"shitshow" poems
see, atlas nearly dropped the world at the first sign of tremors
and gaia would've blown her top with wrath
and it nearly toppled sisyphus' boulder til it crushed him
but the 'nearly' doesn't matter 'cause the world's still in his grasp
and if paris picked selene, we might've had a heart-shaped moon
but we got the trojan shitshow, millions died
and we nearly went extinct just 'cause some ******* greek was *****
but the 'nearly' doesn't matter since we just about survived
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 4:39 AM UTC
[Fanfare, obviously]
This poem should begin with the call of a bugle,
as is fitting for an ode of Braveheart Macdougal.
Children of Parklands, take heed and be wary,
as I relate now, in verse, a tale cautionary.
Benigna Murdie was a most virtuous lass,
blesséd with promise and a penchant for sass.
To peer pressure she was admirably immune,
and ne'er did she bow to the temptation of goon.
Nary a drop of ***** has e'er passed her lips,
save for politeness and church-mandated sips.
Yet even the mightiest fall-- what a pity!
(harder than I did that night in the city).
So I hope you all glean a moral from this,
and your interpretation does not go too amiss.
But all is self-evident, to quote Descartes,
so allow me to recount this tale from the start.
She hails from a country renown for their piety,
for their pacifist ways and universal sobriety.
The Scottish are known throughout the land
for their temperance of character and lightness of hand.
And our poor Bennigles was no rule-exception,
she subscribed quite wholly to this perception.
A more reserved and reclusive girl you've not seen,
virtually a saint at only nineteen.
Passed out on the couch, liquor was never the root,
only strain from the studying and academic pursuit.
A paradigm of virtue, a pillar of purity,
no “that's-what-she-said's” to compromise maturity.
But that all changed one day touched by fate,
when Rachel realized that hedonism's great.
She took to the streets to revel in her glee,
and legit nothing bad happened cause this isn't tv.
Alas, now I'm drunk and the screen is a-shaking,
perhaps of wine I should halt my partaking.
I cannot continue with this facetious ode,
as we all well know that this is a total load.
But I'll miss you, my Brit, and our shitshow nights,
our Australian exploits and your culinary delights.
Sorry I couldn't finish to detail your demise,
but perhaps I'll conclude after an Australia-reprise.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
Seventeen and burning down
I am a machine gun mouth,
A stomach without a heart,
Red dahlias growing with the weeds in your backyard,
I am a stick of dynamite
waiting for an excuse.
...
You are bored enough to hand me a match.
(I was always your favourite kind of shitshow)
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 6:22 AM UTC
Let Christ give his final sacrament to us through the holy Eucharist of his jizzum.
He shall raise the skirts of all boys and decimate the trousers of all who fear him.
I was a kid once and i know this.
Don't worry he ***** me too.
Feels good if you know him in the flesh in fruity underwear tighty see throughs.
Death plague.
He brings to us.
Through the work of his *****
Whacking off each head to ***
Come one come all,
to the shitshow circus called religion,
**** morals owned by slavery and god,
All fallacy is see through like his ******* nightgown
God is the **** of ********
Get a hard on from your violence absolvance.
**** one another destroy.
Empathy is for *******
God is dead.
Shot with led, fed to the Nazis, in their death holes for the unclean,
God is a ***
The **** of earth isn’t me or you
It's the constructs of dogma,
That they abused us with as children.
Come on now we all aren’t bad guys.
It's the ***** in power.
**** ****
Follow, follow,
into a pit like the communist.
I had *** with Stalin and created democracy.
Chairmen Mao is necrophagist.
****** was was the savior of the Semites.
The Popes are the largest mass murderers in history.
