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TimesNewRoman Aug 2012
The ugliest person is a monster.
His talons taunt and tease.
He waits for a hint of weeping.
He cackles at your misery.

The ugliest person is a scuttling bug.
She sneaks and snoops and snarls
She's just too close and just too far
To resolve her started quarrels.

The ugliest person doesn't think
The others need to eat and drink
His only concern is his own name in ink.

The ugliest person feeds you a stew
With a drip of her and a drip of you
Stirs and simmers until you want it too.
Snoop dogg, snoop lion
Through the fogg we see hes cryin
we ask him why he will not tell
He broke his favorite reggae bell
It sounded smooth and made him feel good
Just like his kush that he burned in the hood
Dre gives his condolences but it is no use
Snoops bell has already tied its nuse
So for his bell we mourn, for his bell we pray
Light one for the bell, it died to day
Rip Ja feel?
Terry Collett May 2012
I am a sitter at windows, said Lucia;
I am a thinker of sad thoughts, a gazer
at stars and moon and the bright hot
afternoon sun. My thoughts taunt me

like bullying children, they repeat
words and images and strings of verbal
abuse like repetitive *****. I sit at
the window with folded arms, my ***

numb on the window ledge, my eyes
peering through the netted curtains,
taking in the sights, the people, the cats
and dogs, the cars and buses, the odd

cyclists, the women pushing prams,
children crying at the side. I see and
know my childhood ghosts, the locked
doors, the no supper nights, the starving

rumblings of an empty stomach, words
bellowed through the doors by angry
parents. I am one who stares from windows,
one who snoops through netted curtains,

taking in the sights, hearing imperfectly
the outer sounds, the stolen kisses and hugs
from teenage loves, the backyards fondles,
*** on the cheap, lives, loves, kisses and

holds. I see new moons, quarter moons,
half moons and full moons and the lunatic
surge pulls me in and pushes me out, my
moods change like the waves of the sea,

the deeps drowning me in depression,
the black dog’s bark, thoughts of death
in a bath, slit wrists, over doses, hanging
behind a bathroom door like mother had,

eyes popping, tongue protruding. I think
of past loves, dream of what might have
been, the boys who came and went, the
ones who stayed and spoiled, the girls who

stayed the night for sensual *** or schoolgirl
kisses, of visits to an asylum before mother’s
demise, the locked doors, the cruel cries and
lunatic laughter, the odd looking staff, the eyes,

the tongues, the finger gestures from closing
doors. I see the work of the gods in my daily
stares, the passing people on their way to death
or work or love or indecent *** with another’s

love, or a child innocent as a flower’s bud
plucked and pulled and brain washed by an
adult hand and tongue. I am one who sees
what’s come to an end and what’s sadly begun.
A bonnie  
with lingerie
now ecstasy
but soul
envelop standing
while her
phone snoops
coals with
her man
there will
join in
best time
with aster
glow bare
only to
unwind alight
with score.
A night in Paris
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
. genocide, or contraception? jobs... the export of jobs? technological advancements... it's not genocide... but it is a variant of contraception, isn't it? it's slow: slow implies: non-existent in the journalistic wortsprechen... which implies: covert, & metaphor... but we are talking about a contraception variant... it's not genocide... it's... well... the basic economic utility of you, = nul. automation is... sniff sniff... smell it? well yeah... poetry got no soul... just some bogus depressive antics for what doesn't even register as: tabloid.... fringe encounters of the tabloid kynd... but we are talking about a slow genocide, economic migration is war: in slo motion without brutes und goons... it's condoms: for... why wouldn't we?!

well... it's not exactly genocide...
given that it's slow
implies something, natural
and coincidental
to allocate an justifiable
association with it...

you know what happened
when the iron works
were undermined in Poland,
people were displaced,
i could have worked
a job in a metal work factory
like my maternal & paternal
like my father...
  eh, **** it,
economic migrant:
     which is an alias
of what isn't exactly a cold
war: with hot egos
lodged into red buttons
and fidgety nuclear warheads
itching for that:
firework display!

everything economic is
a testament of sloth:
in decay...
    a media attention broom
of bored egotistical
ambitions facets:
the virility of
the other, sided argument:

that whole
"just" economic migrants...

war is a variant
of economics,
why are those migrating
for economic reasons,
not given what
is given to:
the immediacy of
the violent squabble?

delay, sure,
      and that is all,
it will ever be...
            you think i like
speaking this tongue?
you think i like
having to parody
the citizen?
  you think this tongue
is all that will ever
be: like a circus virus,
like nothing more than
a parasite?

the english in me
is a parasite...
i am: succumbed to its
for a "polite society"
        i die:
i want this slithering
slob of an "invitation"
to be begone from me...

i, host,
   see nothing but
the mortal transcience of
a suited use for this...
string of words...

