Made, Made, Made,
We are made into what we are.
We are made
Into monsters,
Into dreamers;
          Believers.
We make ourselves;
Make each other.
We make our kingdoms
and our own personal Hells.
We are the queens of our realms
          And the kings and princes
We are the villains
The rabble-rousers
The Revolutionaries.
We are the killers
        Of our enemies
        Of our own
        Of the land.
We are made into what we are
And oftentimes,
It is not our fault.

vanishing hope
for consumption as a way of life
obese children shovel pharmaceuticals
down the throats of the infirm
internally developing low-tone hymns
relating to slow death by corporate greed –
albino judicators
pass melanin laws
felonizing  the populace
perpetuating the proletariat
while pontificating
on the post 9/11 society –
isolated rabble-rousers
screaming at eggshell walls
dislodge tacks holding together
the fabric of American culture
with ingrown and chewed fingernails
flailing armies
think back to trench warfare –
robust midwives mediate
heated discussions
as the United Nations blindly
support U.S. imperialism
looking for kickbacks
from energy companies
globalization giving all humanity
incurable S.T.D.’s –
the last free house mouse
bounds betwixt the ruins
energetically sniffing the rubble
seeking some small morsel
to satisfy its hunger –

An errant search hath brought me here,
To the rabble rousers feigning an ear,
Complain, complain, yell, scream and jeer,
Seems to me it's not your year?

Label, bait, point your fingers and blame,
Knowing your side has lost the game.
No, America just won't be the same,
Asylum no longer, -run by the insane.

It's an army I'm facing:
A hundred marker-wielding,
Bespectacled preacher-teachers
With a set process, a formula
Defined by science
And tried by no child
Without consequence. It's
A national army, banners waving.

I pledge each morning to my
Country. (Thank you, great army,
For my life as a free child!) Then I
Sit in my assigned seat; I finish my
Assigned work. When the lesson
Ends, my friends and I discuss
(Thank you for amendment two!)

Our distrust of double-meanings -
Our distrust of everything - too
Many contradictions in a day.
All this while the snipers aim, (like
Strikebreakers coming to claim
The rabble-rousers) (Thank you for our

Peaceful assembly rights!) they remind us
To work hard for faraway and free days,
College parties with dean( drill sergeant)'s
Iron eyes over our (soon-to-be) soldier
Shoulders. (Thank you for privacy rights!)
We are reminded to
Complete our assignments quietly.
(Thank you for free speech.)

The drifter and the comely young women who gleamed with charisma walk passed the rabble-rousers on their way to tie the knot

The rabble-rousers cheer, tossing out superlatives, praising their oncoming matrimony
The young woman is chomping at the bit to finally settle down
The drifter is on the same boat, he can't keep living the life of a rolling stone
He's gonna give the married life a whirl

She has her dress in a brown paper bag and he has on the shiniest cuff links this side of the Pacific

Some say they just portrayed a happy couple
But behind closed doors they had hidden intentions
But I'd wager that they truly loved each other  
But my my opinion is superfluous, they know in their hearts what they're doing is right
So they got that going for them

They make their way to the ****** who is set to marry the two
Until they are ambushed by pinheads with the gift of gab and know it all's who know nothing  but still try to talk out of their ***** even though their heads are already wedged tightly up them already

Egregious questions and tauntings of habitual bullshitters
What was God thinking during their creation?
Good thing the worst of them all has been tarred and feather and ran out of town on a rail, or so I've been told

They finally reach their destination and say their vows right off their cuffs
Say I do, kiss with just me in attendance
And leave all these sheep all these irritants behind
And embark on their new life together

A journo aware, equally at home in Palaces, Halls or the streets
Trained to vision duplicity slants and angles and know the crux
Able to see the story behind the story behind the story and more
In ethics robed proudly while mendacity and shenanigans cry shy
Show me the Dai Lama in a crack den or Bill Gates ******* in Goa

Semi demi illiterates with joined-up thinking or unthinking
Immatures lacking emotional intelligence or gainful statures
In groupthink mired settles on group delusions in vicissitudes
We're programming or flooding seeds of doubts or confusing
As if maladroit fantasies are gospels not simpletons' chicanery

