Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The curtain on the
CPAC convocation rolls back,

as the revolution
in Tahrir Square boils.

America’s theater
of deadly political

absurdity commences;
to witness demagogues

recite holy scripture to
evangelize a religion of war.

A heavily invested
audience marvels

at the marionettes
pirouetting on strings

jigged along by hands
of invisible puppet-masters

donning dark masks of
clever 503C llcs

disguised in self serving
hues of red, white and blue.

This grand folly of masquers
conceals a fatal pantomime,

a cast of reactionary characters,
Neo-Conmen auditioning for

the leading role in a lurid play
of a deadly nation projecting
a dying imperial preeminence.

The martinets engage zero
sum games where the victor
belongs to the despoilers,

and the merchants of death
richly confer multimillion dollar
reasons for being, underwriting
the gilded egos of candidates

and their infatuation with the
vanity of feigned power.

These master rhetoricians
skillfully lather up the crowd

by pandering to basest
xenophobic nationalist
instincts and fantasies
of laissez-faire proclivities.  

Slathering on the partisan
pretense in layers so thick

a master chef, armed
with the sharpest Ginsu Knife

couldn't slice a hock tip
of blood red meat

hurled into the crowd of
gobbling Republicons

howling and yodeling
it’s derisive acclaim.

The rankled party line,
gibberish talking points

are hammer blows of
incessant propaganda,

so cocksure that any room for
doubt is crowded out by the

phantasmagorical McMansions
of hyperbole they ***** in

the pliant minds of their
gibbering minions.

The candidates preening for
president show off their

falangist affectations
in eager duels of oratorical

one upmanship; constantly
jockeying to outflank their

other Neo-Conmen opponents,
always concluding their brutish

diatribes with a solemn
denouement of a Republicon

psalm ending with a
Holy Hosanna Hallelujah

to the Ronald Reagan
Heavenly Buddha.

Punchline of the holy Amen
“what would Reagan do?”

to remind the faithful
to remain the faithful

bearers to the fiction
of dead Reaganism.

Evoking anything
Ron and Nancy

induces sanctioned
comportment of a

slow simmering
******* eubellence

providing a welcomed
relief of repressed
libidinal energy.

The mention of Goldwater
sends GOP acolytes to

pause in reverence,
envisioning Barry and

Ronnie looking down
from heaven upon the gathered,

inciting immediate ruminations
of falling dominos and

the viability of a
tactical nuke strike

against Ayatollah’s
underground
uranium factories.

The host of Neo-Conmen,
new age Falangist pitchmen

belch from the dais,
in ever increasing alacrity,

the stirring drum beats
and slick videos,

of glorious warriors
winning the battlefield

with the rippling glory
of the Stars and Stripes

flowing in a continual
loop behind them.

Romney,
Bachmann

Gingrich
take center stage,

goose stepping
to the roll of piercing timpanis.

Words slither
out of their mouths
like poisonous snakes.

Lies, hiss through
their teeth.

Open mouths
expose Black Mamba
fangs, dripping with venom.

Eyes squint
as their reptilian brains

implore the besieged
to flee from the
light of truth.

Seeking refuge in fear;
yet on the ready

to coil and strike;
while trembling

in ignorance,
exalting loathsomeness

worshiping violence;
they remain

poised to unleash
first strike armies;

boastfully evoking moral
platitudes of Bush Doctrine
prerogatives.

Trembling in ignorance
worshiping violence

exalting fear,
these dogs of war bay

to unleash armies
against the

Godless apostates
that threaten

to expose the
stasis of their

Capitalismo-Judeo-Christian
view of the world.

They have hijacked
the great faith traditions

to serve a narrow
political aim

and relish any
opportunity to

demonize Islam
in service to their lies.

Watch as they
they crouch down

on the dais to
open the nest

of vipers welling
deep within the
bowels of their souls.