it has infested me
with a presence that
ignobles me...
no brown intact or
a pale hue of a skin's
   this... grits my
very fundamental
posit of verb: i think...

i am more bothered
by ethics
and not by etiquette...
the english don't
know that!
they're yet to discover
en masse,
the application
of diacritical marks...

   zee: Ęգλíш...

have you ever watched
the stew of rot
and abandonment
become: porous...
as in:
over time, time is
both the economics
of war,
and war biding:
                to & fro...

          if only: "just" an economic
which is why i stashed
a dozen swords in my attic...

so? just war...
     you move: i move...
  i will only baptiße my soul
upon the altar of death
in being able to:
unlearn this parasitic
entity of the familially
cordial exchange of / for:
   having an inclination
  for a deviating purpose;

but of said things,
i am already too late to govern
a frictive foot
for a standing
    of attention and
convinced basin's depth

     how could have this looked
like... in a cosmopolitan
whereby a simpleton's
bilingualism would not
be curated as a schizophrenia...

                in a cosmopolitan
   of, say, Switz origins...
this could have been:
a hindering hybrid of
    stagnant cues...
       no labour in the waiting:
for a bogus
      variant of a gem...

yet i find myself
by such phrasing as...
home-grown terrorist...
some jihadi....

   and here, i am,
speaking the tongue
of the parasite,
this... acquired, tongue...
and i dare not speak
this tongue beyond
the necessary public...
and yet, there are those,
as foregin as i,
who forge a whip-for-will
in demands
that: outstrip the farce
of casual conversation...

no matter...
  however much
this nausea for the people
who would understand
ja, tym, gadam...


                  ­ yet still...
i die, this tongue
becomes tomb...
­        worth: an impasse's
worth of a conundrum's
worth of justification...

let's just say:
i became tired
of snoops,
of the natives asking
the question:
where are you from...

if only i acquired
the diacritical differentiation
of a foreigner,
and were not
forever justified in:

                by speaking:
closely the native

         a man to inherit
the assort of labour
to plough a field,
given but two left hands
for the smugness
of a work ethic's worth
of invest.

   this tongue dies with
      oh i hope for a death,
that opens up
a horizon for
      of my current
utility of:
                       said, tongue.
Sam Temple May 2016
Given name Samuel but you can call me Sam was driving by the vestibule when I had to yell ******* Saw this little fresh dressed fool trying to run a scam and pushed him down the stairs at school Broke his ******* hand, I ran into the record shop looking for Manfred Mann ended up picking up this Book about the Son of Sam, a crazy killer from NYC shot women in the night got his lessons from a dog Who spoke with Satan’s bite. That homeboy is so crazy and just maybe is also right we got too many Idiots hanging in plain sight maybe we should pin them down under water bright until they give up and Lay still, you know, just give up the fight…but murders wrong unless your Snoop and then it’s just a case You overcome and get let off of by selling off your face, see Snoops a pawn deep in the game making Money off you ***** acting like he still the **** quacking like a duck any of you still following rappers Actors and sports stars are probably drowning your tears in a series of bad bars you remind me of Chris Farley Fat and drunk and dumb acting like you are the **** reminiscent of a *** or homeless man stinking of Gin old milk and mistake fake *** brother taking money from your mother hitting on your brother’s wife Trying to start another fight, its all-right, cause you white –
Brent Kincaid Dec 2016
The on-screen horror
Was as vivid as the real thing.
We watched as people died
Fighting against an evil king.
While in our own lives
We just smiled and went along.
Maybe we might have stood up
If accompanied by a clever song.

It won for best picture
The saddest we had seen
It shocked and appalled us
In nearly every scene.
The Director thanked Jesus
The author and his wife.
Yet the king is still alive,
But this time in real life.

Screen heroes heroes as shallow
As comic-book supermen;
They are full of flash and dash
Then they run back home again.
We honor them much more
Than the people who save us
And fail to see the blessings
Their dedication gave us.

Day to day our teachers
And our medical personnel,
Our police and our firefighters
Confront a real-life hell.
Those people and the military
Are paid the lower wages
While people who show profit
Get rich while the holocaust rages.

So, filmmakers are delighted
With each new massacre.
After all, making ****** fortunes
Is what entertainment is for.
The media allows much more time
To the ogres in our society.
Villainy is more photogenic
Than any kind of propriety.

As long as the public can’t resist
Buying those pathetic rags,
The tabloid press will still reward
Snoops, gossips and nags.
Those are the same fools
Who then go on to elect
Crooks and thieves and liars
With disastrous global effect.
jeffrey robin Jun 2013
He come down from the hill

He come down wise

Lookin all ways now
Fer the police


He had some gold in his pocket
So he went a courtin his "special" girl

She said
" throw that filth away if ya
Wanna be with me"

So me throwed the gold away
He got something ta say

(Snoops ....errywhere !!)
Best keep ya mouth shut
Stay outta jail!