Dismissives sad dolts duly outflanked and outclassed inherently
Ignoramuses crude and coarse in true form lacking introspection
Wear disgrace proudly in persistence and parade idiocy fittingly
Strength in numbers neither nullifying stupidity or indignities
Indulgent cowards and sick gate-keeps of unearned entitlements

Nonentities, rabble rousers shamed vigilantes in emotional dearth
Claiming and luxuriating in the depravities of their deficiencies
I remain what I am and no apologies necessary for august status
Your diminutive deeds merely reflects your statures and intellects
Little minds already condemn you to suicides of real aspirations



CopyrightLaurenceA6thNov2018.allrightsreserved

Yevgeny Yevtushenko*


No monument stands over Babi Yar.
A drop sheer as a crude gravestone.
I am afraid.
            Today I am as old in years
as all the Jewish people.
Now I seem to be
                a Jew.
Here I plod through ancient Egypt.
Here I perish crucified, on the cross,
and to this day I bear the scars of nails.
I seem to be
            Dreyfus.
The Philistine
              is both informer and judge.
I am behind bars.
                Beset on every side.
Hounded,
       spat on,
              slandered.
Squealing, dainty ladies in flounced Brussels lace
stick their parasols into my face.
I seem to be then
                a young boy in Byelostok.
Blood runs, spilling over the floors.
The barroom rabble-rousers
give off a stench of ***** and onion.
A boot kicks me aside, helpless.
In vain I plead with these pogrom bullies.
While they jeer and shout,
                         "Beat the Yids. Save Russia!"
some grain-marketeer beats up my mother.
0 my Russian people!
                   I know
                         you
are international to the core.
But those with unclean hands
have often made a jingle of your purest name.
I know the goodness of my land.
How vile these anti-Semites-
                            without a qualm
they pompously called themselves
the Union of the Russian People!
I seem to be
            Anne Frank
transparent
           as a branch in April.
And I love.
          And have no need of phrases.
My need
       is that we gaze into each other.
How little we can see
                     or smell!
We are denied the leaves,
                         we are denied the sky.
Yet we can do so much --
                        tenderly
embrace each other in a darkened room.
They're coming here?
                    Be not afraid. Those are the booming
sounds of spring:
                 spring is coming here.
Come then to me.
               Quick, give me your lips.
Are they smashing down the door?
                                No, it's the ice breaking ...
The wild grasses rustle over Babi Yar.
The trees look ominous,
                      like judges.
Here all things scream silently,
                               and, baring my head,
slowly I feel myself
                    turning gray.
And I myself
            am one massive, soundless scream
above the thousand thousand buried here.
I am
     each old man
                 here shot dead.
I am
    every child
               here shot dead.
Nothing in me
             shall ever forget!
The "Internationale," let it
                            thunder
when the last anti-Semite on earth
is buried forever.
In my blood there is no Jewish blood.
In their callous rage, all anti-Semites
must hate me now as a Jew.
For that reason
                I am a true Russian!

I just heard that
they are going to pass a law
prohibiting smoking
e-cigarettes indoors.
Well if that is the case,
why don't they halt
all auto mobile traffic
in the down town area's,
like Inglis Street.

Them fumes
are a harsh pollutant...
Why can't they get real.
Now you're treating smokers like
they are
flesh eating zombies
that have halitosis
whom need to be steered
outside and away from token rabble-rousers
eating their daily bread.

the problem with me and you
is that our tattoos
look like their tattoos
and their tattoos do
look like ours too
which keeps us all a bit confused

we were individuals when we started this
rebel rousers, outskirt kids
making a statement with how we lived
now the statement is
look at this
we now look like all the other kids

cause his tattoo and her tattoo
look like mine and your tattoo
i might just get my tattoo removed
and go back to before i knew
you don't need a tattoo
to be an individual too

fat-backed rat finks
roller rink
kitchen sink
thinking back to Corporal Klinger
and Klingons in small thongs
smoking star ship bongs
in a smelly pond
broken wand only sparks slightly
mightily I try to be
free from discriminatory flees
I sit on the floor and be
quiet as a church mouse
in the glass house built by my
light-skinned spouse,
the louse trounced
pouncing on the bouncing ball
falling into the dousing mall
desert grouse espousing rabble-rousers  
in denim trousers
holding perennial flowers
while the gourd towers
bow their heads to the sunset
vetted Reds in beds of lead
break bread with the dead
instead of raking fall leaves
betting on getting let out
cloutless louts just about shout to be heard
and the herd moves forward
every methodically –

