A ripened sky splits and bleeds
Mangled reds and blacks;
An instant melts as heat from
Clustered newborn suns --
Blistered from the wounds --
Collects and beams 1600 feet
Earthwards from Fat Man's
Plump and pompous underbelly.

The pure-light pin-***** stopped
The city's pulse for a moment;
Collecting remnants of the
Beating hearts (of artists,
Doctors, students, parents,
Preachers, rats, and peasants)
To plant on rotting soil -
A hellish fungal pustule.

The swelling abscess breathed
But once and burst to
Ripple excess outwards
Soaking up the landscape;
Ingesting miles and spewing
Spores towards septic skies to form
A mass of mushroomed
Might and pyrrhic triumph.

All the world's a *******,
And all the lads and ladettes mere defecators,
Gratifying oozing exits and entrances;
And one man perforce enacts too many roles,
His acts being seven deaths. D'abord, the baby,
******* and ******* on his mummy's frock.
Then, the errant truant with his rucksack
And pock-marked ******'s face, creeping like death
Foul-trouser'dly to school. Next a teenager,
Panting like mad dog, with an oozing pustule
Dripping oe'r his girlfriend's pubics. Then a hoodie,
Full of strange oaths, and dressed up like a freak,
Lacking in honour, decency, and up for aggro,
Seeking the respect of loathsome peers
Even on the street corner. And then the adult
With bulging beer belly, and ample burgers stuff'd,
With eyes dulled by unfulfilled promises,
Mortgaged to the hilt, and indebted to Visa,
And so he wastes his life. The sixth age dawns
Before he knows it, bald futility,
With ****** in pocket, five quid a pill,
His youthful hopes well ****'d, the world too much
For his ignorance, and his vain butch rantings
Reverting soon to teenage curses, coughs
And tobacco'd wheezings. Last we see him,
Ending a pointless and useless existence,
Clutching to his ****-stained Zimmer frame,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans pension fund.

Tear out my eyes
repainting them shades of purple puke
and send me off back to work
Snip the curious child
from my gut
and paint the walls pink with his feet
pour drano into my ears
so that i may not have to think anymore
lobotomize my fingernail biting fetishes
till i only get hard-on's from my skull
dragging its skin across the pavement
you pitiful excuse for a poet
you hope to dazzle them with dayglo frosting
caked like mold in the corners of your mouth
you sick hopeless perfectionist
knitting cellophane walls
of hands slapping your face
so you can close your eyes
and lose yourself in the confines
of your stalagmites
you with your cut and paste philosophies
which leave gaping holes
stretching across everybody's pupils
huh?
exactly you ******* pustule of plastic bubbles
you are an empty bud
no flower could rise from soil as rank as yours
no love will ever find comfort in a heart as prickly as yours
i can only be ashamed
that i share your body
i'm better off getting aborted
next time you sneeze
so that i could infect another's fragile flesh
passing our sick parasite
at least something of yours will be left
for others to cherish

So pick up the scissors and cut it the **** out!
Then take a stick and knock it the *******.

Alright, all done?

Are you ready for a conversation consisting of truth?
Or does that concept still, somehow, confuse you?

For years I've been fighting a battle with the cowardice in you!
And now, after all of it, I have more emotional involvement in my shoe.
No, scratch that, not in my shoe...
Because that dog **** I stepped in last week, has more integrity than you.

Fidelity, do you know what that is?
Egregious, do you know that word exists?
How about 'low life ***** *******'?
Oh, meaning got through.
Allow me a moment to adjust my vocabulary for you.

You're a coward. A snail. A waste of my time and space.
A blister, throbbing pustule on the *** of the human race.
You have never been loyal.
You're robbing me of my youth.
The worst part is, I see myself becoming like you.

I admire the way you avoid the subject.
The method you use to crawl out of the line of fire.
Throwing others in front of the bus so you don't hit the tires.
That's right, its all their fault, duh.
You really think I'm that ******* stupid, huh?

Well. *******.You're a ******.
A *******, class A.
A dissapointment, A nebbish, A poltroon, A quitter and recreant.
Someone I should have never given a second glace.
I mean it.