They find relief
by excreting their

spawn of deadly asps
into the veins of

cable news networks;
scoring political points

with the terrorized
children of Faux News

capturing battalions
of straw men villains

to rise atop meaningless
straw polls.

They agitate for a second
American revolution

by injecting the venom
of fear and lies

into the body
politic.

Ron Paul
stands alone,

perplexed why
American's love

war as much as
they hate civil liberties?

Cheney and
Rumsfeld brood.

The people of
Iraq and Afghanistan

fail to embrace their armies
of liberation that run up

unfortunate collateral damage
body counts required to sustain
the American way of life.

Ever the defender of
democracy and liberty,

Gingrich slams Obama's
condemnation of Suleiman

"hes an able diplomat."
Gingrich  forgot to add

that Suleiman is a
skilled torturer and

an able tyrant any self
serving democracy would
be proud to call ally and friend.

Cheney and Rumsfeld
remain flummoxed.

Their armies of liberation bogged
down in the marshy Blackwaters

of intractability;  trying to solve
the conundrum of the diminished

equity returns of asymmetrical
warfare.  Spinning the math

to justify building aircraft carriers
to **** a gnat.

The families of dead soldiers
surround them and wave dime

store flags hoping the plastic
eagle remains fixed atop the pole.

Perpetually smiling
Michele Bachmann
raises the specter
of Muslim Brotherhoods
taking over Egypt.

The persecution of Christians
and the escalating war on

Christianity have the Crusaders
up on their seats waving Excalibur
once again.

Gingrich pink cheeks
flush with the cash

of a Zionist casino
entrepreneur

doubles down, stacks
his chips high.

“The Israeli Embassy
in Cairo was overrun
by angry mobs.”  

“Is this a precursor of
cancelling the peace treaty
signed with Sadat?”

“The pullout in Iraq hands the country to
radical Shiites effectively handing our
hard won victory to Iran.”

“Israel is threatened and will not
permit Iran to acquire nuclear

weapons. A nuclear empowered Iran
will not stand!”

“We mustn't let do nothing Obama
threaten the safety of our good ally
Israel.”

CPAC willingly holds the deadly asp
to the breast of a proud nation.

Urging, coaxing it to gently sink
its teeth into the sacred heart
of our dear republic...

John Lee ******
Crawlin King Snake

CPAC 2011

Matthew 23
Brood of Vipers


jbm
Oakland
2/10/11
KnowOneknowsmeF Feb 2015
I've waited a long time for this

                    craved you with all of my five senses
                                          

   conjured you up in a dream,

in my minds eye

                           I see how this will play out,

yet holding on to hope

           that you'll sooth my achy heart

&

   fill my body,
                                        

        All I can do is

                hold in my anticipation as
                
You're ******* me,
    

                     I love foreplay

but not right now

&

                                                      I love that you've left the lights on......

          I'm watching you as you're gazing at me

                                                       with that boyish devilish look

BABY

it's going to be magical

                         Oh my


you've  just entered me

so slow,

                    deeply penetrating

                              the very essence

           of my tight honey ***

                                          Love how you've just

                        put your hand on

                               my delicate throbbing bud

              stroking it

as you ****** in & out

                                       of my velveteen flower

                           my legs spread wider on their own

                     as each

                  ****** produces a diphthong sound


                       I can hear it

        and

           it's like a rising acoustic sound

as our bodies collide together-  

                                 reverberating off these walls.


                             Your lustful assault

    has me

gripping the sheets.


                          I have to cry out!

Oh my God................


I can't take it!!!


Oooo

              You're so deep,

                   swelling and as you do so

my sugar walls tighten up

I can feel myself getting wetter

                                  can fee it,

                                                                     the look on ya face say you do....


You're massive member is

                                    driving in me
  like a drill

            thrilling all five of my sense,

Baby the smell of us,

                is in the air

The feel of us meshed together

                       tantalizing every part of my skin

Your my sinful addiction Mr. D...

                            Moaning out your name over

       and over my voice is almost hoarse

can you feel it like I do,

                is it good to you like its good to me

my unyielding tormentor?