This isn’t a tale of snails and puppy dog tails
This isn’t my love opus
There will be no dandelions and daydreams

          This is poetry to fight to
          This is poetry to **** to
          This is poetry to **** to

     This is beauty
     This is art

It’s exhaust in your face
It’s fury after heartbreak
It’s bleeding and *** holes and mold
It’s the ache in your brain and the tugging at your soul
Maddening, hallucinogenic, tongue in and cheek and powerful

This is road rash and asphalt
This is for the punks who spit in your face
This is for thieves in the night
This is for the battered, shattered and abused
This is for those who can’t take anymore
This is for those still truckin along
This is for the addicts, ******* and opinionated
This is for the single fathers ****** over by baby mamas
This is for those who spit blood and get up off the canvas
This is for those crawling out of their skin
This is for those bursting at the seams
This is for those who pick scabs for fun
For those willing to fight and **** and feel

Those who steal at will, who shotgun beers at 8am
Those that fight bears with Bowie knives
Those that saddle burdens
This is for those too smart for their own **** good
This is for the unhinged
This is for those who walk the edge
This is for the devils
This is for the demons
This is for those who can’t put the genie back in the god ****** bottle
This is for those who wear their heart on their sleeve
This is for the ******
          For I am the ******
This is for the lunatics
This is for those with poor impulse control
The saddened and gladdened, miserable and merciful
The maniacal narcissists with delusions of grandeur
The glass half full types, swilling *****
The junkies. The ******.
This Rottweilers stuck in pint sized packages
The nonsensical. The absurd. The unbecoming.
The shivs and the shanks.
The me’s, myselves and the I’s.
The notorious. The nefarious.
The sinners and saints.
The lovers. The lost. The last of their kind.
The ones who broke the mold.
The outlaws and rabble-rousers.
The coke heads and kingpins.
The ones who live in no man’s land.
The beautiful. The scarred.
The demented and downtrodden.
The ones who give up Sunday morning ******* to put pen to paper.
The attention ******.
The anti-social lovers of humanity.
The Molotav cocktails.
The ticking time bombs
The powder kegs and the poets.
This is for those who can’t get enough
And for those who can’t stay away.
This is what poetry is.

Down there in the valley, where the lunatics play parts, until the cinema doors open and the latest movie starts, there's a Mexican with gold bars that are strapped into his trousers,
and down among the lunatics are the freemen, rebel rousers, it gets hard to make their features out as the silver screen lights eerily ,with blinkers sat across his eyes he stands alone and wearily,
calls to the main assembly, 'I'm waiting  for you and I'm here' but no one seems to notice him,
as Robert Redford rides a bike, he bites into a burrito, no sense in wasting good food and there's nowhere else that he can go, the gold bars start to melt and yet he's never once felt so alone, he wonders what is wife is at when he's so far away from home.

The lunatics are filing through the exit doors and who's to say, if what is madness here and now is going to be madness on another day.

The Mexican prepares a feast but no one comes except for me but
he's not in the least perturbed,
he did it once before and no one came then, so it's no surprise ,when looking in his eyes I see a medal made of bronze for me, a runner up in history, no golden ingots hidden there,
just questions and I wonder why
he came.

A dragon in my head has snorted,
Vile plumes of acrid ooze.
A great wall he built brick by brick,
Laying them upon his back.

Stacking layer year by year,
That is what got me here.
Taking blame for all your wrongs,
Eating the hatred from the throngs.

Bricks all left unsorted,
protecting all he has to lose.
Just one more stack that's the trick,
He wont be able to move, just one more stack.

From in this world he heard a tear,
He cast aside all his fear,
lifting his brow to find the cause,
Not daring to move and let it all fall.

