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Lawrence Hall Jan 2019
The Super Wolf Blood Moon Eclipse
Into its orbit quietly slips

Eclipse the Super Wolf Blood Moon
The fork drives away with the spoon

Moon Eclipse The Super Wolf Blood
It trips and falls into the mud

Blood Moon Eclipse The Super Wolf
Growls “Ha!” ‘cause nothing rhymes with “wolf”

Wolf Blood Moon Eclipse The Super
Cleans up the mud with a little scooper

Super Wolf Blood Moon Eclipse The
Shines bravely over my favourite tree -

The moon always gives us such delight
Especially on this frosty night!
st64 Mar 2013
Lunatic calling....... Earthling.........

Yes, you...fool..... tiny Earthling!
Wake up, you intractable iota of pulp
I watch you on your little planet, with relish
Playing depraved games on your spiritless  ilk.

I inhabit a moon much larger than your scrap of sand
You already appear so infinitesimally  small
When seen with a magnifier, from this innocuous distance
But now, you're even less than a speck of dust.

Seemingly important, you prance and preen and strut
Your feathers ruffling so easily, I do note
Look how you fret your heartstrings and gnaw away
And I didn't get to say that much....yet!

But fear not: collide with each other, we will not
For conversing amiably with my solar sibling, I've pled
To wield its forte and rein out all magnetic fields
So's we never make acquaintance of regret.

See how bloated and full of yourselves you have all become
Feeding on yourselves, sick with bilious envy
Scurrying like ants, at least THEY know better
For when you reach inside you, there ain't too much of note!

You try aimlessly to prove your dull existence
By crawling all wild-like and filling up the gaps meant for silence
Instead, you leave gruesome tracts of rotating noise
I constantly quake at the revolting  mess on Earth.

Scamper along now, as you are wont to do, brain-scooper
You can hardly hold still a thought in mind
You seek and ferret out answers not meant for your likes
Soon you will sever and break up into little pieces insects love!

You think that what you do, is so gripping
But don't you know we're all varying on the same theme
Roll up the deified curtain and you might find
Everything's an inflated rerun of what passed before.

So, even here on this jaunty moon where I live
I'd rather you not join me in my solitary abode
This lunatic prefers the osculating of kind craters
And communing in the solace of orchestral stones.

You delude yourself with ludicrous ideas
That you have the swell of sultry oceans at your disposal
All tied to deceptive spider-like strings, kited fraudulently in your hand
Hoping to catch that salty surge and drift away.....

My scathing  job perchance, is to spot that pattern of power
And when Eros comes rolling in on that mighty tide
I plan and do my best to make you fail spectacularly
Oh, to climb on and ride that sweet wave for all it's worth!

There is nothing to lose, cos you have nothing!
But your acquisitive nature lets you think you do
Yes, go and ape your latest hobby: quickly run to your house
Check that  no-one has stolen the dust from your gate!

Temporary custodians of that rock, is all you are.
But you......You're absurdly afraid to lose what isn't.
Tiers of neglect show how little you learn of what's around you
Hello, look up.......please. Do you see me? Oh, you do.

Well, well now ! Grand planes and happy steaks to you!
Two swell ticks bestowed on you......for neatness.
But even as I study and decimate your paltry existence
Turning, I'm growing painfully aware of three eyes on me.......

Hey, hang on.....wait, wait, WAIT........help!
Earthling.....please!!
Lunatic calling....... Earthling.........
Somebodyyyyyyy....?

Lunatic calling......dear Earthling.........



Star Toucher,  10 March 2013
Slightly older one by me, written in Jan this year and posted on another site under another alter-name...
Now that I look at the piece, its theme and content, I'm much reminded of that fab film 'Horton hears a who(o?)'.....despite content not quite similar, it could resonate a bit, I think.
Go figure, humans!
:-)
rmi Sep 2019
the clock struck twelve, but i still didn't write.
in a room with only the laptop screen
and the blinking cursor as a guide,
it's impossible to find something interesting
that the administrators can consider.
then the thought of your hair loose, swaying as you run
breezily passed my thoughts
and soon enough
the blank page in front of me
was filled a supercut of us.

they were fuzzy memories, hazy ones.
but i felt more cozy and warm
as the video added snippets after snippets,
moments after moments.
my eyes started to blur as i re-witnessed
(after a long time of denial)
the love i felt for you, and still feel.

