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Mike Hauser Jun 2014
To me there is no better night
Than the dimming of the lights
And tuning into American Idol on my T.V.

Tonight's no different to tell the truth
As they give another loser the boot
When I noticed something strange in how Ryan Seacrest blinked

Mr. Pretty Boy was blinking in Morris code
Right underneath America's nose
He was passing off top governmental secrets

So his front has all along been a lie
Ryan Seacrest, international spy
Don't know why before I didn't see this

He uses that cute little baby face
And day old beard to hide his disgrace
As he obviously communicates with the underworld

From one side of the globe to another
Talking in code with his Rooski brothers
Why this just gets my patriotic ******* in a curl

Just when you think you know someone
They go and pull this traitor stunt
I suppose now your going to tell me Mom doesn't bake her own apple pies

Then I find out it's some imposter named Mrs. Smith
I'm not sure I can take much more of this
Who next will I catch living a lie

Then I see Ryan run off stage
With the strangest of looks on his face
Seems all along there was stardust in his eyes

Funny it wasn't Morris code
Who's embarrassed now...me I suppose
Ryan Seacrest international spy?
Uh...nevermind
All proceeds from this poem will be generously donated to the Ryan Seacrest School of International Spydom.
kristine marie Jul 2013
I’d like to know where she’s been, this little daisy that stands on the opposite side of the room.  She stands like me, arms crossed with a red solo cup dangling between dainty fingers.  Maybe mine aren’t dainty, but the cup dangles either way.  It’s clear as day, this isn’t where she wants to be.  I certainly can’t blame her.  I’d imagine she was forced here, convinced by a friend, a sister, a roommate.  This isn’t her scene, nor is it mine.  Why else would we stand in our respective corners, eyeing the drunken fiends in the room with nothing but pure disgust?  

We are the same, she and I.  I wonder if she sees me, too.

I can’t take my eyes off of her, the beautiful girl who stands on the opposite side of the room.  She takes small sips from her red cup - bourbon, I’d like to think - and maintains her previous stance.  How badly I wish to drag my tattered shoes across the creaky hardwood floor that we both stand on, extend my hand to her and invite her into conversation.  She’ll smile a close-lipped smile, nodding as she places her small hand in mine.

“Needy,” she’ll say, and her emerald green eyes will glow something radiant. “My name’s Needy.”

And I’ll do my best to muster the courage it takes to mutter my own name, a growl of Brett.  I’ll manage a smile, manage to suppress the urge to stop her right then and there and run my fingers through her golden hair.  But I’ll humor her instead and make her smile.  I’ll joke and complain about how drab it is to be here, this New Year’s Eve party we were both brought to against our own will.  She’ll agree, telling me of her original plans to lounge on her couch with a bottle of Merlot, eyes glued to **** Clark’s countdown and drooling over some Seacrest character.  How I’d love to be in her presence for such an event, to rub her shoulders while her excitement for whatever celebrity guest came on next rose.  I’d tell her my original plans, taking a seat in front of my prized Royal typewriter with a bottle of Tennessee Honey.  She’d ask me what I would write and I’d give her a crooked smile just before quoting a legend.

“Nothing really. I’d just sit and bleed.”

And she’d flash her pearly whites with a knowing grin, one that I would return out of sheer satisfaction in knowing that she knew what I was talking about.  That’s how it would start, the beginning of our little storm.  She’d give me no warnings, my sweet little Needy, not telling of the little grenade that she really was.  

I’d accept it, accept her, and love her, forever, my little time bomb.

It’d start out fine, just as any great romance would; I’d be tender, romance her and charm her to my wits end. She’d appreciate me and show me her affection in any way she could; little notes tacked up in random places, a simple “morning,” “night,” text. She’d trace shapes along my chest, and bury her face deep in the crook of my neck.  She’d mumble, “I love you,” in her sleep, and I’d kiss her softly on the cheek.  Call me possessive, call her weak; she’s my little daisy, and mine only to keep.

We’d be the kids that are seen only in the movies, troubled and disturbed by one another but with no desire to detach.  She’d **** me and I’d **** her, each with words so hauntingly true;  I hate you, I love you, I don’t want you near.  You’re awful, you’re difficult, you’re so stuck in the dark.  I hate you, I love you, I can’t stop thinking of you,  and we’d still kiss each other goodnight and endure another day.  We’d be destructive, she and I.

