"quacks" poems
I get accused of a lot of things at first glance
"You're simplistic, you're hiding something
You have no convictions, you don't think deeply"
Usually by those who I consider to be on intellectual crutches
If you're gonna come up to talk to me from a religious context
from a spiritual context
from a hierarchical, metaphysical, eat this **** popsicle mindset
Don't expect me to swallow
Don't expect me to talk
You won't like what I have to say
Because really you just want me to agree with you
If you want me to respect your framework
When you have nothing but the claims of quacks
and the feelings you gleaned from your last psychedelic trip
to back you up
While I have to sit back and listen to how I'm close minded
Close minded for wanting some real truth in this universe
unfiltered, raw, verifiable, and in my hand
and that anything other than that is a spray paint over
my true awakening
Then I guess I'll just have to be that *******
to die for these intellectual sins
The Eldest Son of Matt, hater of pretense
Hypocrite to the highest level
Build me up into a figure of idolatry
Just like you do with the rest of your ego cases
Priests, Gurus, Rabbis, Rockstars, Poet sensations
Tell me how wonderful it is to listen to them
Tell me how I should be more in touch with a tree
Tell me how I don't dream
When all my life is but that
Tell me how I'm not deep when you make no attempt to learn
Who I am, and where I have come from
Misinterpret my teachings, and claim me to feel
As if I was the newest son of god
When all I want is for people to get beyond blinders
and love each other, and to get beyond the metaphysical rat race
Tell me that I'm supposed to live and let live
While you jam your beliefs down my throat
and expect me to respect getting philosophically tea bagged
Tied up to the crucifix
and asking me to repent for my search for truth
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
And I will make sure that if anything were to happen,
It would do little to affect you.
It's not everyday
You find a goose that lays eggs
With speckled jewels and golden flakes
The world is full of incongruity
And there's no doubt about the certainty
That something bad may happen,
And we don't want that, do we?
So listen carefully.
The world is a giant carboniferous spicule
Hanging in a nest of hydroxic gas and particulae
Spinning within the gaps of a blackened dome
Of limitless space and out of control
There is no telling what way it will go
There is no prediction that has fortold
Any number of moments in this tumbling slumber
Between the darkest hell and the further horizon
I so deftly advise you with all certification
To please place your bets and fly by echolocation
Your eyes will mislead, your ears will displease
And there is no way we can refund divine warranties
This machinery
has a half life of quarks
And energies that vibrate into other orbits
Trajectories
Retaining the spin and informative piece
Of that golden goose let loose amongst the canopy
Of dark,
off into neverland, straight on
Till new morning,
Beyond the stars
So please good sir don't migrate away from me
I have so much to give and such pain I have seen
Those that fatten their goose with **** till it quacks,
Those ravenous souls who ate their gift for a snack,
And when life finally cuts them down to their last,
They will howl and yowl and pray that goose back.
This is a game,
Have a good little laugh
Don't waste your time or your money
On a daffy Aflack
Policy that keeps you policed to the earth,
No way to fly,
Stuck in the dirt.
That is no way to live in the dream,
That is no way to let death trickle in
So please, pretty please, make sure you have coverages
And a couple extra dollars in the pocket of those jeans
Wander freely, you great big atomic bomb, you.
Do catastrophic damages and I'll pay your dues.
Ride the road coast to coast,
Fly a bird 'round the world,
Take a truck till you're home,
Find a love you can trust.
Find a place where your egg
And your legs seek nowhere else
Lay down those roots,
It's Eden or bust.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 1:03 PM UTC
Ripples riddle the mirror,
Below, faint shapes shift
Elegant forms float here and there,
Little legs thunder, leaving a gentle wake
in lieu of turmoil.
The air is thick, the sun falling,
Already lost behind billowing storm clouds
Etched chaotically on the horizon.
Invisible but for the ubiquitous light.
It is the dragonflies time,
A darting zip and an effortless flutter.
From surfacing **** to towering Reed,
Searching for something we can only pretend to know.
Determined housewives, faces set,
Arms pumping and hips swaying
Their Anatidean waddle so fitting
Their quacks, a wall of stereo.
A lone rusted sign warns of gators,
but of signs, there is that one alone.
No rogue bubbles or beady eyes,
no ticking of swallowed clocks,
no suspicious splashes.
nothing.
My battery is now as low as the sun,
and my pen is as empty.
A not so subtle poke in the ribs
from a universe in protest of the
bad poetry being inked.
c'est la vie
or as we say in English
**** it
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 10:47 AM UTC
Quack! Quack! Quack!
