This one's for me
and I'm gonna watch it burn.
Watch it flicker and pop and crackle and spit.
Gonna take lessons on how to dance with the draft,
also hoping she doesn't ******* out.
I'll make poems out of smoke and shadows
and fading, lonesome, sepia-tone summer photographs.
I want to make dusty picture frames feel like well-loved tuxedos.
I'm gonna see if candlelight can be all the company I need to keep.
Gonna sweep this floor clean,
like it's not what we say, it's what we mean
between the lines of
one too-polished table setting:
one knife,
one spoon,
but two forks for wishful thinking.
I'm gonna eat my fill
and fill my cup again and again,
to the point that I begin to make conversation
with my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
I'll tell that *******, "My friend, you are drunk."
and he'll tell me, "Kid, look who's talking."
Then it'll be back to a glass
that treats its brim like a suggestion.
Gonna have whisky and black lager and champagne
'til my toes and thumbs tingle.
Thin blooded and numbed;
Steeled by my father's novocain.
Come morning, this house couldn't get more hollow.

In these hallowed halls where I wallow in the way that
I only seem to appreciate the preciousness of days
Once they've passed,
here's what I'm gonna do:
I'm gonna write questions on one side of the wooden window blinds,
and write punchlines to completely unrelated jokes on the other.
I don't know why. Maybe just to **** with people.

I'm gonna reminisce with full streets of ghosts
That glow like kerosene lamp posts
all the while, stomping my feet, just to prove that I can.
Gonna make toasts to the isolated;
to the quarantined and the misanthropes.
I'll boast that lovers are not unlike poachers,
but I'm not gonna mention that in every other under-cover dream
I seem to swoon like ivory elephant tusks.
I'm gonna gamble on Dusk
because I think it's got a little less honesty,
but a little more promise than its
attention-*******, good-for-nothing, go-getter big sister Dawn does.
That flirtations *****.
Gonna give Christian names to half drawn caricatures
of people who only ever existed when the lights died out
and the snow fell heavy.

I'm gonna let the levies break.
I'll go insane, just ******* lose it--
do the Boot-Scoot-'n'-Boogie in a onesie
with the hind flap flying free and the Greek Theatre masks of
Comedy and Tragedy painted on my *** cheeks,
(because no one should ever take their art too seriously)
And I'm even not gonna even care who sees,
partially because there's no one around to watch anyway,
but mostly because I want,
more than anything, to just be me.
Or at least I want to want that.
See, I read somewhere that,
"You should always be yourself…
unless you can be a unicorn,
then always be a unicorn."
And that really struck home for me because,
even though I've never really ached to be
the ******* love child of a Narwhal and Zebra
(In my imagination, unicorns are
striped and impecable swimmers)
I truly believe that Men will always dream of being Titans
and Titans will always dream of being Gods
and Gods want nothing more than to be Wind--
to twist with lit candle sticks
and teach the lonesome how to dance.

A one-step waltz tip-toed to distract.

But the fact is, I'm bound to take a few back steps.
I'm gonna think about her.
Gonna harbor hard feelings towards back bedroom dealings
that I have no right knowing about.
Gonna pray like a desperate atheist
that they keep their knees locked in a one night stand.
I might break down.
Only once, just long enough to regain my strength.
Then I'll tame the earthquakes in my hands, like I always do.
Gonna find what it takes to move on.
Not just regenerate, but to grow stronger than I ever was before.
So I'm gonna meticulously straighten these place settings:
One knife.
One spoon.
A healthy dose of wishful thinking.
Gonna try my hand again at dancing with the back draft;
I heard she's been aching for a duet,
and with all the life of candlelight
I'm gonna ignite the coal shafts beneath my eyes.
Gonna finally see me as the man I am,
not the titan I wish to be,
because I heard somewhere that,
"You should always be yourself…
Especially when all you've known
all you've ever shown
is some mythology."
So raise your glass because this one?
This one's for me.

"C'mon Stevie you got to show them what you're made off!"
"I did and your mother was very impressed."

"C'mon Stevie you got to show them what you're made off!"
"I auditioned but they said I was too big."

"C'mon Stevie you got to show them what you're made off!"
"You do realise that Kathryn Janeway reffered to me everytime she said 'Captain's Log' don't you?"

"C'mon Stevie you need to go out more and show the world what you can do."
I can't, I'm like Japanese ****. Entirely censored.

"Come inside"
chuckles

"Can I come over?"
"You"
"What?"
"What?"

"*******!"
"You're On!"

"*******"
"."