And I’d be crazy, driven mad by her, for her, forever, my needy little Needy.

I’d imagine she would hate me after quite some time, so much that her hate would battle her love and she’d lose either way.  And I’d remember that night we first met, the night that I stole her light in that little white dress.  It’ll hit me then, as I cradle her in my arms, wiping her tears, stroking her hair.  I’ll realize then what I did and curse myself for my crime.

“You used to love **** Clark and that Seacrest fellow,” I’d mumble as we lay by a fire.

“And you used to love me.” she’d say, almost a whisper, and my heart would tear in two right there, burning with the flames that danced before my eyes.

And it’s awful, knowing that I took this girl, so bright and lively, and dimmed her light to the point that she didn’t exist, not without me.  My little Needy, always telling me she’d need me.  Such a fitting name for my beautiful girl.

Maybe then I’d realize my mistake.  I’d hold her and apologize profusely.  I’d press her into me with the hopes that she’d become one with me, understand me, hear my thoughts as loudly as I heard them in my mind.  Would she accept me, too?  Or would she throw me aside like the piece of trash that I am?  I wouldn’t blame her, no.  But my Needy, my needy little thing; she’d cling to me and I’d cling to her.  I’d be a mess without her and I’m already one with her, here, forever.

I’d like to think I was right about her, the girl I see twirling the tip of her finger in her red solo cup.  I’d like to think my own private fantasy was filled with accuracy, the story of us that is yet to be written, if it’s ever written at all.  I’ll never muster the courage to know her name, nor will she know mine.  Instead, I’ll continue to watch her from my side of the room, protecting her from a distance should any harm come her way at this god awful party.

And finally, after what feels like forever, her emerald green eyes meet mine across the way.  She smiles a small closed-lip smile and raises her dainty little fingers to give me a small wave. I lift my red solo cup to my lips, tipping back the warm ***, savoring the burn down my throat before I give her the same crooked smile I imagined myself giving her.  I won’t talk to her, I won’t make that treacherous walk towards her.  I won’t tell her my name and she won’t tell me hers.  I’ll keep what I know about my little daisy in my head.  I’d doubt if she’s anything like I imagined, standing there in that snow white dress.  I’d like to keep this image in my head, the one I have of a sweet little thing, needy and clinging to me and only me.

My fate is sealed as I watch a burly fellow approach her, and those pearly whites flash at the sight of him, and her heels lift from the hardwood floor that we stand on together as her arms wrap around his neck.

My little Needy, how wrong could I be?  She doesn’t need me.
I feel like this is more prose than anything, but I did make it a point to have some sort of off-beat rhyming riddled throughout. I drew a lot of inspiration from Jeanette Winterson's Written on the Body, which I found to be incredibly poetic for a novel. I don't often write in the male point of view, but this was one of my first attempts. First draft was written on February 9, 2013 and I continued to revise until May 7.
judy smith Dec 2015
Aside from New Year’s Eve specials, it’s a lean week for original programming. Still, there are a few stand-out offerings. Here’s what caught my eye on television this week:

Sunday: “Undercover Boss” 7 p.m., CBS: Yeah, it’s just a reality program, but it’s one of the only new network offerings tonight, so we’ll take it.

Monday: “Happy New Year, Charlie Brown” 7 p.m., ABC: The ol’ blockhead hunkers down with some choice Tolstoy during these Peanuts’ festivities.

“******: Cape Cod, USA” 8 p.m., HBO: This documentary explores the grip of addiction through the stories of eight twenty-somethings.

Tuesday: “The 38th Annual Kennedy Center Honors” 8 p.m., CBS: Host Stephen Colbert pays tribute to Carole King, George Lucas, Rita Moreno, Cicely Tyson and Seiji Ozawa; James Taylor, Janelle Monáe, Yo-Yo Ma and others perform.

“Almost Genius” 9 p.m., truTV: This new reality comedy series looks at folks who fall just short of their goals. They should be knocking on my door any day now.

Wednesday: “The Twilight Zone” 6 p.m., Syfy: The annual marathon features 156 episodes of the acclaimed anthology series and ends on Jan. 3.

“In Defense of Food” 8 p.m., PBS: Michael Pollan trots the globe in search of people who eat for health.

Thursday: “The Simpsons Movie” and New Year’s marathon, 5 p.m., FXX: The animated motion picture kicks off a back-to-back showing of 56 episodes.7 p.m.