Ok, where’s everybody?
I’ve been gliding round in this pond the last half
hour singing my Duck-thoven tunes:
Quack! Quack! Quack
Quack!Quack! Quack!
And so why’s everyone avoiding me
like I don’t know how to make conversation?
Quack? Quack?
The other day the duckling glided near
and asked if I’d share bits of the bread
thrown to me by
these pesky humans who can’t
read the Don’t-feed-the-ducks signs
and I swallowed the bread bits whole and said:
Quack! Quack! Quack!
And the silly duckling ran away crying! –
Hey how can I answer with food in my mouth?
Quack! Quack! Quack!
Your mum taught you to speak with food in your mouth?
Quack! Quack! Quack!
Have you got any brains in that quacking head of yours, duckling?
Really, no reason to avoid me…
I mean the other day they asked me what
I think about the environment and I said:
Quack! Quack! Quack!
and they all looked astonished
at the wisdom of my words.
So why avoid me now?
This cute **** duck glided quite close to me
and asked me what I thought about pre-marital ***
and I said: Quack! Quack! Quack!
and I flapped my wings and walked on water
and held my head high with the sweetest:
Quack! Quack! Quack!
and that silly female duck jumped to the overhanging branches
and refused to come down for all my quacking:
Quack! Quack! Quack!
Seriously, what’s this all about? –
You excite a ****** duck and then hide in the branches?
What’s this pond coming to!
The other day a silly fish swam close to me and asked
for directions round the pond and I said:
Quack! Quack! Quack!
And the fish said: Hey! I don’t understand Duck language.
Don’t you speak Finglish?
What the Duck! I said. Why don’t you learn Quacklish!
Quack!Quack!Quack!
So where’s everybody?
And really I don’t understand why
everyone’s avoiding me.
I mean really I can qua-ttle off the Entire History of the Pond
and the Holy Texts Revealed by Duck God to the Duck Prophets
and I can quack about anything and I can quack
about all the wines and grog
and I can teach the creatures how to change pond water into wine;
and I can quack about all the delicacies in the pond
and I can sing too, listen:
Quack! Quack! Quack!
And such a delightful voice and such original tunes too!
A graduate of Duck-kovsky Underwater Academy.
And so – hey! – where’s everybody?
Why do they avoid me like I’ve got the Swine Flu or something?
Hey, I’m just a pond duck who likes to Quack! Quack! Quack!
You got a problem with that, you quacks!
Oct 2, 2010
Oct 2, 2010 at 10:40 AM UTC
Donald quacks. We better duck.
Tell the Cubans to mute that trumpet
While we, together, improve our luck
(or end up ruled by a Socialist Strumpet.)
The mallard was rebuked by Mitt;
adversaries began to bray.
The ducklings murmured: *guy’s unfit
to be elected anyway*...
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
Nima showed me
her aunt's apartment
in London. Posh place,
up market. She had
her own key to get in,
and once we entered,
she closed the door
behind us and leaned
against it like one having
found the Promised Land.
So what do you think?
She asked. Lovely place.
Does she live here alone?
No, she has a daughter;
moody ***** has her
own crowd, sort of in-lot.
We wandered around,
room to room and stood
at last in the kitchen.
Coffee? Tea? She asked.
Tea, please, two sugars,
little milk, I replied.
Take a seat in the lounge,
I'll bring it through.
I went in the lounge;
posh place, a settee
of white soft material,
chairs brown, aged,
but antique and fragile
looking. There were
paintings on the walls,
water colours, rural,
country scenes, horses,
fox hunts, red coated
hunters, hedges, trees.
There was a large table,
armchairs, lovely carpet,
and a lampshade in one
corner. Nima came in
carrying a tray with two
cups in saucers, spoons,
sugar bowl, jug of milk.
She put it down on a small
coffee table by the settee.
She sat down next to me
and kissed my cheek.
At last,she said, just us,
alone, no nosey parkers,
no nurses or medical
quacks to interfere or
spoil our fun or lives.
I sat gazing around
the room. You been
here before? Of course,
as a child I often came
and stayed if my parents
were too busy with their
careers or away on the
matters medical. I smelt
her perfume, sensed her
thigh touch mine, soft,
moving against mine.
Why were you sectioned?
I asked, looking at her.
Drugs and a sudden mental
breakdown and attempts
on my life by me, she said.