The wiretap traps me and my conversations betray me, society's got it in for me, they want to listen to and watch everything I do and they think that's something new, but its been going on forever where the people fear the unknown and whether they know it or not this is the society that we've got, snoops and snouts and busy bodies,
nobody wants to see what society is doing to us and me who couldn't give a **** if they want to waste their time and look can see it, I am it and I'll be fit for the camera spys who want to score a point by pointing lens intending to listen in and what can we do but pose and smile.

In a silo twenty kilotonnes of high explosive yield sealed inside an  
ICBM waiting for the wiretap men stands sentinel, watching for the strike,
I like that we are being projected on some console, toll free we are free to blow the world apart.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2019
the more i watch these youtube
the more i think...

where do these people get
so much energy to talk?
and... that's what talking does:

it attracts bothersome
comment sections...

i'm proud to say:
i haven't received an email
in years...
   whatever comment section
activity is...
confined to the bare minimum...

recently i invested in
a gramaphone and,
i'm happy to say:
   just my luck in not having
invested in a camera /

       to be honest:
i've matured beyond thinking
that: completing a novel
is some sort accomplishment,
and how there's
no shame in reading

as in:
you can't exactly multi-task
drinking a nightcap,
listening to music,
smoking a cigarette
and reading a novel...

a novel requires a sober
   and a worth of a good
hour to eat up chapters...
plus the over-congested
lines of a paragraph...

since when was poetry
all about the ghouls,
the rhymes,
          and the gallows of
broken hearts?
really? poetry was also
about, feelings?

one thing is for sure...
i'm glad i invested
some saved money
in a gramaphone
and not a camera / mic.

sorry... i just don't have
the energy to
give someone passive
on which it is easier
to comment...

            how else would
you create a depth of
consciousness to concentrate
on a novel that lasts
for 1500 pages in
small print?

   you'd begin by listening
to music: with lyrics,
and reading poetry...

      and being able to tell
someone what the poem
was about...
   and the lyrics of the song...

i've changed...
and it only took me a month
of being without
internet access...
what i've lost is:
the ability to become engrossed
in this medium...

well... at least ladden
with conversational overtones
type of poetry:
is much better than
any piece of journalism...

given journalism:
as a style of literature is...
pretty much all the opinion
pieces in the times
(English edition)
are alien to me...

        i can't relate to them...
the classical type of journalism:
what, when, where?
  that's passable as in:
reading an encyclopedia...

but the opinion pieces are...
sorry to say:
             so i give them a pass...

but coming back
to poking around for a niche
on the internet...

               it must be exhausting...
being like a cow during
summer in a pasture...
   bothered by so many
bothersome flies...

- and it's not even that i want
to express a freedom
of speech that could be...
anti p.c.,

                          i'd much
prefer a subtle variety of
                a shadow presence...
all of and all the much
more of an existential
lethargy that's
become a fine, fine architecture
that consolidates
a man in a throng...

but when internet "content
   drop videos...
of running around this and there
with their cameras...

i walked past the mosque
whitechapel and aldgate
drinking a beer in public...
that day i walked
from the sq. mile
to Goodmayes...
i managed four beers...
drank in public...
   a few snoops along
the way...
                   ***** looks
from passing cars by young
Muslim men...

but... i stopped caring...
truly... which is not the same
as: not giving a ****...

i very much concerned
myself in chancing
a public toilet to take a whizz...

were you ever hand-cuffed
for taking a whizz in
a back alley,
and being miraculously

           - once i found
a police van to be the next
best thing to a taxi
back home...

- fun fact:
if something hits a police car,
like i once did on
a bicycle...
the smart-car stops,
locks in...

    - and the incident needs
to be reported...
i said to the pair
of officers: i'm watching
Wimbledon back home,
i live 5 miles away,
can i go?

i had to wait for them
to report the incident,
before the central
office could unlock their
patrol car...

i.e. sometimes i can't
exactly stomach some
of these ivory tower
"content creators"...

good thing i invested
my money in a gramaphone
and not a camera / mic.,
that ship has sailed,
long time ago...
and i'm not going
to bother with that medium
any time soon.
Words' Worth Feb 26
Under her pile of books in college
She keeps a smoked cigarette
Sooner than later
She'll be piled up
Late late late her boss cries
She wakes up
She has now started snooping for greets
The secretary much to her chagrin signs out
She loses her daughter and becomes her paperwork
No one told her school is easy
Keeping a job requires sedulity
And working two jobs deserves an honor
Now the boss laughs when she came late
She snoops from the desk holding life
With a halo of sordid affairs
She manages to feed her children while she rubs their backs
Welfare stamps and everything
She is employee of the year
She has got a car
That she can turn on
As one holds such power
Over there supervisor
Business trips take first priority
She gets the family package
She can be with her family
Or maybe keep them together
No missing faces in the picture
She cries

— The End —