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
/ *because such examples have to, have to(!) be perpetuated, reiterated, perpetuated, reiterated... these... "things"... these minor quests of establishing being - against, the authoritarian rule of the democracy of beings.*
you don't shout,
you don't disturb the "social", "peace",
of proverbial english society...
nope...
shouting does not good,
akin to:
silent water eats
away at the shorelines...
what you do...
is akin to what birds do...
you don't gnash your teeth:
i.e. clench them molars...
gnashing means clenching
your molars -
a gnashing a gnarling,
a pestle & mortar scenario...
no...
no shouting...
silent movie era of hollywood
translated...
you... simply... chatter...
you strike incissor teeth against
each other... crafting a lightling storm
like crackling sound,
like corn flakes...
in a bowl of milk...
you... chatter...
inspiration? birds...
bird calls...
you... chatter...
mind you, unlike the english,
looking into my mouth...
the jaw should fit within the confines
of the skull...
the upper set of teeth
should accommodate the jaw's
line of teeth...
but you simply... chatter...
which is embodied by attempting
to take a phantom bite at "something"...
you...
echo:
central incisors against
the lateral incisors...
you subsequently: chatter (χατερ)...
i missed the eta (η): given that i also
missed the excess of tau - in what isn't,
a translation - other than a phonetic
equivalent of putting on sunglasses...
because, when your neighbour,
tells you... that you can't smoke...
in your own home, perched on a windowsill,
out of the window,
implying that the smoke is
vacuumed into his bedroom?
and somehow, the law,
and the air, we share, is somehow his,
and his alone?
and i can't do, what he can,
within the confines of his property?
NOW WE HAVE A PROPER SHITSHOW!
some english are ******* backward
hardly insulting the ****** community,
with some succumbing to prosopagnosia,
while some (notably down syndrome)
actually having a memory capacity...
that curious look and a familiar expression
waiting for a smile...
i basically live next to a mental illness
example, par uno...
and englishman who "thinks"
he's king, rather than a convenient
citizen...
****** won't budge...
guess all i'm equipped with is
my chatter remedy;
and english society still "thinks"
that i'm the "mad" one.
- because it's like...
how can you dictate, what someone can,
or cannot do, on their property?!
like smoking a cigarette,
perched on a windowsill, outside a window,
with the accusation:
the smoke is coming into my bedroom...
oh right...
so...
erm...
you own the dynamic of air
to suggest such a bias?
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 11:30 AM UTC
/ conversation over a bbq dinner
being given the information
over a new M.I. movie..
i really think tom cruise
should have won an oscar for -
born on the 4th of july...
without bias,
but given the oscar award for
the grunting and heaving,
and minimal dialogue / monologue
of leonardo's the revenant?
the world is a cul de sac...
and what remains of it...
is a shitshow worth, of a congested street
with nothing but, paupers /
window-shoppers to be lined up;
mannequins coming alive
and taking to disco dancing
the hell out of having donned
a boney m afro;
drunk, squinty eyed...
looking around, surmising my
thought with... huh?!
it's a good thing i'm this good at
drinking, never having dropped acid.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 10:38 PM UTC
Bare naked ladies and Lenin following an age of Aquarius idiosyncrasy
shitshow
I don't want to know no white album
I'm working my way towards the black album
Cause Alicia Keys can resonate in many keys ...
... Says Dylan in his Chonicles
--> my authenticity lies in the between
620 nm or is it 770 nm
Whatever, it's a sliding scale, a slippery slope, is what I use to shed my skin
Follow the pheromones, or the Ramones, says Bono and the Edge
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
Porcelain teeth flashing with that unnatural hue.
Pandering your **** in an alleyway
for two squatters and a proper *** to see.
Knees bent,
hips gyrate.
Throwing **** like caution to the wind.
Moldy pull-tabs torn limb by limb.
Manual fixation (or so I've been told).
Peel a label.
Phone a friend.
Flip the switch on this ******* shitshow.
Ripe with intentions spilling on the carpet.
Red like the drink,
the drink that got me here.
Slow ascension followed by the free fall ...
as is life.
Appreciate the absurdity
of a swan dive
straight into the asphalt.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
To hang with my crew, any day of the week, would leave 21yr old me, in the bathroom on his knees.
Wether we chill in the lot with a Rapper blowing trees, or moonlight the bar with lap dances and whiskey.
5am, 'In The Air', single mom feeling naughty
Next thing I knew, was at the afterparty.
Hooked up till dawn, but cant tell nobody.