"C'mon Stevie show em what you're made off!"
"Have you read this?"

megacreative poetry crew personified by poetic devices (we the best exploring poetry industry) Words that doesn't sound strange to any ear, words that can be called one poem heals all.
Listen to these words made from punchlines and their cousins figure of speeches immaturity fall.
Blessed are the ones listening to the poem written by the hands that got the touch of the situation.
Megacreative Poetry Crew (Personified by poetic devices) Rocking back n fourth whining side to side into the bigger picture of literature as big as the important use of rhymes in a poem brews and cooks magic.
The magic that is the ear bud to your ears.
The magic that is infused with words that are born from soothing figure of speeches that's their mothers.
We heal with metaphors.
When the pain comes again it won't be like before.
The wise doesn't just spit but before that you got to be sure.
It's sad how they don't want to learn wisdom but when you do you are labelled as the biggest flop.
One's life is not like an influenza, you can't always have chest pains and cough.
As it will move you it doesn't hurt to dream of being on a cover page of Forbes.
Ofcourse, morden men doesn't shove wives with chores.
With words, the mind and soul resasitation.
Holding the mic to melt the written punchlines on the blessed pages, you got to love such situation.
Wisdom shows up just as we throw words on the white surface with red lines like a sangoma throwing bones on a mat created through tradition.
For us write words that unlocks wisdom to your mind that's as entertaining as theatre.
Poetry is alive in us.
Water it, ignoring such soothing words into your soul it will be as peace destroying as a witch.
Just as we play around the pages with a pen its the first stage to one's life changing, but as we spit words Personified by poetic devices Rocking back n fourth , whining side to side one is healed. Megacreative Poetry Crew  (personified by poetic devices)

why do wolfpacks attack and reject other wolves?

well?

he was wearing a wire - bahahaha crowd roars
he was an arab - crowd roars
he was a black wolf - crowd enjoys
he was a white wolf - crowd roars
he was a jew wolf - crowd enjoys
he was a catholic - crowd enjoys
he was a christian - crowd stunned
he was a republican - crowd stirs
he was a liberal - crowd riot

the comedian was killed by a crowd of people later that night, including a mexican and black man. 100 people are in jail awaiting charges. some charges may be dropped due to we suspect that someone was next...at least one

there's no rip cord --
your stuck in this stinking shell,
success measured by inches,
lipstick badged for lions,
punchlines thrown like lettuce
at the bravo males,

there's no rip cord --
the evaluation preemptive,
a crooked eyebrow and a sigh
with the lights on,
a slow grind of inadequacy
leading to a clumsy spew,

there's no rip cord --
so most bludgeon bashful cheeks
with wedding bands --
a life locked in rolling pupil sheets,
a kid, a fence, a lawyer, and
an itchy trigger finger
stirred and served with
a green olive.

This small talk kills me
when once it was so easy.
I remember when I
was the favorite.

This was before her first car
and sixteenth birthday,
movie dates, weekend sleepovers,
and high school crushes.

This must be how old toys feel,
played out, aged,
traded for the new and bright.


On a sand dune,
we sit shipwrecked,
stranded,and talk carefully
like strangers do about
sea birds pecking for food,
dead jellyfish,
and the innocence of sand castles.

Dark glasses disguise
my quick views of bikinis,
fitness thighs, and smooth dark tans,

mask her sneak peeks
at young muscle, flat stomachs,
and cute boys with fashion haircuts.

She burrows her toes into the sand
to pass the time.
I try to think of jokes
to make her laugh
but no punchlines come.

We share a fancy grilled cheese sandwich,
shy giggles,
and a pink lemonade
before she can no longer hide
the boredom in her eyes.
I know its time to leave.

She reclines her seat back
and sleeps the drive home,
leaving me alone
with miles, empty highways,
and whispers of classic rock
from the radio.

It's a pity about the posies,
All ashen and planet-like, controlling
The leftover rubber bits of love
Erasing emotions of waking up warm with her
Solemnly slumbering form
When we pluck those mornings and sink our teeth into them.
And

Their wavy stems ballet up from the earth
Blooming into fragile pink tufts like *******.
But now their fragrances tell jokes
Without the punchlines:
Long narratives ultimately pointless.
(The priests and rabbis come to you from their bars
Collars choking and tallit suffocatingly wrapped round their heads)
And

The snake,
Slithering from thousands of years of pop culture
Roots himself in the apple orchards
To hide the answers in her *******
And

Dairy farms grow up from there
And their milk runs down your sloppy chin
And in your teeth as you violently suckle
And in the tangled paths of your veins as you
Ask yourself why you even bother trying
When enslaved by a free world
.

