Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Akemi Nov 2018
Blanket city run along soaked in rain. Idiot Boy wastes his time visiting a passing crush at the other end of town. Slips between two houses and a metal sheet, communal refrigerator in the middle of the road filed with half-empty soy bottles.

Dead bell stop, mocking red blink of the operator. Father arrives, a mess of wiry muscles and hair.

“Hey. Is Coffin Cat here?”

“Who?” Father squints at Idiot Boy’s cap. Idiot Boy avoids eye contact.

“Um.”

Recessed in the blackness behind Father, a Figure says, “You looking for Coffin Cat?”

Idiot Boy nods.

The Recessed Figure turns. “I’ll go get her.”

Father returns to his parched body on the couch, content.

Indistinguishable forms move back and forth in the kitchen to the right. They stop their pacing and glance at Idiot Boy as he passes. Idiot Boy avoids eye contact and slips into the left-bound arterial vessel.

“So this is the heart chamber I’ve been living in,” Coffin Cat says as Idiot Boy enters her room. There is music gear. “It’s pretty comfy.”

“Oh, sick mic,” Idiot Boy says, pointing at the mic behind Coffin Cat’s head.

“I feel like a ghost,” Coffin Cat replies, falling on her bed.

Idiot Boy settles next to her. Animal distance. Intensely aware of his rain-soaked right shoe. “Same.”

Nothing comes out right, intersubjectivity a false God to mediate the impossible kernel of being, nobody can find nor express. Idiot Boy searches for connection. He glances around the heart chamber, at the music gear, but nothing grips. Four pears sit on a table by the window, their skins garish green in the harsh grey light.

Coffin Cat moves from the bed to the floor. She opens a virtual aquarium on her computer; fish eat pellets dropped from the sky to **** out coins to buy more fish to **** out coins to buy more fish. Capitalist investment and accumulation. Every few minutes a rocket-spewing robot teleports into the aquarium to attack the fish. Ruthless competition in the global marketplace.

“No! Why would you swim there, you ******* fish?” Coffin Cat yells as one if her fish is eaten by the nomadic war machine. “So dumb. ****. Why did it eat my fish?”

A knock at the door. The Recessed Figure from earlier enters the room. “Hey, mind if I join?” Their arms dangle like fine threads of hair.

“I like your music gear,” Idiot Boy says, pointing at nothing in particular.

“Idiot Boy also makes music,” Coffin Cat adds from the floor.

The Recessed Figure does not respond. They are enthralled by their phone, streak of dead pixels along a digital chessboard, minute reflection of their own gaunt face in the glass. After an extended period, they decide to move none of their pieces. A gaping coffee grinder rises out of the rubble at their feet. They begin filling it with tobacco from broken cigarettes.

“I’m surprised you’re still playing this,” Idiot Boy says to Coffin Cat. “I swear this is one of those games designed to ruin your life. Get addicted, stop going to work, become a hikik weaboo.”

“Already there, man,” Coffin Cat laughs. “Nah, this is my new job. I’m going to be a professional gamer.”

“Stream only PopCap games.”

Another knock at the door. Tired squander in an endless pacing of flesh. Strawman enters and nods at the Recessed Figure. “Hey bro.”

“Good to see you, man.” The Recessed Figure plugs the coffee grinder into the wall. “You got any ciggys?”

Idiot Boy points under the table and says “Ahh” with his mouth.

The Recessed Figure empties it into the coffee grinder. The device whirs into motion, creating a centrifugal blur, a mechanical and headless hypnotic repeat.

Idiot Boy and Coffin Cat look for horror movies to watch. The Recessed Figure empties the contents of the coffee grinder onto a metal tray. Strawman repacks it into a ****. White smoke fills the empty column, moves in slow motion like an oceanic rip a mile off coast, surface seething with quiet, impenetrable violence.

Idiot Boy refuses the first round. It’s never done him any good. Face turned to smoke and the wretched weight of a tongue that refuses to speak. Headless carry-on as time ticks through the clock face.

