true drinking poems akin to
the drunk Japanese haiku in ensō form come much
later, once enough barley is consumed...
but apart from finally using the encryption γ (or
the Υ-γ - bewildering how they didn't put those two
together... instead we have Γ-υ - just wondering, because
of tau - strain the monopoly long enough, and some
bright-spark comes along and says: huh? you kept
the monopoly by deliberately confusing people? makes
sense that you kept your power for so long) -
or the γ (gamma) encryption, derived from what's otherwise
known as the alphabet, just a fancy name for
encoding sounds and not giving a donkey's piñata^
bashing of the *******, basically
^pinyata - that's how you say the ñ.
you have to admit, deciphering diacritical marks has its
benefits, not using the bogus linguistic method of upside-down
e or nu (ν / v) or whatever those educated prats are using;
but the truth is about what spurred me on, for one it was
last night, i forgot my tactic, i didn't write a sober poem,
the preliminary poem, and when that happens,
and i'm not doing a warm-up poem of the above mentioned
reasons i barely write... religiously inspired poems always
give me a downer the next day, it's just their ridiculousness,
i mean, if i had to argue with some religiously inspired
adherent to religious works i'd be no match,
what having read an X number of books while having to argue
with someone who'd **** you after reading 1...
it's debilitating... you always have to imagine the religious
adherent's superiority on the matter of just 1 book
rather than a literary rainbow... you can't win...
but i guess what you can say is, something like:
so with the drug laws... you trying to tell me you'll be
happy for an L.S.D. trip when the "saviour" comes back?
you into spiking everyone's day-to-day grime
by considering an en masse L.S.D. trip? might as well
drop a date-**** pill into their drinks after that...
i know the effect of that, getting ****** throughout
a day, a few meatheads at a club punching that
arcade version of a boxing match, an open bottle
of beer on the bar counter, like an idiot i drank it...
next thing i know i'm walking with a pavement slab
in my hands trying to keep the gravity momentum while
the whole world around me is spinning into a dumb
crazy version of an equestrian competition, not with
horses but with elephants... elephants doing pirouettes
and then sneezing some accompaniment to the music
with their trunks pretending to be Miles Davis -
those ******* pills are a blimmin' ******,
never pick up an opened bottle of beer, however
sweet it looks to "get one on the house"... then again,
some girl could have picked it up...
all i ended up doing was walking home with a pavement
slab between my hands and a horrible hangover
the next day - oh yeah, about the L.S.D. / second coming...
you think that the whole: kneel before me
and i'll give you all the kingdoms of the world
matters in India... or China and the entire far east...
let's just suppose it will happen,
i can just imagine a sanity dome over that region
(more than a third of the world's population)
being inserted over them when all those
Christ sniffers get ready for a mental **** with bright
colours and god knows what care for the everyday
working ethic to follow: i'm guessing mass suicide
to skip the queue of middle and old age.
epictails Aug 2015
#18
I am wine in a jack-in-a-box cellar
Wonderlands, neverlands propelling in a boomerang war
Exalting stubborn as weeds in the gardens of well-tended graves
As far off as the most withered waves

I'll drop my roses of singularity
And let the world leap topsy turvy


Eyes turned upside down like folded floral peels before a fallen angel
Rubbing errant pointed brushes against an airy easel
The teapots are now dancing round rainbow tornadoes
Clocks reverse themselves in a scourge of a prose

I'll drop my roses of singularity
And let the world leap topsy turvy


Singing horses dallying kings and queens with whips of cod
Skinny, scorned nutcrackers lolly gagging for a later maraud
Spoons racing Jack and Jill down a spiny valley of prats
I'd shut them off, they come alive with vicious spats

I'll drop my roses of singularity
And let the world leap topsy turvy


My trappings with all things mad
Wafted me ajar a silvery smoke of sad
I breathe the clouds of my helter skelter
As if in every catatonic whir it flutters rises an answer

*I'll drop my roses of singularity
And let the world leap topsy turvy
Yasss jfc finished it huhu. A decent poem for me after many days huhu.
Josh Hall Mar 2014
I was writing all down what was written before,
Writing down prats,
Writing down ******.
When I stumbled upon an array of deceit,
It was a trap,
They took my journal from me.
I smiled.
No one will ever find their bodies.
Bailey! What do I do?? I can't find it! @Kittytheemoprincess.
Posh shows her baby to the **** press
Gaga gets out her milky white *******
and all I think is of the new world
we are so ****** *******