                            Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh

         ­    You feel so good

      &

          I believe I'm about to erupt*......

                               WAIT,

                                    Why'd you stop

                             &

                PULL OUT!?

By:

~KnowOneKnowsMe~
Bows N' Arrows Aug 2015
Belittled in space
Across soft oceanscapes
Like Alice's wonderland mushrooms growing
Through thickened moss.
A figure, blurry, dispersed like a witches
Ingredient around the room.
I'm softly lying, breathing uncontrolled on some
Pullout bed, in a random room I'll enter again with
No memory of lying so drunk and gone.
Parties heal my heart
But the boys seem fatuous.
In the wake of these tender unrecognized years,
Bitten lips, that swell purple the next morning.
Left alone to slumber till noon
"Wake up! It's noon!"
The first time I found myself
suddenly, unexpectedly
in possession of a chance in Hell
to make love
with a beautiful girl,
I wrecked it.

Botched completely.

The mood was all wrong,
in my mom's empty apartment
on a pullout sofa.
No music.
Nothing worth drinking.
What was I thinking?

The girl was perfect,
and she moved like my dreams.
But
I was clumsy.
I'd had no practice.
Prophylaxis was a parlour game.
Impossible.
I came a half-dozen times.
Pearlescent rivulets flew everywhere.
But never when I wanted,
nor where, nor how.

We still talk,
years later,
but not about this.
She has her own children now.
I have my own children now.

But if ever I find myself divorced,
*******, I'd like a second chance
to strum the night sky
with the notes of her ecstasy
for the first time.
Beverly Scofield Aug 2014
He said his name was Joe Young.
I teased and called him mighty
When I'd pulled ahead and stopped
To intercept him at a pullout.

His bicycle, encumbered, stem to stern,
By neatly rolled up and tied on bundles,
Seemed too heavy to be pushed,
As he was doing, much less ridden.

He wasn't a young man by any means,
But when I shook his hand, his grip exuded strength;
His eyes full of the merriment that comes only
From a heart that loves life and enjoys living it.

Joe's untrimmed beard covered his face and chest,
Blended at the sides with longish uncut hair.
Whether blond, red, or gray remained a mystery.
His lips, as he spoke, hid behind a wide red mustache.

We sat together on the tailgate of my pickup truck.
Our stories of adventure traveling back and forth.
My own seemed mild compared to his, but when I told my dream,
He laughed aloud in genuine appreciation. He understood.

He went his way, trudging byways, seeing the country, edge to edge.
I drove on, richer for having seen his eyes and heard his voice.
And when I, too, hit the road in months to come,
I pray I’ll cross paths again with mighty Joe Young,
Somewhere in America, living life his way.
Remember those moments of agony
Before the age of puberty
When you fumbled
confounded in surety

When you said those stupid things
that you never meant to say
And to this day it still stings

Remember the friends
you said goodbye to
before you could say  hello and how are you

My how the miles separate
The horizon just titillates
Never touching earth
while the sky scintillates

I picture the high school gym at the homecoming dance you see
Sitting on the pullout bleachers . . . no one danced with me
Josephine Wilea Apr 2020
and when you say my name
you'd think I had
one million Delta miles
from the trips my heart goes on
- except it doesn’t
because
my flight was cancelled
I’ve had this ticket for
nine months and twenty-three days
it was non-refundable
but I'm already on the plane
Dunkin’ coffee cup
perched precariously on the armrest
they almost spelled my name right
my phone only has 11%
I knew it could charge
right when we boarded
I thought you were waiting for me
you made paper “welcome” signs
and set up the pullout couch
I’ve been waiting
two hundred and ninety-eight days
and now you're telling me
this plane isn’t going anywhere.
my hopes for us have jammed the engines.
Might submit this to my school's magazine to be published, so feedback would be greatly appreciate (please!). I'm not quite sure if the title suits the poem.

— The End —