i'd rather chase you for that ice-cream scooper,
let you read those novels while i count the times you blink,
sleep on your shoulder,
and mouth "go idol!" in the audience
while you perform on stage with unsure confidence
rather than impress those administrators
with fake dreams and promises
of wanting to be accepted in another environment,
where i don't breathe the same air as you do.

as i look out of my window,
i notice that the moon is full and bright,
smiling, i remember you telling me that,
at least, we'll look up at the same sky.
and now with my attention back at the screen,
the supercut was over
and all that's left was the blinking cursor,
pulling me back to reality
and back to the administrators.
Pet Port A *****

I took a walk in the city today
to try to pass the time away.
Saw lots of people walking too
stepped right in a pile of doggy doo.
I thought for a moment just what could be done
to clean up the streets of doggie dung.
Maybe I'll invent something really super
even finer than a pooper scooper.
A port a ***** for our four legged friends
on every street corner where every road bends.
Then I'll become famous for this awesome invention
at the monthly town meetings my name will be mentioned.
They'll throw a big party and dance in the streets
because never again will there be **** on our feet!

Written By Kathy J Parenteau
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Emily Rene Jul 2013
I took a walk around the neighborhood today,
just to try to pass the time away.
I saw lots of people walking too,
I stepped right in a pile of doggy doo.
I thought for a moment just what could be done,
to clean up the streets of doggie dung.
Maybe I'll invent something really super,
even finer than a pooper scooper.
A port a ***** for out four legged friends,
on every street corner where every road bends.
Then I'll become famous for this awesome invention,
at the monthly town meetings, my name will be mentioned.
They'll throw a big party and dance in the streets,
because never again will there be **** on our feet.
Taylor Ann Sep 2018
Don’t take my keys away from me
I need to open my car
So I can drive to a dentist
My mouth is covered in tar

I have twigs in my stomach
And dust in my ears
I need to pull them out
Or vines will grow in my veins
And ants will live in my head
But my dentist is no botanist
“I don’t deal with twigs” is all he said

So I take an ice cream scooper
And I put in on my stomach
To scoop away the twigs
And the great gold nugget
That is traveling through my lungs
And choking me to death
But the scooper fails
And all the secales
Take away my last breath

My dentist has no medicine

And now my body is leaves

And the dust departs from my ears

But I am no longer able to see
jeffrey robin May 2014
((
          ))
((
\/
/\
/    \

-   -   -   -   -

When I see her with her "admiring lovers "

It reminds me of a rich lady

Out walking her leashed dogs

••

When I see him with his " admiring lovers "

It looks like a guy dragging some leashed women

Down the street

••

They each got their -- POOPER SCOOPERS !

••

I sure hope they don't write some

LOVE POEMS !

••

( oh no !

Here they come !)

-----

Hey lady
Hey guy

Can I borrow your POOPER SCOOPER

for awhile !
Ken Pepiton Mar 2023
This has a photo of a California Black Lizard
official name, sunning on a rock, but that's
in the modern novel medium, blog form.
mmmmaybe, baby, we do
grow old, past sixty-four and even more,
unbridled tongues, held silent, lo' monks,

listen, quiet, now, then, to now, then to when
listen to the Osprey fly over our valley to Yuma,

to the Chocolate Mountains, beyond the river,
the only river, running down the great crevice,
due to erosion from John Bunyan's Pauline ax,

a rift right across the heart of the land,
opened up the first Bright Angel Trail,
for there was no other way across the canyon.

And we had people, before, on that other side,

that happened, all around the globe, that hap,
the earth was struck, and struck another,
time and lost all its religion,
it was announct, we all sang along,
and some force pushed the edge of the sun,
in a single most malignant EMP burst relig-i-used
to beat al bound synenergy rationally, as knowledge
and life, root and branch, time and chance missed call
first shall be last, roll on, roll on down time orchard

lessons learned in lines of trees, you can imagine,
while alone, just be used to being in the sense we yoosta
call peace, or bliss, blah good blah, being right inside.
- breathing easy, not sleepy, no place to be.
When outside is just too hot or too cold.

Chaos reigns for days, and weeks and years, and
we can imagine, my kind, human kind, earth stock one.