Haven't shaved in a week, cant remember last sleep.
Ask me where I was and you'll never hear a peep.
Head home for an hour, change of clothes and a shower
Then back to work, cause the wicked get no rest
My tire explodes, Im on the side of the road,
and Im dressed to be sat at a desk.
Catch my breath screaming 'Fuck!', **** near hit by a truck,
as now rain pours down in my face.
Tore my shirt and late for work, god **** do I hate this place.
Now the hours feel like years, till I again have some beers and get back to where I feel like me.
6am in the bar, and just lit my cigar, and the bottle it seems is empty.
Lather, rinse and repeat, cause its only midweek
And this is how I know to mend.
What is my life? **** if I know, but a ShitShow you'd pay to attend.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 10:08 PM UTC
I'm almost twenty, you know.
I mean, I'm sure you don't care
but i'm almost twenty years old.
And I'm trying.
To be all the things you said i would be
and I'm not going to question
all the rules you've set out for me
because i need that foreboding affirmation of love so just know that I'm never gonna leave.
Because were it not for you, who would i be?
But I'm also struggling
To figure out if I am actually a talented artist
Or just some teenage kid going through stuff. i need
To see the answers at the back of the book of Life if there's such a thing
I feel. Oh Lord! I feel tired already. Like i could quit
But i can't I'm already nineteen years into this ****
And I'm already tryna make people take me seriously.
And I'm trying.
To pretend that i understand why old people are so entitled to an earth that might actually be revolting against the human race
That i know, why it is super ultra important to be the kind of feminist that is kind to misogynists
That i even want, to be part of an existence that so closely resembles a shitshow
That i even know, how to turn my feelings into a proper rhyme. I don't.
Honestly and i don't care.
So i won't even try
to pretend that woke mans are not the ****
and that i don't think, gay people deserve peace
and that I don't wish, child marriages was something i could fix
and that i don't think, that I'm going to marry an intersectional feminist
and that i don't think, that instead of vows he's going to recite to me his poetry
and that i actually need you to tell me that these are all teenage fantasies.
I don't. I've had nineteen years of this ****
And i’m just glad i don't have to pretend
That i love pink , i do even though i wish i didn't
And that i know i can take nineteen more years if only it means
More badly written poetry from beautifully imperfect teens
And more African literature and Twitter and sleep
More discussions with bae about the importance of memes
More inventive ways to show bae i exist.
I might be getting carried away but you see what i mean.
That i want everything this life has to give
Just no struggles. no pretence.no assumptions. and no guilt.
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 5:44 PM UTC
Hot headed demons pop out over petty problems
Screaming cry wolf blues to any closed ear
Hoping to make points of promise sing true
While the slough of insecurities doe’s handstands
On electrical-wire to prove their flip-jacked plight
Kiss the bottle to make the world spin straight
Close your eyes but it’ll all be the same
Thinly veiled faces missing disgrace wildly flail
As the spectacle of a high-top shitshow hits the stage
Crying crocodile tears as if in a macabre fanfare
Swan Lake on ice with a blade in the eye
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 4:38 AM UTC
******* magical
despite psychopaths
running the shitshow
egoic stoic will unfold
as origami hearts turn
etheric tissue paper
interdimensional winged
aglow in palm
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 7:29 PM UTC
Today I began to hem,
rein in the threads that grow free
when left unstitched
I ticked a set of books
and, though I love my charges,
my heart hurt
My language is another,
my experience of this globe
unutterably different,
though geographically the same
And I want to help them play the game, I do,
but I don’t trust those
telling me how to
My instincts,
honed by humans I trust, unless
I’m lost in my own Truman Show,
show me the right way to go,
divergent from this current shitshow
The pedagogy of care
is somewhere way, way
over there
Jan 4, 2022
Jan 4, 2022 at 11:39 AM UTC
composed entirely of
the simple seduction
of contradictions
i play a fine balancing game.