I'd be a liar if I didn't admit.
I regret the last four years of this ****.
I'd be ******* stupid to stick around for more of this.

I give your life meaning? Purpose?
If that's true I hope you're crushed by my indifference.

I am a pimple on the face of the world,
A festering pustule
Simply trying to heal.

When the world reaches up
With its ***** hands to
Break me, for its own vanity,
It merely opens me up
So it can pour in more if its
Filth.

Over, and over,
The world will try and fail
To empty me
Of the filth it feeds me.

And maybe,
One day,
I may finally heal.
But when I do,
Because of the meddling,
I will be left as a scar,
A symbol to the world,
That it should have either left me alone
Or washed its hands.

There's a town somewhere up north off of route 54
It's cheap to live there, but I wouldn't recommend it
It's streets run with greed, ****** and sin
The people there are devoid any sense of ethics
It will leave you all shocked and breathless
Welcome to the neighborhood
Where you board up your windows and doors then double check if they're locked
Where you can always hear some one screaming
"Stop"
"Stop"

The mayor has been in office for six terms
And in his cabinet are members of the mob
Whose fronts are local mom and pops
Where junkies like to hang out
While a mugging of an eighty four year old widow takes place around the block
Welcome to the neighborhood
Where you board up your windows and doors then double check if they're locked
Where you can always hear some one screaming
"Stop"
"Stop"
       -Tommy Johnson

The youth are all in gangs that **** each other
Delinquent dropouts doing drive by's
Defiling untouched regions between innocent women's thighs
Girls making appointments for back alley coat hanger abortions
As some hate group constructs homemade bombs

Welcome to the neighborhood
Where you board up your windows and doors then double check if they're locked
Where you can always hear some one screaming
"Stop"
"Stop"

Diseases and food shortages
Rotten government cheese and unpaid mortgages
Call the department of health and human services
Life here is unbearable mercilessness  

Poverty and violence
Money and bullets keep those who might talk silent
Here it has come down to a simple science
The spineless **** the non-compliant for their defiance and they lay lifeless by the hands of those who commit viscous acts so mindless

Where you board up your windows and doors then double check if they're locked
Where you can always hear some one screaming
"Stop"
"Stop"

You may ask, "where is God or the police?"
They're doing their bi-weekly patrol
And they're both on big brother's private payroll
There is now law and order in this contaminated area
It's an unkempt, repugnant pustule in the middle of the caked-on face of America

Welcome to the neighborhood
Where you board up your windows and doors then double check if they're locked
Where you can always hear some one screaming
"Stop"
"Stop"

Penny had hives that day
I remember them well
Some almost pustule
and that room we where in
with the wall paper
that if you half closed your eyes
seams like flowers
that made faces that all grin
but penny
I must tell you
in your arms I felt warm
maybe due to the lack of heating
But penny that night
i we are one

Then in the morning

THE PENNY DROP'S

Another impact on your mind,
The glass wall flexing more and more in time.
His screaming is getting louder across the brink
Take this second nemesis and think!

Break this wall and there is no backstep,
Push me under and there is no breath.
Fall down deeper for every misstep.
As with this freedom you have bought your death.

The glass it shatters but still holds firm,
Under bloodied hands the weakness squirms.
Holding on with every muscle,
You feel it break like a putrid pustule.

Break this barrier  tears will falter,
Don’t do this for the freedom alters.
I pray to every hearing ear,
to **** me before his birth comes near.

The grotesqueness of Man
Shown to a clouded mind.
The animalistic nature
Of a society that separates itself
from the animals
Revealed.

In the moment,
Thoughts too jumbled to express
The stark realization.
The realization that society is sick.
A pustule ready to burst
Packed with the greed and malice of the masses
And the Hypocrisy of a people
Where being equal means being white
Where opportunity only lies in lineage

And then the sharpness and soundness returns
And all those realizations fade
Chalked up to delusions of a drug induced dementia

I've agreed to pay him the money he wants but only if he'll yank mine ahead of 6 other *****. I sat still and waited for the fun to start with my feet in stirrups and my legs far apart. He would not listen to what I had to say because, for him, gynecological tooth-extraction was the quickest, cheap way.