His tomb, his throne, his resting place,
Now his pulpit, from where to speak.
Hearing his stirring people quake,
His eyelid opens, the earth does shake.

A little yawn, a stretch of feather,
"Settle down" his rousers tremble,
"go back to sleep, you'll scare the children."
Stir him again, next time he'll smirk.

The following poem crafted
not quite thirty months ago,
when severe bad hair day
found yours truly self sequestered
toying with notion
to coif, primp, and tease, his limp locks,
(whose hirsute trademark noncompliant)
donned, heaped, lacquered,
and puffed up swiftly tailored,
and the harried style
analogous to infamous forty fifth president.

I stand, (albeit figuratively) athwart
current mainstream popular opinions concluded
(i.e. swirling) within
metaphorical eddies storied Senate high court
case in point constituting acquittal regarding

good and plenti jinxed
high crimes and misdemeanors
purportedly linkedin quid pro quo
then president Donald John Trump,
whereby Republican partisan tipping point

ultimately decreed triumph
able, eager, ready, and willing to escort
kickstarting naysayers, rebel rousers,
and woebegone yawping zealots
(think Democrats) courtesy,

a fictional humanoid robot christened Gort
first debut appearance in 1951
20th Century Fox American science
fiction film The Day the Earth Stood Still.

Smug mugshot depicts
victorious commander in chief with jutting jaw
can now figuratively wring his hands
(more resembling puffed wheat bear paw)

whereat he reveals sharp glistening
barbed freighted, galvanized pointed claw
daring any elected official to follow scofflaw
(think Nancy Pelosi, who got hustled off -

her role as speaker of the House
security details immediately did withdraw
faster than greased lightning,
and/or Quick Draw Mcgraw
after she ripped Trump’s

State of the Union speech),
she definitely decreed guilty of fas paux
undoubtedly wincing how she got raw
end concerning high stakes Art of the Deal.

Drama under domed capital suddenly
(hello kitty) meow my
tectonically shifted analogous
to hydrogen bomb that fell out of sky
starring loose cannon shot
supremely above United States government law,

oh my dog I wanna die
versus enduring four more years,
one garden variety generic guy
who doth agonizingly decry
what will become of truth tellers forced to lie

thru their teeth...
er (yours truly) dentures, whereby
that will pose no deterrent for bluetooth to spy
every painstaking action cumulative data
nowhere off limits, yupper even

becoming American as apple pie
plus embedded into skein of ordinary house fly,
thus essentially fomenting grassroots
freedom fighting militia to stave off doom...
analogous as one after another protesters
dangle over the River Kwai.

The poodle stole
The noodles of sausages
And went on a roll among the rabble-rousers

Predicated on his paying obese sense
to Ronald McDonald patron saint
buzzfeeding his pie hole
courtesy "two Big Macs, Fillet-O-Fish
and a chocolate malted,"
he hungrily nabbed the ⁦Tuesday,
November 5, 2024⁩ election
ofttimes series of unfortunate events
found him holed up
in his Mar-a-Lago Donjon club.

After demise of western civilization
linkedin to implementation of Project 2025
courtesy the forty seventh president
of these currently fragmented United States,
left a legacy that rivaled
the fall of the Roman Empire.

Nary a trace of North American grandeur
discerned amidst the bombed out
rubble strewn landscape
after the second Civil War,
triggered global mortal kombat,
which far eclipsed
the first and second world wars
in death and destruction
(courtesy Beatle browed
foo fighting, gun toting rebel rousers,
who fomented revolution)
rent asunder many a complex edifice
symbolizing once cherished
life, liberty and pursuit of happiness.

Feeble hot pockets of resistance
constituting battle weary
tried and true troopers for democracy
outmatched by phalanx
of heavily armed local militia.

No matter wickedly wrought shenanigans
essentially widely accessible
Artificial Intelligence tools
allowed, enabled, and provided users
to synthesize audio in anyone’s voice,
generated photo-realistic images of anybody
doing nearly anything, and power
social media bot accounts
with near human-level conversational abilities —
and rendered on a vast scale and with a reduced
or negligible investment of money and time.