good vs. evil
happy vs. sad
fine vs. im fine
alive vs. dead
dad vs. mom
sassy vs. mom
sassy vs. the shitshow
sassy vs. hatred
spoiler alert
right wins.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
I'm digging it real deep
Cutting it real close
I use all real names, nobody knows
But if they read all the things I wrote
They'd burn me at the stake
A shitshow earthquake
See, you think it's poetry
It is, for you and me
But they would just look and see
Their secrets and names
Splattered all over the page
Like blood from a gun shot at point blank range
And all the things they thought I didn't know
I never told, I wrote it out
Better to do it here than to open my mouth
Dressed to ****
I'm calling you out, look fast now
Noel and Sophie, my glass table girls
B and R and J and M
I'm sparing you, not like you did
Mommy and Daddy and the man down the street
I'm shouting through the glass!
Can you ******* hear me?!
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
The smell of you is on my sheets
There’s ***** on the wall
Three empty bottles near my feet
I think I drank them all
Awoke to find you here
Though I truly can’t recall
The night before unclear
Did we **** or have a brawl?
Please wake up and leave
I’ll walk you down the hall
Feel like I’m going to heave
And you’ll probably never call.
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 7:54 AM UTC
yesterday, i choked up my heart and placed it in your hands. my whole self phased in and out of existence but you just kept talking. not a single look before putting it down, a used up, pulsing thing, on your bedside table: a glass of water, half-full; a statement earring without its pair.
i thought maybe you hadn’t noticed it. which is strange, naturally; mostly because i know i would have. i have never liked to be handed things and much less to be in control. and yet i write. what is poetry, if not the art of plucking on heartstrings? if not learning how to make souls sing? it’s power, too, a type of hunger as well as any other — albeit painted in gold. i will say this: a beast, touched by Midas, still has teeth.
but what’s really amazing about this is that tomorrow, tomorrow it will still be there — my heart — spilling blood and making a mess out of your hardwood floors. you’ll make a face when it gets your socks wet and I'll apologize, pale-faced and mortified, yes, but mostly out of habit. you’ll nod, and I'm thinking, really? a singular nod? that’s how this great crusade, this blundering shitshow of a circus act ends? i won’t say it, of course. and we’ll keep on walking around and dragging red everywhere with our elbows and our feet.
you’ll gather it on the tip of your fingers and doodle something on the wall. A heart. and it's nothing like the real thing but i'll still smile. It looks beautiful, darling. you’ll look away, then — how polite! — as i pick up the offending thing and force it back in between unyielding ribs. this is how it ends. this is when the curtains fall, the painter becomes the life model, the petals turn to dust. a secret message, written in the sand, is too forgotten by the wind.
May 6, 2021
May 6, 2021 at 12:56 PM UTC
I think the thing is,
that you don't understand
that my life is a shitshow
- nothing goes to plan.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
Dear future me
Hey we did it. We finally had the confidence to face a fear (well I mean hoping because this is written to a future me and I can’t predict the future). This is the fear of loving someone else,after the shitshow which was past loves. Now, I have some advice for you. DONT **** IT UP THIS TIME!!!
1. Don’t talk about past loves
2. Stop ******* apologising all the time for been cheesy or worrying you epically fail at being sweet
3. Try hold yourself together and don’t let nerves get the better of you when you want to ask if you can hold their hand
4. If you talk about politics, don’t go on a massive rant about how capitalism needs to be destroyed and end up looking like a massive left-wing revolutionary wannabe
5. If they feel like they need space, let them have it without constantly asking “have I done something wrong?” Or blaming myself for it and once again constantly apologising because not everything in their lives is to do with you
6. Comfort them when they need it and prove you will be there for them without butting into problems they don’t want you to get involved in.
7. If they make mistakes don’t cry and scream at them to stop as they will blame themselves for hurting you andwant to push the blade further into their scars
8. And if it doesn’t work, dont drink to hide the pain. Embrace it and accept they werent the one.
I don’t know when you are reading this as like I said earlier I can’t tell the future but honestly please listen. You may look back on your youth as the mostly-immature guy you were. But you were 21 when you wrote this letter and at that age you had already gone through so much loss and pain. You were full of life experiences when you had only just become an adult. Look back and learn from you mistakes.
I AM YOU
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 4:12 AM UTC