We the deme, the interbreeding productive kind,
we who beat the dis-easing raging fever from eating
foul putrid rotting corpses, as would dogs, any dogs,
naturally,
we have such knowledge, said to be wild boys,
raised by wolves or Comanches… Grandma,
she did not know her people,
but she knew her place,
and made it perfect,
just right, she and her little dog, and relics
from a life that matched Saul Bellow's on earth,
though she was never widely read, she did leave
a greater legacy in terms of proper child minding.

Yep, minding is mighty
otherwise than rearin' n'raisin' hardgeenevahnegated
she said it, and she served such chicken at the
same table where we all ate, we was sorta colored
because my grandaddy fixed cars for folks mr leon
the jew who owned the Loma Vista in the Green Book,
befriended on collect calls, and sent Pop Boyett, said he
t' tow ya in, he'll send his boy Jim,
'be there drectly, jest don't fret none.
sit tight. Sundowns a ways yet.

yeah, I am white proud that my grand daddy was friends,
with ******* and injuns and jews, his customer's
including Charlie Lum, Mary's daddy, who used grandpa's

knack with stunted fruit trees, to bring peace and calm
into the environment, with a quarter acre lot back yard.

Living earth is in me, I ate my first mud pie, and liked
the laugh it got from whoever washed my mouth out.

I watched an uncle get his washed with soap, thus
learning how loudly to utter curses when being proven
beguiled by a will so sharp and thorny, nothing sweet
shall ever stick,
honey chile, tar baby, chocolate kisses, all a mud pie
made me remember, at a whim, in my dementing whiling
away

nothing needed doing more than not dragging grease
from the shop, past Grandma's back porch,
where the squeezed water tub always was soapy
enough to expose a little boy to sudden stripping
and brush scrubbing,

while she laughed,
and made them all laugh, as long as that junk yard
was apayin' the electric/


-- Coming in from a tinctured cuppaKuerig
Settled mind alligning old stitches in a tapestry,
not much sense can be made of Bayeux resolution

stitched in time to serve in tutorial classes
open to the masses, for your undivided attention

in silence, for the space of about a half an hour there.

Columbian, it says on the plastic waste,
mea culpa, mea maxima,
we suffer such silly easy living made much too easy,
I light the bowl with a focused rim jet quartering,
too easy to use the flower, to ask smoke a favor,

as to result
in a bounce back,
as the elanvital of my mountain pushes west winds
back into themselves
to form the ribs
of huge cloud forms that reform so
true to pattern proof, exhalent
of this wind
reflection off the ridges we live on,
vitalized by a DNA centric view
of stress or pressure, squeezing bests
from times as worst as worsts were then,

Vital tipping point that lets a spirit slip into the story.

Structure and content cata and ana, as we leave
that which our fruits produce, a cache of all we be

come and see, I said, okeh.
Proof by Synthesis/ Venter link, blink
-Craig Venter… GI imagine, we all can Google It,
in another window,
and find it not mystical in terms of who imagined this.
You realize whoever it was, it is yet done
dramatically as next years
stories, lightsped mind gluons
from last years tragedy we all can find,
sympathy puddles, lost allusions
to chances being once this line
was written
for no single pair of eyes, not mine, ours,
de-cartooned Madiera wine revival fly,
wise minding times retwining U to I,
leading down old fissures where
suddenlies occurred and we all recall, as if
some things in life after television are with us
-to this instant and
until we die, and leave our mystery religion lying ever after.
Twinkling a little,
winking
done did done, artificial art intuited involuntarily

Accidents, where by we live, U rhea re minding us,
there is something wishing to use us, as yousta be,
- so fine
thank you for your service, Turing and Von Neuman
The general and logical theory of automata…

"much less well understood" loop the tape,
loop it once,
and again, become the digital life Wolfram made,
flat land as real as Wildersmith ever projected it

Up against the wall, we pass through it all
and so on and so forth,
fighting phrases to fit the codescript initial intention,

in the immature tabernacle state,
a thousand atoms should be plenty,

make life from that, and all the scattered dust
of heavy metal stars that burned too fast
to eat up all the lithium.
- this is the bottom
A funda-lowest level, fundamental, puts us sensing
tips of our own tail, verily modeling
Ouroboros
in the womb as drawn to our imaginations with
Look Whose Talking Now! WOW
Haeckel and Jeckle, and L. Ron-ron didoo ronrun
Dianetics really gave Travolta therapist recollections
needed to over come the scorn
spewn on Urban Cowboy,
outside Texas and New York City.