The door bursts open. Everybody turns as Manic Refusal or the Loud Person saunters in.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. They’re selling me off!” the Loud Person says in exasperation. “First time back in New Zealand in five years and they do this to me!”

“What? What’s happened?” Strawman asks.

“Some rich ****** in Australia has bought me as his wife. I knew it, I knew if I came back, my parents wouldn’t let me leave again. Whole ******* thing arranged!” the Loud Person laughs bitterly, before hitting the ****.

“Oomph, that’s rough,” Coffin Cat quips from the side.

“No, you don’t even understand. This is the first time back, the first time back in five years, and I’m being sold to off some rich ****** who owns all the banks in Australia.”

“But like, who is this guy?” Strawman asks, pointing.

“And he’s been reading all my profiles. He has access to all my information. I don’t even have control over my Facebook profile. Grand Larson’s logged in as me, posting for me,” the Loud Person continues. “I met him once in Australia, clubbing, and now he’s tracked and bought me.”

“That’s creepy as ****,” Idiot Boy says.

“So he’s not a complete stranger?” Strawman asks.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. First time back in five years and I’m being sold off!”

Idiot Boy decides one hit from the **** wouldn’t be so bad. He packs the cone with chop, lights and inhales. Smoke rushes through the glass channel, a swirl of white ether, more than he’d expected. He quickly passes the **** to Coffin Cat, before collapsing onto the bed, eyes closed. A suffocating sensation fills his body. He sinks into the chasm of himself, further and further into an impossible, infinite depth.

“Still working at . . . ?”

“Yeah, yeah. Management. Hospital. You?”

“Like, property. Motions.”

“Subcontracting? Intonements?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Mmm.”

Idiot Boy doesn’t know what’s going on. He feels sick and tries to get Coffin Cat’s attention, but cannot move his body.

“Come on. Sell me drugs, Strawman.”

“Nah. I don’t deal drugs. I don’t deal drugs.”

A strange silence stretches like an artificial dusk, a liminal duration, the hollow click of a tape set back into place in reverse. The Recessed Figure coughs and the Loud Person whirs back into motion.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. They’re selling me off! First time back in New Zealand in five years and they do this to me!”

The Recessed Figure makes a noncommittal noise.

“I knew it, I knew if I came back, my parents wouldn’t let me leave again. Whole ******* thing arranged!”

Coffin Cat laughs quietly.

“No, you don’t even understand. This is the first time back, the first time back in five years, and I’m being sold off to some rich ****** who owns all the banks in Australia.”

“How about this fella? He doing okay?” Strawman asks, pointing. Everyone turns to Idiot Boy and laughs affectionately.

“Still working at . . . ?”

“Yeah, yeah. Management. Hospital. You?”

“Like, property. Motions.”

“Subcontracting? Intonements?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Mmm.”

“Sell me drugs, Strawman.”

“Nah. I don’t deal drugs. I don’t deal drugs.”

Idiot Boy slowly opens his eyes and stares out the window. The same grey light as before. He moves his arm further towards Coffin Cat, but is still too weak to get her attention. The same strange silence stretches. The Recessed Figure coughs and the Loud Person whirs back into motion.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. . . .”

As the conversation repeats over and again, Idiot Boy begins to think he has become psychotic, or perhaps entered into a psychotic space. He thinks of computer algorithms, input-output, loops without variables, endless regurgitations of the same result. Human machines trapped in their own stupid loop. Drug-****** neuronal networks incapable of making new connections, forever traversing old ones. Short-term memory loss, every repeat a new conversation of what has already been. The same grey light painted upon four pears by the window.

He’s not sure if Coffin Cat’s laugh is getting weaker with each repeat.

Signal-response. The exterior world oversaturated with variables: roadways, rivers, forests, wildlife — an ever changing scene to respond to — the illusion of depth. Automatic response mechanisms reorient to new stimuli. The soul rises like surfactant, objectified fractal diffusion. A becoming without end.

But within the border of this interior world, the light stays grey. No input, no change; the same dead repeat, over and over, until sundown triggers a hunger response. Lined all along the street, a black box ceremony of repeating machines, trapped in their idiot cults, walls of clay and blood.