As time resist saying no no
we push it aside for here we go
they pay more for a football player
then charities seeking world peace

This is the justice of the modern age
maybe I will be the same, be a total Runt
pray to God saying none should survive
all on this backward world should die

This world is full of *** holes and prats
it's November but the turkey is getting fat
yet children in 3rd world sh*t holes
will just be starving with no Christmas cheer

The puritanical plastic smiles on news updates
they will say with the Devil in their eyes
happy Christmas you mug proletarians
as they look at a black lens, thinking it your face

One by one my kind will wake you
look deep into your eyes to see if you care
but I know what will come of it
there will be death everywhere

Shove the whole lot on a big red bus
the biggest bus in the world
and burn it, burn it out
till all the cankerous sores have been rid of

Christmas is coming
the goose is a *****
and the angels of death
will be knocking at your door


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris

© 2011 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Emma Mariano Apr 2017
The cold is razor sharp, but my knife cuts deeper still.
As sinews rip apart, my future bends anew.

They may call it crime, but who are they to judge?
It’s a fight to stay alive, and it’s worth a sacrifice.

As every light goes out, I whistle my way home
My spirit is resolved. This tragedy none will solve.

The next day in my flat, as I count my newfound wealth,
I laugh at all the prats dressed head to toe in black.

It fills my heart with glee when a summons finds my door
The court must find guilt of one oddly resembling me.

Those fools with the wigs run their mouths for days and nights,
Presenting “facts” and defendant's “rights” while common sense they lack.

For quite some time I sit content while no one dares suspect.
But mad disease starts to infect when I see how that poor man still pleads...

As trials drone on for weeks lacking release,
I feel myself slip into something like grief-

I’m weak at the seams whenever I sleep,
the ghosts of my victims haunt every dream.

When judgment is cast, I don’t make a sound,
all is rustling of paper and staring at ground.

“Confess,” breathes a demon, my soul harrows in fear.
But frozen I’m found
As the gavel
Comes
Down.
Inspired by *Crime and Punishment* by Fyodor Dostoevsky.
Ethan S Jan 2020
Teasing danger
Playing god with snow globes
I’ll shake up your world
But I’ll never let go

In-between flag poles
Stubbornly un-sovereign
From the nation whose working class chose
To vote for an elitist dictatorship unopposed

Scraping by stitching smiles on lampposts
Plastering hope on a news feed
Raising our lighters to false hopes
To again see in the press our democratic right the **** of the joke

Keep in your lane
Stay in your estates
Someone else is always to blame
For the last 10 years of mistakes

Governed by Snakes in suits
Bowing to rats in boots
Saluted by prats in robes
Voted in by tw*ts who chose
That they’re who knows what’s best for normal humans.
Yenson Aug 2021
You devote twenty four seven
craving my attention
you're hooked line and sinker
cause I'm worth it
but you all just have to accept
you are of no benefits
I do understand insignificance
crave attention
want it so they can feel a smidgen
of some sort of power
even if its counter-productive
or just an illusion
its the nature of the vain beast
to snarl and bare teeth
its the threatened cat arching
its furry back
its the gorilla beating its chest
letting out a howl
its the bantam cockerel puffing up
coloured feathers
its average Joe clutching ballot
papers at elections
its you and you playing imaginary
chess to hide your fears
you see I do understand your plights
see your pains and angsts
but you do not engage my attention
twenty four seven
you are first world indulgent prats
spoilt vacuous nonentities  
with more idle time than good senses
full of tantrums and fury
signifying nothing but your ignorance
and feeble spines
only when I'm bored and want some
laugh and to take the ****
do I take a peep to see what kidadults
are throwing out of the bathwater
ahh..sob sob, Look its Philips, he called
us lazy lowlife thieves
he told us to go and get jobs and earn
an honest living
but look he has everything we don't have
and he's black with a silver spoon
Ahh,,,big ignorant babies do stop crying
we'll  get Red Big Brother to
smack the hell out of Philips to teach him
a lesson he'll never forget
will that make you stop crying and stamping
your poor little feet....

— The End —