We can tame the bucking machine, with no pistil.
No bull, boys and girls, we made sugar in Trinidad,
using the pistil of a bull to instill the will to learn
to live,
and let it be known, life abhors evil, it fails to hate,
that which has no use and piles as potential piles
of all we knew we needed to encode to become
XML, then the shifting database schema, Dinesh
D'Sousa, the metadata scraper with an MIT MBA.
Not the pundit.
He fed me this character trait, mind in order,
meets older orderly mind in mortal chaos, coping.

Feel his way past the message messenger collision,
caused in no insignificant way by poetry, and poets,
enthralled with taming textual dragons, lizard brain,

quick wits
to wot not with, per haps, haps as chance are us,
being lucky because we feel lucky,

monstors speak often one with another,
see the bull lizards crawl all over each other.

Smell that, mofa, smellmemo nofa fame fa fa fa me
lizard pheremone, so subtle after while.

Layin' out on the terrace, up above some granite
splashes from the wave that left the coastal range,

rising up from here, see it there, on googled earth,
take away the clouds and spin that globe,
like you are one of those named winds,
names you heard they called the wind; Mariah, and
Santa'na; Chinook and Roclydon and twisters
too many to name. Bringing dust to the Amazon,
to feed the hungry jungle, woken at the touch of waste
being made to feed once needless services, after,
the great lizard brains lost their minds in one fell swoop,
so they say,
they who strike the suckers, just below the root,
fine staffs are made from suckers broken off before blossom.

Orchard watches, as a young man, planless, saved, for sure,
but no assignment save this so-called fight of faith, for sure,

some people can be fed the kind of meat that forms soldiers,
from any man worth his salt, which, if it were ever a sin to gather
salt, say from the sides of the roads, where there's a plenty this spring,
why then I would think the concept of sin had passed its use by.
why,
I'd get the old pickup runnin' and take a flat blade shovel,
or, what was I thinkin'
not a type scooper, but a flat, scale-scraper shovel, there you go,
use a phrase arranger allowing such metaphors that morph to any tool.

Fluidbots in The Abyss, look it sees you seeing it, so what, was that new
when Nietzsche notict, tskt,
I trow not. But if it was then, it is not now, and that leaves me room
to say Freud imagined he knew things and his followers do as well.

Sometimes a cigar is a prop.
A stiff staff to lean on in a manifested dream interpreting schema
for ancient meta data shuffling,
the whole of all we know so far right now,
this being in which words act as though we know, we
at machine level code, being the internet, being a node, a nerve,
in the ever of ever since every thing, the whole truth thought impossible
but, to not imagine, thinking it at once,

it must be possible to tell, or why, in hell, aha, instant answer,

this is not hell, because if it was, I could not tell you the truth,
as Paul bore witness All Cretans are liars, I tell you the truth.

I bet my life, against any one of many, each experience as fable forms from,

those hang as moss in swampy tidal deltas, where rivers do not branch,
but open wide, another spring time in the Rockies, reaches all the way
to Burro Creek, down through all the Diablo Canyons in bad lands,
at the edges of the last great tsumamis that our satellitia see through centuries
and eons to when there was no thing made by man that could show him,
the Nazca Lines and our Blythe Intaglios.

In the world of artists at work, function descriptive sign making symbol
we agree, we be
come and see, sit beside our tiny fire, see, we have no words to say,
so we some times whistle and sound so much like a bird, a jay,
some one out there laughs he is my brother so he whistles better,

then every body laughs and shout PA PA PA papapapapapapa yah, way
cool, pa looks at his old walkabout friend,
he nods,
we grin, and go, well, when why was just a guest at our station,
in the core script lost,
left in the back of a black volkswagon,
who gave this boy a ride, from Santa Barbara, that strip,
I never paid enough mind to what they call it,
but it was lined with hitchhikers, they gave them rides,
and he was one of those who took PCH up and down,
a few times, spring of 1970, eventually, I imagine,
I would have been invited
to learn
at Esalen, what I could imagine doing about it.
The big? mark of the beast, the very knowledge forvidding one.