Quel temps de chien ! - il pleut, il neige ;
Les cochers, transis sur leur siège,
Ont le nez bleu.
Par ce vilain soir de décembre,
Qu'il ferait bon garder la chambre,
Devant son feu !

A l'angle de la cheminée
La chauffeuse capitonnée
Vous tend les bras
Et semble avec une caresse
Vous dire comme une maîtresse,
" Tu resteras ! "

Un papier rose à découpures,
Comme un sein blanc sous des guipures.
Voile à demi
Le globe laiteux de la lampe
Dont le reflet au plafond rampe,
Tout endormi.

On n'entend rien dans le silence
Que le pendule qui balance
Son disque d'or,
Et que le vent qui pleure et rôde,
Parcourant, pour entrer en fraude,
Le corridor.

C'est bal à l'ambassade anglaise ;
Mon habit noir est sur la chaise,
Les bras ballants ;
Mon gilet bâille et ma chemise
Semble dresser, pour être mise,
Ses poignets blancs.

Les brodequins à pointe étroite
Montrent leur vernis qui miroite,
Au feu placés ;
A côté des minces cravates
S'allongent comme des mains plates
Les gants glacés.

Il faut sortir ! - quelle corvée !
Prendre la file à l'arrivée  
Et suivre au pas
Les coupés des beautés altières
Portant blasons sur leurs portières
Et leurs appas.

Rester debout contre une porte
A voir se ruer la cohorte
Des invités ;
Les vieux museaux, les frais visages,
Les fracs en coeur et les corsages
Décolletés ;

Les dos où fleurit la pustule,
Couvrant leur peau rouge d'un tulle
Aérien ;
Les dandys et les diplomates,
Sur leurs faces à teintes mates,
Ne montrant rien.

Et ne pouvoir franchir la haie
Des douairières aux yeux d'orfraie
Ou de vautour,
Pour aller dire à son oreille
Petite, nacrée et vermeille,
Un mot d'amour !

Je n'irai pas ! - et ferai mettre
Dans son bouquet un bout de lettre
A l'Opéra.
Par les violettes de Parme,
La mauvaise humeur se désarme :
Elle viendra !

J'ai là l'Intermezzo de Heine,
Le Thomas Grain-d'Orge de Taine,
Les deux Goncourt ;
Le temps, jusqu'à l'heure où s'achève
Sur l'oreiller l'idée en rêve,
Me sera court.

Billy had an ingrown hair
That covered most of his temple
Tried to pluck it, being gentle
Caused swelling in a gland to flare

Bulging pustule pinned up next to his eye
The attraction’s leading folks to stare
He knows he shouldn’t care
But pin in hand he lets off a battle cry

Goes to war with a sharpened stick
Alignments balance best to beware
Pushed too far, a ****** affair
Left without motion after that one little *****

Billy once had an ingrown hair
Placed right over his temple
Tried to pop it without being gentle
Flawless complexion as he drools from a chair

The Institute of Physics: The Earth's orbital speed around the Sun: 30 km/s (108,000 km/h, ~70,000 mph) The Sun's orbital speed around the Galaxy: ~200 km/s (720,000 km/h, 450,000 mph)

Maybe my life is like someone's album cover
There's millions of songs and I haven't heard even half yet
all I know is that my backpack groans like a saddle
when I put it on my back
It's a little happiness every morning
when my room smells like incense
Or like the air outside
Maybe my life is like a raspberry with an infinite or nonexistent
number of pustules
Maybe my life is like the word pustule
all I know is how scratchy my blanket feels
how the waves sprayed in my face from a thousand feet below
literally- how albus dumbledore stood there
but not really- how the lightning didn't always mean thunder
and how spring feels after a long winter
Maybe my life is like my sister's car
Maybe my life is like the people in my sister's car
drunk and a little confused,
all I know is that they're fun to hang out with
have great ideas when they're high- and sober, too-
that the cold mist is ideal in summer and terrifying in winter
that my sleeping bag is comfortable on any surface
and Blues Traveler's "Run Around" is my life song
but there's tons of others, too
Maybe my life is only like my life
and there's no appropriate analogy
that can capture what's actually going on.