I see, I said, studying her
closer, each aspect of her
features. Forget that, she
said, lets drink up our drinks
and get to bed and have ***
Whose bed? The spare, not
Aunt's, she said, smiling.
Is it a single or double bed?
Double with silk sheets, so
watch out you don't slip out
of bed while having it away.
We drank our drinks quickly,
then she showed me the bath
and the toilet and the bedroom.
What if your aunt returns?
She's in Ireland with her moody
daughter, won't be back until
Monday week, Nima said.
First a bath together, then
hot ***** *** in bed, she said.
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 2:21 AM UTC
She knows she’s in
the sepia photograph
but doesn’t remember why
or who the others are
or why she dressed
as she did back then
or why there was a dog there
at the front
she keeps the photograph
tucked between
the pages
of the black Bible
some clergy gave her
and a dark secret
she was forbidden to tell
and sometimes
that short woman
with the Mongolian features
steals it to gawk at
then she has to go get it back
sometimes violently
which brings the nurses running
with their rough hands
and strait jackets
or that skinny woman
who always stares
takes hold of it
and stares at it
pointing to the various faces
of the males and females
and at the dog
and smiles and wets herself
and then laughs loudly
which causes
the other inmates
to bellow or laugh
or cry or scream
bringing the nurses trotting
with their what’s going on?
or what’s all this then?
she holds the photograph
to her ***** when she can
or tries to remember
who they all are
staring back at her
including herself
and when the quacks
question her
about the photo
as to who is who
or why she has kept it
she doesn’t have a clue
and one said
she ought not to have it
as it disturbed her
but a nice nurse
(and there were some) said
o no doctor she needs that
there will be hell to pay
if she doesn’t have it
tucked between the pages
of the Good Book
she kisses herself some days
talks to one or two
of the others there
but who they were
or to whom she speaks
she doesn’t know
and on cold wintery days
she looks toward the sun
for a message
or a warming glow.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 5:09 AM UTC
Know it all in theory never practiced
Waddles and quacks
Assumptions under false pretenses
Opinions often criticize
Judgments without a clue
Senseless chatter
Assless pants
Years behind
Broken spirits
Wavering faith
What is proof?
Wasted life and selfish acts
Yeah, what do you know?
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 9:07 PM UTC
I seize in the day, I seize in the night
Convulsions plague me throughout my life
The stiffness comes, And then it goes
But the worst is afterward, when I’ve discovered that my friends can turn into foes
The mere sight of it has scared them off
As a result they laugh, taunt and scoff
I seize in the day, I seize in the night
Medicines plague me throughout my life
The neurologist says “Let’s try this one”
Dilatin, Depakote, Tegretol, Topamax
They try my last nerve, Until finally I say
“Haven’t you tried enough on me, you quacks?!?”
I seize in the day ,I seize in the night
Must I wear a “dogtag” for all my life?
This little tag, on my necklace, it labels me
Can’t you see the medical symbol and on the other side in big bold letters “EPILEPSY”
It’s a ****** on the self-esteem
It’s a reminder that I belong to a different regime
One of a nature gone to extremes, If that is what I let it be
I seize in the day, I seize in the night
I don’t give up, I say to my brain and my soul, “Fight, Fight, FIGHT!”
I’m frustrated and don’t give up
Although there are times when I want to, I don’t.
I’ve been a fighter from the day I was born
And in the heat of this battle of neurons and neurologists
My determination and perseverance were forged.
The more I seized, the more I fought
Through the trauma of it all, lessons were learned and taught
And the more I seized, the more I realized
That Epilepsy was a lesson in Serenity.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC
This empty ***** bottle,
has been cuddled and swaddled and squandered.
In my ***** it seeps to every dame between,
a dad and not knowing her own preponderance.
I **** I **** by the ****** of my hilt,
of the sword of unrighteous, self help,
and filling their wombs with guilt.
I've never helped anyone all of my life.
Though they would tell you different mistruths,
of their positional view, so skewed by proof,
undo, that I sent them through.
It's a fun house of lies and mirrors shaping figures,
of veneers, so botched that plastic surgeon quacks wouldn't own up to
the scars.
I ferment peoples living.
I turn drunk ****** into angels.
I mask charlatan as queens,
and poison my own gut with the fakes in my head.
Crops die.
Crust subdues verdance.
Chronos rhymes the days and night.
Course subjugation to penance.
But now I seethe my own head into my throat,
and end in ink wrote as prose.
Killing beauty. Art.
**** Art.
Today is.
Death.