Cognosis infections sets in, but you know Jesus never sneezed,
and hees heest atuitionally
assumet' be wiping your excretions from your beard.

In the spirit, no offence, only words, no gestures, ups or downs,
rounds and rounds, teetering palms, tilting eyes, furled brow,
world class rime crimes tearing whole realities' religited ties, bows gnosis
knot release,
tricky three pole knot…

Magic, once, a few who knew, easily seemed so, read Twain,
and imagine your own, in dementia, joining other intentionally scattered
brains
informing conformist patterns that make our laughing echo
as medicine from men listening to grand fathers and uncles whistling
and laughing and little sister joining in, so grandma's sister does so, too,

woo hoo pretty soon its allusfools fullfilled dancing in the dark
where we can still feel the fire.

As a s aside, for science sake, I have reached a stage,
an effect in on or to or any of the hundred and fifty
or so pre
positions things can be, and become, formative,
logos, logical sense of saying something seems so,
if you have been at this stage, and wondered

what is it worth to say it is no secret and never was,
I use cannabis, and I read and write and function

as any writer in the days of Post and Colliers, n'such
had to believe was possible,

to create the creatures we see on television,
those were dime a dozen underground reds,
feeding fertlizer to minds subknowingly with science,
hidden persuaders, falsely called so, they were inyaface!

Fool, he follow the old weigh where heavy mean good,
real good, get down, to the ground feel the weight o'
oh momma did you know,
oh momma when did you start to show,

could you have let me be nothing but a bad draw, you
nevahnevahnevah gonna know now, but momma,

mam, where all good mommas gone, go on, you done,
you brought a heel into the world,
yes, ma'am.
a real snake stomping, preacher, kinda man, selling
salve, to soothe the transition, come the kingdom

due any day. What price you pay, what task you prefer
performance mandatory, in any sucha story
as this very one intends to be,
at a rate, cuneiform forming lets, say that,
this way
in an other time, one symbol to the thumbprint,
one per inch,
10 wpm during upload to ever from now.
Used just yoosta be we were tools.
"a used key is ever bright."
Images holding minimum 1000 words abound at Kenpepiton.com
rac1 Mar 2018
My dog threw a party last night
and invited all her friends
I was on pooper scooper duty
from the beginning to the end
And join (singing the words
in the next paragraph) whether alone
in a traffic jam
basting, cooking, then eating a lamb
prepared by thee missus
a superb culinary madam.

“A Ram Sam Sam” Lyrics
A ram sam sam, a ram sam sam
Guli guli guli guli guli ram sam sam
A ram sam sam, a ram sam sam
Guli guli guli guli guli ram sam sam
A rafiq, a rafiq
Guli guli guli guli guli ram sam sam
A rafiq, a rafiq
Guli guli guli guli guli ram sam sam.

The following dereliction of truth
heavily influenced
my babe of mine name Ruth
(think prevarication forsooth)
essentially crafted countless years,
when yours truly
courtesy parochialism bred cooth
preserved timeless tintype of me
many moons ago
sitting pretty (once a bonny lad)
with his innocent lass
perched on mine bony knees
while forced lip tulip in kissing booth.

Unlike centenarian
who crafts  these words,
perchance yar juiced
a young whippersnapper man or woman
maybe born, bread and raised
in the city that never sleeps,
or dwelt in the boondocks or sticks,
catch some 'possum or squirrel
and as a loyal son or daughter take a tram
to enjoy a tasty repast

with widowed momma,
cuz ever since da
yo papa passed away....,
a futile attempt made to fill that void
awash with more'n than half a century
of wedded bliss,
whereat purposelessness pervasive
per surviving mother,
who feigns happiness, regales others
with showers of affection,

and remains active feeding her avocation
comprising striving and succeeding
to be adept within the culinary arts
thru self taught trials and errors
of brave taste testers
(which guinea pigs ought
to get medal of honor for bravery),
though her exemplary cooking reputation
exceeds five star Michelin rating
through meticulous

and exacting measured ingredients,
she glides within the kitchen
however occasionally,
a fork and spoon slips to the floor
which inexplicable
gravitational alchemical phenomena
fuses separate pieces of cutlery
into one eating implement
whereupon a dead reckoning
takes shape, that "mum"