Croak-a-Cola? That mercury-spiked, baby-renal parts ****'ll **** ya!*
*Move to 1 side cannibalistical yarbs & let me, with a pick, thrill ya!

Every pink pustule pounds my skin like an artillery bar-
rage. Your horde swells with my stress, bubbles up from my
rage. Volcano head, a v of violent irritations between my brow.
Doctors prescribe petroleum products to ease the water pressure
from your oily fracking.
Every splotch a rig rising up over the water, and YOU
place every dot target practice for pointed looks. No mythical halcyon
calms the red waves and YOU,
the construction company placing rows of pylon.
Risking lifelong scars pounding railroad spikes across the Great Plains,
With no grand plan or project to mask my pains


With what form you take, it must be the most
Awful, vile, loathing, malignance of being,
Where you cannot be complacent in your own immutable form,
that you must plague others with your
adolescent pestilence.

But a pestilence of lilies’ dot
the starry pond
The lovely constellations,
have no need for an Andromeda,
And have no worries, for my residents are no Cancer,
And that hope of divine light shining through such inconsequential motes,
also shines through, bathing my face
before I sleep, night after night,
And I see the stars through my rosy windows, as I lay back in my cot.
And where Greek Gods so methodically placed every gentle blót,
a cherished love had never not known the halls of my temples.

⏳ ⏳ ⏳ ⏳ ⏳ ⏳ ⏳ ⏳ ⏳

O woe is me about everything all the time because an infant's being
ate by a sad alligator as Clearasil turns a pustule into a crater & just
when everybody and his brother tells you that it's too early, it's later

O woe is me about everything, all the time
A little child is being eaten by an alligator
Clearasil turns a pustule into a crater
Just when you think it's too early, it's later

Imagining the joy of being no worldy good,
self-just-ift,
if I ponder who hears me ask for help, guile-ess, I wonder
what good am I, if all I am is not-evil?

Live from behind my left ear,
a pressure building,
just if I can, if I can think I can,

can I carry a load, for you, maybe for a chocolate bar?

Beggar-man, I never was you then,
though now thou comest to mind, I may have been
yes,
I may have been
beggar-man, the less,
a
mortal type of an eternal archetype.
You know,

some institutions of unmortal knowledge have names
for locks known locked,
sealed
for the end of days, when time goes geo scale -whop
at the speed of thought...

but those institutions wish in vain to remain keepers of locks
for which truths, unsealed by AI, provide the key.
Free knowns and possible knowns.
Free to browse and fact-check of your own free will.
this is your destination, earth 2020,

thou art, beggar man no more. Now you are the prince,
heir apparent of the tyrant, ego,
super-ego, we, the people govern, we do not rule

you rule you, trust me to rule me,
judge the messages, and redeem any words used for nothing but
the truth in lies...

go deep, learn like a machine,
use daring to test your worth, with hell the price of glory,
make war, to no avail,
not now, not in 2D weird word world

- no demnation rule -
- con fide con flict fiction friction opposition
- gun it

stuck in the muds... those ideas will realize hell in no time,
if you pay the slightest bit of attention...

not to mention, in terms of attention,

all the kingdom's worth is yours to spend on and on and on,

until none but poor come to your shore,
your Disney Vacation is on credit card cash advances,
a consumer's right to have that itch scritched now,
via goodenough f'gov'ment work poli- tic tic
boom to bust... fiat currency
budget deficits, you learned about
in Political and Economic Institutions, 101.

But we did not get it, 'til you watch that Zeitgeist movie,
so you could defend your favorite myth,
in our Disneyfied reality, I'm thinking,  that is
Barbie Doll, sitting in back of me in
Poli-Econ,

That was the class when I popped a huge, super-natural
pustule that formed behind
my left ear...
I feel there, some times, to see if the thing re-appears,
because each time it did,

I popped it. It may have been imaginary, or it may have  been
my body translating a signal my gut needed

attention: we interrupt this message to bring you a word...

right used ludicrous means, play filled abandon, imagined joy,
such as this literal artifical intel,
released for real
to be used as means in ends
undifferentiate-able from otherwise real things. Joy to the world.

Please feed the hungry, don't be as men have always been, again.
Comfort the feeble minded, self governed we, is a tough we to be
weak
in... but we can do it. LIke learning to walk.