Tomorrow's not life,
nor living,
breathing nor breath,
oxygen's just a molecule,
it causes no spark,
except in molecules charged,
with dividing and subdividing,
and rejoining and conjoining into something that can use it.
happy flights :)
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 11:01 PM UTC
Winter Birds
Slow circles
survival’s muttering flotilla
of buoyant quacks
that worry black water’s warmth
of 32 degrees
just short of the freeze
stirred
by tired paddling
Maybe a dozen—clockwise slow
till morning finds the one that slept
through snow’s hypnosis
in dawn’s quiet clench....
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 6:04 PM UTC
.
D
u u c u
c k D c
k u k
D c k D
u D u u
c c k c
k D k
D u D
u c u
c k c
k
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
Bitter.
Tangy.
Chest poking,
distress...
anxiety.
An orange peeled.
A tomato congealed.
Acid rising,
distress...
anxiety.
laughter.
disaster.
911 on the line,
distress...
anxiety.
Please stay on
until we arrive.
strobing lights.
harrowing ride.
11 hours of machines
distress...
anxiety.
1 year to a MRI.
1 year to live or die?
A Canadian health care story
distress...
anxiety.
Take some of these pills,
and call us in 5 years,
distress...
anxiety.
Quacks.
Waddles.
Going south.
http://www.robross.ca
Nov 17, 2009
Nov 17, 2009 at 10:33 AM UTC
I gaze at the dark skies,
said Nima, it matches
my depression in depth
and mood, sitting in
the hospital ward
in my private room
my parents paid for.
They come now and then,
my mother more,
to moan and criticise,
to moralise about
my life and deeds.
I wait for Benedict to come;
he brings me cigarettes
and chocs, brings me
news of the outside world.
I have met him in London
if the quacks allow me out
on a day or weekend pass.
We stayed one night
at that cheap hotel
off Charing Cross Road:
the bed was old
and creaked each time
we made love or moved
in nightly passion.
I do not think
he will come today:
he works all week days
as a rule; I must contend
alone with my mood
and mind and dark skies
and day to day depression
in my own way and fashion.
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 2:55 AM UTC
More potent than caffeine
I am electricity
I am twitches
and I will shoot out in all directions
my powerhouse is your stomach
Feel me
in your
fingertips
static shock without contact
suddenly you are running
racing
and will fidget as your brain
fires sticky signals
tiresome synapses
it repeats
for eleven years it has
take me to your quacks
I’m done with my anxiety.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 12:14 PM UTC
My heart whistles a song complete with glee
When I hear the lovely Sun come risen,
The delicate buzzing of nature’s bee
Flitting through whispering woods a given.
Soaring high above the tops, brushing back
Winds of time and worlds alike chiming flat.
Blasting through peace of mind, the sound of quacks
Do seem to be heard from below the gnats.
Hinting that there is more to touch and have
The beetles of spots swarm to a log
That rots with an age so old and concave
It hardly holds up the weight of a frog.
Our time with nature is fleating fast so
Give it one last glance and then we must go.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 4:54 PM UTC
I’ve written enough small poetry
to start a nuclear war.
Do you want to die in traffic
behind the wheel of your car? Or in yr rodeer camp next fall.
Control eludes us. The hero
loses urinary control, the unified nation
loses missile control, lost my timepiece, lost my metronome,
now my music is ethereal as an archangel’s.
No owl hoots or duck quacks
or squirrels ********
or spiders spanning rampikes.
The floccinaucinihilipilification of nature.
No greater tragedy than a tipping
point that tests the hero’s gullibility, complicity,
self-control, comity, sense of humor
which is the only remedy not to hate those in authority.
Them guys with guns at the Michigan state house,
fat bearded tattooed ****** off white bros.
Norsemen, Crusaders, Vikings, Britons.
For despair there is no forgiveness. Peace out.
Nuclear mischief, mad Man’s most incandescent bloom
and the devil who exists to carry the load
when we misbehave and fight among ourselves.
I wake up to my skin boiling off my bones.
Humor is the only remedy, or is ardor the best way forward.
We’ll see how things work out in the next generation.
The same diverse, spoiled, unpatriotic revolutionaries as at the nation’s
beginning
trying to reverse the future, making phone calls to get out the vote in
Georgia, hating the desert for having no water.
Events keep piling up,
the future depends on ourselves.
Conflict is inevitable and in this conflict power must be challenged by
power
so err on the side of patience, perseverance and impermanence.