Thank You to the English Language...
So many different combinations of Six!!
I could Six On for Years...
Clever Phrases, Witty Punchlines, mindless cliches
I can six away your fears...
Universal Latin I six silky Satin

I never mean to be that guy,
But every time a friend uses another friend's Facebook,
The go-to gag will be a status saying "I'm gay," with
Eyeroll emoticons and LOLs promptly following.
Giggles and pointed fingers echo off the walls and
Into the ears of the suffering silent.

Those two words used as punchlines are the heirs,
The progeny of a past bathed in blood.
They are words weighted down by chains linked with laughs
And locked by the smiles and eyerolls.
The free ones revel in the fire baptismal they impress upon
Those left chained to the wall in the shadows.

Like children, they delight in the minor sting of the fireball that destroys those they mock.
Eyes sparkle and smiles flash at the fictional thrill that entertains them and murders the ones who dare to speak.
Their drums beat as the celebrate the chic
Game they get to play--playing Chicken with a train that isn't there
While others are strapped to the tracks by their shadows,
The darkside of the dance.

Songs and howls fill the skies and mix with the screams of the tortured to put the icing on
Their twisted fandango--a brilliant spectacle to distract from the cries for help;
A spectacle as brilliant as the screens of their phones as they type the jokes stained with sadness:
"I'm gay LOL haxored," with the laughs following
At the circus, while miles away a boy sobs into his sheets,
The cold stars his only company.

Lunch rush was hell for the new girl,
stacking foamed cappuccino cups
and stirring spoons in a broken-handled
bus tub while trying not to slip
on soft ice and discarded lemon
wedges. She took our mugs,
and told us about a guy

—Dave, she said. I don't know.—who sat
with his friend, comparing *** to work
over the rusted cabinet tracks
of his warped fork scraping
his egg-caked plate.
Dave's friend was leaned in
with a cocked grin waiting
for one of Dave's "Classic Dave" punchlines,

which I'm guessing are all witty,
the funniest *******
things you've ever heard,
but there wasn't one
this time

because there's nothing funny about
a ***** intern cringing beneath the weight
of fat Dave and his brick
paperweight jammed in her back.

She walks ahead, then gives me a lazy grin,
  She talks about her problems as if the world momentarily dimmed.
    She tries to throw jokes even if she knows it's corny,
     She loves to eat fried foods with a lot of gravy.
      She looks forward seeing the latest chick flick movies.
       she loves buying sweets and her i-know-what-you-want goodies.
        she does not know that from a distance I am observing,
         She is my kryptonite, I can't stop falling.
         He is my so-called superman, Always a hero,
       He secretly observes my movements, even my shadow.
     He always wanted coffee, a kreme, and and iced filled choco,
    He parks his head on movies, going loco!
   He is getting fat, too much cholesterol and less exercise lately,
  He used to give punchlines that are very gay and funny!
He does not share much of his problems until it's under control,
He imposed tips on work-life balance and money saving protocol.

3 | 31 Poems for August 2017

Love, I understand, that I may never fully understand you.
I want the chance to always hold you tight like a pair of Levi’s jeans.
It doesn’t really matter whether they are black or blue.
As long as these hands always get the chance to hold and caress you.
Love, I know you want the world but I can only give you mine.
It’s not much but I hope it gradually becomes a place where you’ll always want to spend some quality time.
On days when it gets harder to breathe or speak, I recommend *****.
You’re a woman with substance and I’m drawn to your melanin.
Beautiful cocoa butter skin, what’s there not to love about you?
Your love is never enough; I’m always left yearning for more.
In a world ravaged by cold wars, we need to know what we’re fighting for.
I understand that I may never understand the struggles you always go through.
Life will bend and stretch the both of us into painful shapes and that’s why we all need someone to talk to.
Sometimes we tend to forget how it feels when someone listens.