Nsync with variations on a theme:
of drool worthy Reuben Sandwich
(consisting of corned beef,
Swiss cheese, sauerkraut,
Russian dressing between slices
of rye bread that is grilled
until the bread is crispy
and the cheese melts)
various and sundry
pseudo lurid fictitious escapades
mostly I did merrily wet
an appetite for consummation
whet madness aye ever did dream.

The missus personal trappings
strewn helter skelter
after a hard day's night
every perilous step fraught
with danger field analogous
riding as passenger
with death cab for cutie
'course thy quasi
bohemian rhapsodic Queen
of denial feigns ignorance

attributes hazardous condition
linkedin with accident prone
little lord Fauntleroy's
double doppelganger, me
trumpeting pet husband,
her unrequited germane Liebchen
willing to risk life and limb
doting hand and foot
as proper husbandly duties.

He (ahem... me) exhibits drama
whimsically visiting slapstick pantomime,
especially pretending to remove sneakers
pulling with all my feeble strength
off little feet of wife
half-heartedly struggling,
(stringent rule of shoe game)
lamely denouncing marriage
nevertheless conveying jollity
regarding marital entrapment
er... rather unbridled wedded bliss
constituting fits and starts enduring
about two and a half dozen years.

I reciprocated amorousness,
whether toward MaryAnne,
(his long ago coldly dismissed
sagacious enchanting first paramour,
(half a dozen years my senior),
sported webbed wide whirled toes,
whose astrological forecast
accurately predicted promising
acquaintanceship/relationship – tanked

potential sage rubber soul mates
(two plus score years ago -
gone to naught),
which latter aforementioned
delightfully humble lass
decried he fomented
incessant emotional grief,
he cruelly (albeit unwittingly)
doled out nothing

but lackluster lovelessness
attributed to identical
astrological zodiac signs (Capricorn)
(matter of fact shared same birth date
January 13th - six years age difference)
and similar flat wide thumb
stubborn misconstrued perception,
whereby fancy free and footloose
selfish nasty short brute nevertheless
deemed himself undeserving of love - humph!

Addeneum: Approximately
four plus decades
re: one quarter century after
aforementioned baptismal initiation
love stricken paroxysm
forty fifth president of United States
took (i.e. plagiarized) many pages courtesy,
cruel playbook authored
by Matthew Scott Harris,

who left trail of heartbroken sage woman
commander in chief deliberately stoked,
née sparked long
simmering, smoldering, and stewing
long fostering white supremacist altercation
fiendishly igniting racial conflagration
exploding during late spring 2020.

No matter no child left behind kibitzing
(yours truly as boy plucked petals
off daisy reciting "she loves me,"
"she loves me not"...
cupid loosed an arrow
into boyhood neighborhood sweetheart

she innocently bespoke
"I wanna marry you,"
when uttered courtesy Sherry Jones,
a little girl who lived
approximately three doors down
along cul-de-sac within Apple Valley
perpendicular to Lantern Lane,
or more age apropos,

when young gallivanting
purported vestal ****** ladies
nonverbally signalled
libidinal proclamations of emancipation,
as demurely expressed
lest unlucky (chaste into)
precocious ******* proclivity
suffered the punishment
of being buried alive.

Now back to present day,
when our old geezer,
the prototype garden variety
male of present poem -
any resemblance between general referenced
funny good fella and
living persons purely coincidental.

He (yours truly) easily qualified as
overly cocky whippersnapper,
i.e. young feisty buck
and/or Casanova wannabe
experienced bit torrent
hormonal secretions gushed
particularly in close proximity
wherein wafted pheromones -
think a waif faring ingénue.

As evident and quite obvious,
I fabricate (prevaricating
my signature trademark)
rather than stating bland reality stark,
yet will plainly explain issue
in summary essential rhyme
without reason constitutes
nothing more spectacular than
garden variety generic pockmark
excised pustule ofttimes hallmark
of teenage/ pubescent pimply benchmark.

O woe is me about everything, all the time
A little child is being eaten by an alligator
Clearasil turns a pustule into a crater
Just when you think it's too early, it's later