Due to the popularization of chatbots
and the search engines
they quickly became absorbed into,
also disallowed, disabled the first election season
in which large numbers of voters
routinely consumed information
that is not just curated
by Artificial Intelligence
but produced by Artificial Intelligence.

Blatantly unconcerned
about the populace at large,
nor any promises made
while he angrily stormed
across the country
stumping as dictator of the free world
after riling the madding crowds
enthusiastically populating campaign trail,
most of his waking hours spent
schmoozing with other de facto
autocrats while divvying up the *****
of annexed, subjected vassal states,
(a vast swath of territory
mainly comprising the former Soviet
breakaway Baltic states,
and about a dozen republics
under the sway of Russia),
violently yanked back in the fold
of Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin.

Within this brave new webbed, wide world
each man, woman and child
needs to fend for him/herself,
and those people flush
with ample disposable income
will pay (thru the nose,
hence the bigger the schnoz the better)
for security details unless he/she
presents an intimidating mean mien,
possesses black belt
with at least one martial arts,
or a powerful lucky charm
to ward off threatening hooligans.

Essentially lawlessness will run amuck
imagined in one guise as
the phantom of the opera nemesis
multi pronged ferocious buck
accompanied by an outsize
chicken legged stricken man,
who doth bawk and cluck
also enlisting cannibalistic
commander in chief wannabe
tricked out as Donald Duck.

Even prior to any political fracas,
I decry being dependent
(and at the mercy)
to purchase commodities
within consumerist society hierarchy,
yet envy people who live off the grid
fostering an ecologically friendly lifestyle,
versus being linkedin to Market capitalism
(an economic system where private individuals
and corporations own the means of production,

and the government has a limited role)
yet yours truly never aggressively learned how
to become self sufficient ala **** Proenneke
(him of "Alone in the Wilderness" fame -
when he retired at age 50 in 1967  
decided to build his own cabin in the wilderness
at the base of the Aleutian Peninsula,
in what is now Lake Clark National Park)
and certainly never belonged
to an Amish community,

never surviving with some degree
of independent comfort,
cuz the sole son of Harriet and Boyce Harris
overstayed his welcome
by living social under the same roof
as said mother and father,
who ofttimes delivered hollow ultimatums
to shape up or ship out –
meaning intolerance exhibited
toward their singular male offspring,

who struggled securing
and maintaining gainful employment),
hence fantasies throve
somehow magically acquiring
carpentry and farming skills
sturdy accommodations house families
where every timber secured by strong hands,
and stitch of clothing sewn courtesy adroit woman
traditional gender stereotypical roles obeyed
as if ordained by Biblical
credo, fiat, ideology, et cetera.

We are not a close family.
We do not share positive relationships.
Our parents tried, but then they stopped.
Outwardly we were making the attempt;
We shared meals,
Took trips,
Posed for Christmas cards.

There was no trust.

There was no confidence.

There was obligatory love.

(The love that compels you to remind your suicidal daughter that her death would make you die in pain from sorrow. Despite your situation, and lack of attempts to resolve it. You think about solutions, but you never act on them. And I have been in trouble of becoming you.)

There was established peace.

(If you count each person retreating to their respective rooms until reconvening for dinner then inevitably dispersing once more, this time to go cry and lick their wounds from the encounter.)

There was a democracy.

(Assuming that a democracy consists of two dictators and multiple, consistently irritated rabble rousers.)


And there was free speech.

(That was regulated for all offspring; excluding, of course, the youngest. He had to be heard somehow. )

The Conservative Government
know how to deal with The Pitchfork Mob
crazed loonies rabble-rousers on teas and coffees highs
in caffeine-induced psychosis and paper-warrior complex
our dear year 11 politicians spurred on by semi-illiterate Commies
and pretentious Zen Mentalists in ill-understood Anti-Capitalist mode

The Conservative Government
know how to deal with These prized Nonentities Vigilante Mob
Let just ignore them and get on with doing what they are doing
because intelligence is complex and non-negotiable with Dummies

They know.....
Arguing with idiots is like playing chess with a pigeon.
No matter how good you are, the bird is going to **** on the board and strut around like it won anyway.