Dec 7, 2021
Dec 7, 2021 at 6:15 AM UTC
When I do see them flying ducks
Hear squarkes and ***** and quacks and such
I do think they ducks look great
But they'd look so much better on my plate
Roast potatoes piled high
With peas and cabbage on the side
That's the way they ducks should be
In a rich dark gravy just for me
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 3:23 PM UTC
The thing is, the lesson is, I survived.
Never mind the rust or the abandonment
or the sabotage or the self sabotage,
or the wandering in the wilderness,
bars and hitchhiking in the night,
the wrong turns and the right turns unrecognized,
or the helpers and healers, the jacklegs,
quacks, shamen and priests.
Never mind the things that came undone,
and the constant rearranging of fate
or God’s insistence in letting me stew
in my own juices. Never mind
the arrows or thorns or innocent bystanders
content to watch me bleed, those who
see me as entertainment or suspect.
Never mind the constant need for maintenance,
the broken parts, the ones I could fix
and the ones I could not,
the depression, the fear, the fight,
the checkered past, a perfect target
for any who care to shoot.
Never mind all of it. The parts that recovered
and the parts that never will.
The blood shed! So much of it.
So many tears. So much lostness,
darkness and fire. The wars. The surety
that you were never made for the world you live in,
the anger
I felt, uncomfortable with it every time it rises, and
the anger
aimed at me, a thing more comfortable to you,
more familiar,
but no less weaponized,
Never mind all of it.
I survived.
I found love. I gave love.
Some things I did, mattered.
At times, there is joy.
Don’t tell me there is no God.
I know better.
I survived.
Apr 12, 2021
Apr 12, 2021 at 9:09 AM UTC
Nima's mother came
to the side ward
where her daughter Nima
was sitting by a window
in her dressing gown
looking at the passing trains.
You look no better,
her mother said.
Better than what?
Nima said,
turning to eye her mother.
Than last time,
her mother said,
walking into the ward,
and sitting in a chair
by the bed.
You look tired.
I am tired,
always tired,
Nima said,
looking away
from her mother,
focusing on a train
going by.
Her mother sighed.
You need to get better,
how is the treatment?
Ask the quacks
they're in charge
not me,
Nima said,
watching a milk float
go by on the road
across the way.
You are a very
spoilt child and rude,
her mother said.
Have you come
to upset me or what?
Nima said.
Have you seen
that boy again?
May have,
Nima said,
turning to gaze
at her mother.
Have you or not?
Her mother said
in a firmer voice.
What is it to you
whom I see?
Nima said.
He could be
a drug pusher
and you'd be back
in dirt hole again,
her mother said.
He's not a pusher,
he has nothing to do
with drugs which
is why I like him,
Nima said,
remembering she
and Benny in
the cheap hotel bed
making out
at the weekend.
Is he our type?
Mother said.
Our type?
I doubt it very much
and am glad,
Nima said.
Her mother sighed
and stood up
and walked to where
her daughter sat
and stood over her.
If it wasn't for me
you'd be in some
cheap ward
with the others,
Mother said coldly.
When did you
see him last?
At the weekend,
Nima said,
seeing in her mind's eye
she and Benny
in the bed stark naked,
curtains drawn back
taking in the view.
What did you do?
Mother said.
Nothing much,
sat and talked,
Nima said,
remembering
the landlady coming
to the door with tea
that Sunday morning
and Benny going
to the door
in just his underwear
and she(Nima) smiling
at the landlady's stare.
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 3:53 AM UTC
.
returning to my childhood home in thought
returning to mallard quacks tolling
and the hour toiled
by ever thirsty church bells
cold damp rock house with ammonites
and belemnites coiling in the walls
and a cooling ichthyosaur
futilely trying to swim in the silty soil
struggling to catch prey
beneath the foundation
its darkness is rummage
.
a flush lawn planted nilly and obscene
monkshood mint cotton grass and ling
warm mentions an evening fire
and the family room
i'm mooding through the memory
and it grooms apart organic
birthing not river not smoke
rat sized earwigs take to the air heat
over the boiling tar garage roof
and i return home back through time
child swinging on thick vines suspended
by the yew over the stream
the willows dapple and paddle
the fir trees return
fierce sproutings of involving shade
ridding the house
of the intruder new extension
riding time back
and the caravan my parents
would later park on concrete
is swallowed
the storms of a bad year return the old wall
at the property edge
and the cottage reforms an ancient pace
with its surroundings
.
it's no longer my families claimed place
re-seemed with ghoulish history
the workhouse returns
and files with hard poverty
the wall punches through
in what will be the kitchen
and the cottage runs through long
with the neighbours space
dormitory takes the whole upstairs length
and the legend of the garment thief
drops ghost and rumour to live again
and then all this too flees out of history
.
rushing back through time
and this all sinks into the levels
swamp life takes over
and the ammonites
moisten with anticipation
prehistory is sprout to begin
.