Idiot Boy finally gets Coffin Cat’s attention. She helps him through the house’s arteries to reach rain and wet stone, overcast skies. As he shakes in shock, Coffin Cat mumbles, “It’s cold.”

Idiot Boy sits silent on the ride home. Travels through himself. Tunnel through the body or Mariana Trench. Loses his footing before a traumatic void. Leaves the car and pukes.
El Torpedo appeared out of thin air, moving at what could only be called -by any reasonable man, considerable velocity. She crashed into her soft down bed with a force that would've concerned even the most detached of onlookers, had there been any. 'Had there been any?' she wondered, as the recoil from the impact sent her flying into the air. The young girls arms and legs flailed in all directions; her body spinning wildly through the empty space of mid-flight, until finally -THUD!

“******* it, Ghost!” she groaned, holding the back of her head with her gloved hand.
“How can that still be funny!”
There was no reply, only a faint warm breeze and the smell of freshly cut grass.
“This is no time for jokes, Ghost! I was this close to offing those *******. What the **** were you thinking letting them get away?”

For a few moments she continued on mumbling various obscenities and abuse at The Ghost, which we won't bother to detail here. El Torpedo removed herself from the floor and took a few seconds to dust off her omniverse attire.
Ghost Scarecrow replied, “I didn't let them get away.”
“Well, then where the **** are they? I don't see them anywhere!” El Torpedo spat back.
“Of course you don't. They're not within our current field of vision.”
“Very funny, you are such a ******* riot. Did they get away or not?”
“No. They did not get away.”
“Well, where are they, then?”
“Finally, you ask the right question!”
“I already asked you that!”
“Whatever. Let's go.”

At that moment, El Torpedo and the Ghost Scarecrow evaporated into the universe, their molecules became space, all of it...the entire thing all at once, allowing the duo the very useful ability to appear anywhere in the omniverse at anytime without warning. I know, it's hard to comprehend. But, as far as I can tell, and from what I've been told by those who would know, that's what happened. It was a rather difficult period for criminals like me. But that's a story for another time, back to the matter at hand.

Once their miracle of physical travel was complete, the duo found themselves floating approximately 40 feet above the Lacksdale River looking down on Tom's Bridge. Two small objects could be made out in the distance, appearing to hover just beneath.

“That's them?”
“Yep.”
“What did you do, Ghost?”
“I was just practicing my justicing...”
“That's not justice, Ghost. That's ******.”
“No Torpedo, that is art.” His playful demeanor suddenly became somber and serious. “Let's have a closer look.”

The two floated closer. As they came within range, El Torpedo felt the cold, dark energy flowing straight through her soul; Ghost had had one of his moments again. The gruesome scene came into full view: Two men hung upside down from the bridge; the chains that Ghost Scarecrow had used to secure their ankles had already begun their slow and deliberate journey through the men's flesh.





Beneath the chains were crudely fashioned trash bags secured by duct tape around the victim's ankles. Ghost wasn't a detail oriented entity, he just sort of did things in a haphazard way and called it art. Even the casual observer could tell that the job was done in haste. The plastic covered the corpses from ankle to neck. The bags were bloated, filled with the blood of the doomed souls. A few tiny streams of the red liquid made it through the duct tape and ran down the faces of the men.

El Torpedo turned away for a moment and fixed her gaze on the Scarecrow, the smile on his face was quite sinister and chilled her to the bone. She wondered what he thought was so artistic about this brutality. Then she saw their faces. They were beautiful. It must have taken him hours to carve it all.

“How did you do that? It's..beautiful.”
“I didn't do that.”
“You didn't?”
“No. I'm currently compiling a list of possible suspects.”
“Ghost, you told me that you did it.”
“I did.”
“Well, either you did or you didn't. Which is it?”
“I killed them and hung them there. I didn't do the carving. You know I can't draw...at least not like that, and certainly not in this dimension.”
“Then who did?”
“I'm not sure.” The Ghost stuttered, beginning to feel a bit sick. “This looks like the work of...”
Together they finished the sentence, “The Artist!”