might be in mortal danger
per inconspicuous cooking tool,
whence ya stop SnapChat tin
and shutterfly as greased BuzzFeed
twittering like a bat out of hell -
ya swoop down smash mouth facebook first
presaging a fatality visiting  
upon the head of mum
(her christened name Chris Anne thumb -
the last appended word

linked with her diminutive size),
who intently engrossed,
keenly self absorbed,
and rapt attentively
with tasks at hand
most likely oblivious
to potential safety dukes of hazard
as a benevolent offspring temporarily
take instagram reprieve,
and utilize fancy footwork

tote hillbilly tubular re: turn
to counterpoise vis a vis
match less laws of physics,
whereby toe tulle lee tubular
test tick yule har kickstarter antics applied
to kindle hurly burly gnarly flatware bach up
adjacent to state of the art beet oven
which upright pedal
poised pose like leverage incorporates
quickly donning improvisational

makeshift faux cuirass
with suitable culinary accoutrements
stringing together various
geometrical metal trays
and tin *** for helmet,
whereby a strategic
stance thence established,
where inert stainless steel
buffoon glaring spork
would be forced

to take tailspin upwards,
whence fingers grab
innocuous lethal weapon,
which self entertainment learned
while stationed in a rack
run amuck mess hall rowdiness
taught said table mannered tricks
magic mike moment imitating hotmail -
glorified footlocker earthlinked craft,
where whatsapp tinder penned didst

inviting Barack Obama
to zap hiz frankfurter foot,
when he made a syrup prize visit
nobly endeavoring without evincing
auld trumpetting donning shoe purr action
trained first with dominant topface toes
alternating with recessive
opposing shod totally tubular taps
until fancy footwork became ambipedal
balancing ball of left

or right foot atop tine
or dish of fork or spoon respectively
as stray stainless steel ware defying gravity
gracefully leapt - somersaulting
in a pirouette pinwheel linkedin arc
tine and/or miniature
shovel scooper over handle
kin ur pinion (all things considered)
an eye opening experience
and the simple pleasure one can derive
from practicing strategy
trigonometry, spatial relations.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
well good
thank **** for the english
gravitating for their gravity...

strapped to an Island...

*****-whips...
  
        strapped to an island you
have zero argument....

nil...
                 you're basically Iceland...

you're anti-continental
not because you're anti-continental
politics, but because
you're continental...
******* Anglicans,
******* solipsists...

   ******* autistic fairies!

   ******* gammon spreads!
   little german cousins...
*******... *****!
always the Englush undermining
the English project...
jerking off the ****-*******
Americans...

    ich ist ein osten-berliner!!
osten-berliner!

                              ficken sie!
  
       what a fake, with thre Brexit...
it's a ******* island...
a ******* island...

  no continental politics...
   the English are not attempting
to be nice...
   they have the last exhaustive
excuse...
borders guaranteed by the sea,,,,
tthe English are nice...
they asre far beyond playing
nice...
   they're cowards with proud
faces...
     they're the sort of people
i never wish to ever,
become...
  
  i'd prefer to be considered
Italian fascist...
   i'd hate to be deemed
an English liberal,
  a Locke...
         the English just don't have
the ***** that Hungarians or the Poles
have... they gravitate within
the confines of an island...

no confiscation of a
  confined politics of a continent...
   the British play nice...
  but they're your usual typo of
*******...
            an island is an island,
adrift from continental shifts,
yet, somehow,
attracted to them by a format
of making compensation...

           no... the english can care to look
all pretty...
but they're pretty much as ugly
if not uglier than
the Quasimodo...
  fool me once...
                        fool me a second time...
third time?
   sure as **** i'll know
that you occupy an island
as a people;

it always appeared nice on paper...
but when it came to the a ctual
enterprise?
hardly a Reagent's Park mosque...
i'd have to be Muslim
to think the British weren't
formerly the scourge of America
as the infamous
red coats...
die rotmäntel...
    
         do i look like an eager *******,
or an even more eager
ice-scream scooper?

  well then... what's with
this Brexit hype?

       it's a ******* island...
it was never a continental concern...
the British were: red coats...
red... coats!
            
  i charge against the wall
with the horns of a goat,
        and the cranium of a bull!

— The End —