You’re more than just dimples, curves and a pretty face.
You’re more than just punchlines, metaphors and similes.
You are a woman with substance and I’m drawn to your melanin.
Each day I find more reasons to fall deeper in love with you.
On days when it gets easier to breathe and speak, I recommend wine.
I understand, that I may never fully understand you.
But after all, what’s the world without enigma?

sarcastic humour is intended for your
own appreciation,
witty humour is intended for others
and the hope they can appreciate it,
oddly enough when sarcasm is scolded
you feel very little concern,
but when wit is scolded you do feel
a coldness and a sort need to invent something
more passing off as intelligence,
intelligence needs to be impulsive, blunt,
intuitive, it really doesn't need to be pre-prepared
worthy of a Shakespeare quote, all those
bits of 'life's a stage,' fair enough, but
what if life is a gutter?
sarcasm only works for the one who speaks it,
it's also a cousin of satire addressing politics,
wit knows no satire, wit is a proud humour,
it's too proud to enter sarcastic remarks
in the pig trough of reciting political satire,
wit is a form of narcissism in the end,
it wants attention, being appreciated:
like an anecdote... sarcasm just shoves a boxing glove
in your face and says: can you help me forget,
or do you want to hear a knock-out?
indeed sarcasm doesn't use punchlines like wit,
it just uses a mike tyson method
of one punch one constellation of fluttering sparrows
in Orion in a halo of daze of an opponent:
flat like a pancake on the floor,
but he or she won't be easily flipped or even
count to 10, you'll only have to be content with
what sarcasm is: the easiest identifiable method of
communicating comedy after slapstick humour
of laurel & hardy & (lee) evans.

I'm so sick of your stupid face,
your stupid jokes that lack punchlines and any sort of flow,
your stupid little quirky acts that make you just as human as the next guy,
your stupid style that consists of anything you can fine.

I'm so sick of you.

Take in a few more gulps
swallowing your pride
the only time this world makes any sense
is when the room is spinning
poor little baby bird
fell out of the nest all too soon
the ground is hard with tall grass
where predators lurk
listen up, kid
you need to learn to aim true
find ways to smile through pain
and yeah, it's okay to cry
just leave the door to your heart open a crack
do not forget to stand tall
the night sky is resting in your palms
each star a cosmic reflection
of every sleep laden dream
you've been smoking up all of my punchlines
that you didn't get
******* for the temptation
of somebody kind enough
to maybe love you for you
listen, little clubber
before this long winding road grows open
you need to make friends
with the man trapped in the mirror

do not read the news
just do not
do it;
media hypes
the worst of it all
in hopes that we'll become
Paralyzed

school is cancelled
children cheer
while families fear for the
Future

I only became alive inside your minds eye,
caught between the landmines as we **** tried,
to break through the new unto the other side,
but under the seas I could only see the sapphire,
golden blue we knew the landslides didn’t land fine,
and punchlines soon turned into black eyes,
that blew up on the spot as we stand tired,
The lies told the truth until it transpired,
I never knew I could be burnt until I held fire.

If I had something inspiring on my mind don't you think that I would've written it by now
I love being a writer but sometimes it gets me down
The pressure escalates like the water in the everglades to top myself, like pulling miracles out of my head is a miraculous act
I can't turn water into wine And I can't turn stacks of hay into clever punchlines
I guess what I'm trying to say, like Dr. Mccoy  is that I'm a writer not a magician
I can only take what myself and others have gone through, and turn it into something relatable, that maybe just maybe someone will take something positive out of what was written

Wanna drink in the park,
But the ******* mosquitos...
Eaten alive and I can't stand the heat
                        so
I turn down the bed
and I wait for December.
Shaking head
                   aching neck.
I'll thank you to remember
              I've always been one
              for walking in snow,
          ******* clenching this jaw
     while I'm chomping down crow--
--Don't wanna drink in the park
              'til it's really ******* cold.

And you...
          got no reasons to lie
          or axes for grinding.
           Just summery eyes,
          blind to punchlines
                  but finding
                      me out,

       With my rank Autumn breath,
                        I'll try...
       try to settle on Spring one time.

Are you
         dwelling today
                   on concepts
of verbal grenades or clever plays. Lost this bet.
           Cut off my sleeves, no ace.
Call me in the morning, or could play it safe.
     Summer's gold, but will you freeze
                        if I don't stay?

               I'll curse my sweating
                       shakes away.

Wanna sit in the dark,
hash it out with my ego...
Barely awake, I can no longer speak
                        so
I'm glued to my bed.
I can't wait for December.
Pounding skull,
                 crane my neck--
Try once more to remember
              I've always been one
               for sleeping alone,
          turning, tossing in sheets,
          spitting crow back at cold.
--Just wanna drink in the dark
           'til I'm really ******* old.


    Were there...
          really stories to tell?
     or just axes for grinding?
           Or summery eyes,
          sneering punchlines
                  frowns sliding
                    cleats first?    

    
        With brittle Winter hopes,
                        I'll try...
     try to settle on Spring--No dice.