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 10:08 AM UTC
Nima splashed water from one
of the fountains in Trafalgar Square
over Baruch. Laughing she did
it again, but he side-stepped, like
one out of rain, hands wide as if
to bless. He'd met her a few moments
before; by Nelson's Column, she’d
written from her hospital bed, drug
taking recovering (so said), cold
turkey or whatever she'd scribed.
Finishing the ablutions, she walked
on, he followed, stepping beside
her, catching her in profile, taking
in her cropped hair, brown, washed
and washed. She talked of the nursing
staff, who talked of her behind her
back, some at least, she added, chat
of the *** cupboard we used, that
time you came, she said, laughing,
walking out of the Square, along by
the gallery, her voice too loud, he
thought, but sounded out by the
traffic passing. She was clothed in
a blue dress, too short, he thought,
seeing her thighs, sans stockings or
tights, sandaled feet. They went into
Leicester Square, she talking of one
of the quacks she'd seen, head case,
foreign, fancies himself, she added.
Baruch, spied the billboards, new
films, merchandise, drinks, cigarettes,
lowering his eyes, watching her sway
her hips and **** hands swinging,
gesturing. She stopped by a bench
and sat down, he did likewise, ears
catching her words, holding them in
his mind, something about them being
jealous of my sexuality she added,
giving Baruch the eye, maybe thinking
me a ***** a druggie slapper, she
said laughing, her hand rubbing against
the top of his, he sensing skin on skin,
remembering, the quickie in the side
room, cupboard size, just off the ward.
He talked of his boring job, the mind
numbing labours, the Coltrane jazz LP,
played on and on, he said, eyes closed.
She lay her head on his shoulder, he felt,
smelt the combination of expensive scent
and hospital smell (soaps or disinfectants),
felt her fingers rubbing his. She took out
a cigarette, offered him one, he took and
she lit up with red plastic lighter. Inhaled,
exhaled, inhaled, silence, her hand wrestled
with his, watching smoke rise, upwards,
twirling, in the hot summer spread skies.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
If it quacks
Like a duck
Acts like a duck
Why get stuck
It’s a duck
What the ****
Here’s what
The case is
Of course he’s a racist
He’s covered all bases
When it comes
To other faces
He spews hate
That he reitterates
At rallies
And debates
Where he anticipates
The reactions
That he rates
Chances are
None to slim
That we would ever
Vote for him
He’s a prisoner
Of his own whims
If it quacks
Like a duck
Acts like a duck
Why get stuck
It’s a duck
What the ****
Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2016. All rights reserved.
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 5:29 AM UTC
The doctor examined
Anne's leg stump
in the small room
Sister Paul was there
looking on
and the Kid was there
staring at the stump
he'd seen many times before
are you all right Benny?
the nun said
yes just looking
how the stump is doing
he said
Anne smiled at him
and then glared
at the quack
then the nun
seems to be healing well
the quack said
rubbing it gently
with his fingers
well get your *******
fingers off now
Anne said
now you've seen it
and fingered it
Anne that is enough
bad language
sorry doctor
she has her
bad days
the doctor stared at Anne
not sure he'd heard
the words correctly
and reddened
o no problem
must be painful still
but it is healing nicely
he said
moving away from Anne
and her leg stump
he looked at Benny
your her friend?
yes her best friend
Benny said
my only friend
in this place
Anne said
the nun sighed
and the doctor
followed her out
of the room
leaving Anne
and Benny alone
glad you were there Kid
can't abide quacks
at the best of times
let alone when they're
********* you leg stump
and peering up your dress
Benny stared
at the stump still
sorry it hurts you
he said
pain's pain Kid
it's how you
cope with it
that matters
she pulled the red dress
over the stump
and said
pass me my crutch Kid
and lets get out
of this torture chamber
and go down to the beach
and sunshine and gulls
and sand and away
from this lot
Benny passed her
her crutch
and helped her up
and he followed her
along the passageway
as she crutched
at quite a speed
we'll go to the beach Kid
once I've peed
he waited
by the loo door
as she went in
and he wondered
if the **** word
was a sin.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 2:59 AM UTC