“**** Clark’s Primetime New Year’s Rockin’ Eve With Ryan Seacrest 2016” 7 p.m., ABC: Whew! That title was so long that it’s almost 2017. The special breaks for local news and resumes at 10:30 p.m.

“Pitbull’s New Year’s Revolution, Part 1” 7 p.m., Fox: Jussie Smollett, Shawn Mendes and others help the performer ring in 2016 from Miami.

“Live from Lincoln Center” 7 p.m., PBS: Alan Gilbert leads the New York Philharmonic in a Parisian-themed New Year’s Eve special.

“NBC’s New Year’s Eve Game Night With Andy Cohen” 9 p.m., NBC: The Bravo star hijacks the prime time portion of Carson Daly’s annual holiday event.

“NBC’s New Year’s Eve With Carson Daly” 10:30 p.m., NBC: And again, Daly is relegated to late night.

Friday: “Sherlock on Masterpiece” 8 p.m., PBS: It’s practically the only non-rerun programming on tonight, but it’s really the only programming you need. The special finds Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman’s Holmes and Watson solving a case in 1895 London.

Saturday: “Galavant” 7 p.m., ABC: Four episodes of last season’s surprise hit musical comedy air back-to-back-to-back-to-back.

“Austin City Limits” 7 p.m., PBS: Alabama Shakes and Vintage Trouble perform.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses

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Colm Feb 2021
Waiting for you to rush into my life
Is like waiting for the seacrest to reach the base of the mountains
So instead I will stand and shift the earth
Or my feet which ever gives first
Sit only when you feel called to wait.
In the tapestry of life, memories weave their threads, and the echoes of past workplaces linger like faint perfume. Seacrest, with its morning shifts and graveyard hours, left an indelible mark—a mix of disdain and nostalgia. The Stench, both literal and metaphorical, clings to the corridors of memory.
Retirement, a withdrawal from life’s hustle, offers solace. It’s like stepping out of a turbulent river into a calm pond. Yet, self-reflection creeps in—an inventory of wasted years spent in an institution were money reigned supreme. What good remains? The ledger is blank, the balance elusive.
Here, at sixty, sanity is my prayer. A few screws may be loose, but not enough to rattle the Monkey cages of life’s absurdity. Kindness flows, a gentle current, but I know it can backfire—a vulnerability in a world that thrives on sharp edges.
And you, a familiar face, a reminder: “This path, tread cautiously.” In my next life, I’ll be a poet—a real one, successful and unyielding. A master tinker, weaving words into magic. A philosopher, unraveling life’s mysteries.
But for now, I am Annie—the content creator, the mother, the friend in need. And perhaps, that’s enough.
Classy J Oct 16
Corporate reject leaving pirated feedback of a mumbling degenerate.
Like a Ryan Seacrest to one’s Johnny English, gotta always double-check your prejudice.
The economy is in a deficit that ***** us over more than Jimmy’s speech impediment.
Hard not to be a pessimist when ya get cucked over by the government.
Inflate the autonomy till it impeaches God's Ten Commandments.
Freedom of speech, till the speech comes from a place of malicious intent.
Haunted spirits, left unchecked, hijack the morals of even our best mates.
After all, there is a thin line between love and hate.
Don’t forget, you gotta always respect the deck and protect your neck!

This world’s so twisted, got us drowning within the system.
Till we ain’t got no more immune system.
Like we some unvaccinated children.
Falling short from reaching the Sun.
Ending up a master of none.

Don’t underestimate the ants unless ya want to end up like Kite.
Reap what you cultivate, just ask France about their revolution plight.
Everyone wants a slice of cake, however there ain’t enough rafts in sight.
That turns desperation into chicken fights.
Commercialized violence, enjoyed by those that worship the anti-Christ.
But get away with it cause everyone has a price.
Just ask the million dollar man, or hell ask his son who committed a million dollar scam.
Oh, ****, folly sure weighs heavily, unless ya rich enough; in that case you just get a slap on the hand.
Golly G, certainly, stress breeds grey hairs almost on demand.
So, instead of going all Claude van dam one better;
calm down with some collard greens, after all there’s better ways to cope my man!
Just remember kid to always respect the deck and protect ya neck for…

This world’s so twisted, got us drowning within the system.
Till we ain’t got no more immune system.
Like we some unvaccinated children.
Falling short from reaching the Sun.
Ending up a master of none.

— The End —