And I'm
         dwelling today
                   on concepts
   of phantom pains and severance pay. Taking bets?
               I'm finna lose both legs.
Take two in the morning, stay awake all day.
     You stay gold. I guess I'll stay
                     the **** away.

look im "Vegeta"
flow colder than a freiza
big bang punchlines thats the ether
no exceptions when i step in the arena
im a hot  head my head got a fever
king kai my teacher
oozaru bout to step on you creatures
yall power level is low
the  god letting you know
your power level will show
when the battle arrives
ive been waiting to shine
no more waiting in line
cause im facing time
ill face time
to take mine
only the Great Divine God can change the signs
so the future has selected i

megacreative poetry crew personified by poetic devices (we the best exploring poetry industry) Words that doesn't sound strange to any ear, words that can be called one poem heals all.
Listen to these words made from punchlines and their cousins figure of speeches immaturity fall.
Blessed are the ones listening to the poem written by the hands that got the touch of the situation.
Megacreative Poetry Crew (Personified by poetic devices) Rocking back n fourth whining side to side into the bigger picture of literature as big as the important use of rhymes in a poem brews and cooks magic.
The magic that is the ear bud to your ears.
The magic that is infused with words that are born from soothing figure of speeches that's their mothers.
We heal with metaphors.
When the pain comes again it won't be like before.
The wise doesn't just spit but before that you got to be sure.
It's sad how they don't want to learn wisdom but when you do you are labelled as the biggest flop.
One's life is not like an influenza, you can't always have chest pains and cough.
As it will move you it doesn't hurt to dream of being on a cover page of Forbes.
Ofcourse, morden men doesn't shove wives with chores.
With words, the mind and soul resasitation.
Holding the mic to melt the written punchlines on the blessed pages, you got to love such situation.
Wisdom shows up just as we throw words on the white surface with red lines like a sangoma throwing bones on a mat created through tradition.
For us write words that unlocks wisdom to your mind that's as entertaining as theatre.
Poetry is alive in us.
Water it, ignoring such soothing words into your soul it will be as peace destroying as a witch.
Just as we play around the pages with a pen its the first stage to one's life changing, but as we spit words Personified by poetic devices Rocking back n fourth , whining side to side one is healed. Megacreative Poetry Crew  (personified by poetic devices)

my bag of tricks
sits empty in the corner
the life of each used
lifeless tricks fallen
into the abyss of desire
smiles returned empty
kisses now numb
punchlines without jokes
a smile at the bottom
looking for lips
seeking new tricks

It's pretty and precious when you speak and spit those words of yours that are meaningless. 
It's deep and thoughtful when you think you own the land that you were raised up on.
I think it's hilarious when shoes are compared to the price of bread. 
Is it me that sees material being more worthy than food?
Brazilian weaves become ends meal and yet no meal is eaten at the end of the day. 
Gold twisted to coins 
And yet POVERTY is still a lifestyle. 
The TRUTH being twisted into LIES. 
Fast money reaching it's greatest  peak
But in reality we know that slow money is more purer. 
Our hands are filled with BLOOD 
Our MINDS are locked in chains
Our wrists are slit with blades. 
We are blinded by our stories 
Covered by our problems 
Scared of the truth.
We'd rather face the darkness than being caught in the light. 
Because I heard that once you're caught in light 
You're a "GOODY-TWO-SHOES". 
We throw punchlines
But they bounce back 
With lines that form a REBOUND. 
Superficial, materialistic and cynical is what we define.
DREAMS burnt away 
As if in a crucible where metals are melted and purified. 
Our streets are blocked by ashes
Our senses are polluted with gas.
Yes, our MEN are filled with violence 
And yet our WOMEN appear to be resentful and bitter!
But have you forgotten that BITTER  was once SWEET
HATE was once LOVE
ENEMIES  were once FRIENDS?
It's more simple when we reflect our backs on the mirror 
'cause now it's not us that we face.
We running from the truth
Due to our fear of our roots. 
Remember that God didn't create a coward
Neither did he create a sinner. 
It's just the life that we face that trickles us down.
We pop bottles in funerals. 
We take shots on horses 'cause we want a hell of a ride. 
Our tongues twist what's true to false. 
We have become slaves of our sins
So in denial, lost, confused and BRUTALLY tampered with. 
We are set for LIBERATION, 
INKULULEKO
FREEDOM.  
We have misused our freedom. 
Yes , we don't appear to be SINNERS,
We are sinners!!
But I prefer to be a RIGHTEOUS  SINNER . . . .