For a moment they stared at each other in stunned silence, both absorbing the gravity of the situation. El Torpedo broke the silence, “It can't be, we...I..., I killed The Artist myself. I stuck the barrel to her sweaty forehead; I saw the fear in her eyes when I cocked the hammer. I saw the explosion of blood and brain matter splash against the ceiling and walls after I squeezed the trigger. I wiped her blood from MY face. It's impossible!”
The Scarecrow replied, “It could be a copy cat. The Artist is dead, Torpedo. I was there; I saw what you did to her. No one could survive that -not even her.”

“You two don't know what you saw,” boomed the unmistakable voice of the one and only. “But, I do!” She continued, “You saw what I wanted you to see. Same as now.” She drew a heavy breath, her ample ***** grew fuller. She created the illusion of oxygen intake; she was a creator, and continued her verbal assault on the Scarecrow. “And you! Strawman, or whatever you call yourself these days. To even suggest a copycat after looking at my masterpiece...I'll **** you in eight dimensions a day for the next week! Ten, if I can manage it.” El Torpedo saw the fire of  The Artist's eye flickering in the cool blue darkness. “I think I'll start with the you in this dimension.”

At that very moment, The Ghost fired his (clever weapon name) straight through the heart of what we all, and any person worthy of being reasoned with would've thought was, The Artist. No such luck. The solid image became mist, evaporating before their eyes. I could still see her, safely tucked away. I see lots of things though; hard to keep it all straight, you know?

The Artist continued, “..to think that would work. Good Christ, Strawman! You're dumber than your name implies!”

She reappeared, snuggled closely to the back of  The Ghost Scarecrow. Her knife at his throat, her lips at his ear, she whispered, “My Turn.” She proceeded to pull the blade across Ghost's neck. Before Torpedo could even begin to think about reacting, The Ghost's blood was spraying all over the place. I actually felt bad for her at that moment. It was kind of sad, actually. Blah, rambling again. Back to it!  


“What the **** was that?” El Torpedo uttered, apparently still in shock.
“That, My Dear, is what you can expect when you **** with The Artist!” The sound of her words reminded El Torpedo of the sound of an electric can opener near the end of it's days. “I am the only force in the omniverse that you need concern yourself with, that is all you need to know. Now, Good Night!”

Blinded, but very much alive and very much paralyzed, El Torpedo could feel her limp body sinking into the dark, cold waters of the Lacksdale River. She held her breath for as long as she could, until finally, she gave. The water filled her lungs, but she did not die. A chain appeared around her ankle, it descended deep into the abyss where, presumably, it was attached to something that would keep the girl secure. I'm not sure, I couldn't see that far.

“I've secured you between dimensions, Dear. No one will find you here. Enjoy your stay.” and with that The Artist was gone. But, she'd made one, possibly fatal, mistake. She'd left a witness, ME!
Joshua S Bailey Aug 2016
Oh dove how are you so bright,
when I the Crow so dark?
We both are,
but bird's lost in flight.
But I fear the Strawman's bark.

You, a target of gluttony, lust, and greed,
Pure of heart but long for that addictive seed.
And I, the blackened crow am shot by scorn
You are the rose by which my heart is thorned.

And you my blackened crow,
Your lie so simple
Why can't you be?
We are the same, but different.
Your ignorance and blindness set you free.
I too fear, but spiritual pestilence.
You are bound by the hands of ghosts,
shaded in death, you show bliss
In your sorrow day by and tomorrow,
you'll wait: a bird on a post.
Geno Cattouse Apr 2014
She was a master of selective amnesia.
Would savor the sour sweet ambrosia of self delusion
Then wash it down with a mixture of bitter herbs and devices

The Straw man burned brightly in the dark of night and brought all those self drawn illusion to light. turning that way then this the roaring fire was self fulfilling.
That river in Egypt was flooding her banks now.
The Straw man's head sat slightly askew


With eyes shut tight against realities glare.
She lit the straw man as nightly bonfire and whistled her fantasies in with marshmallow treats then neatly sit cross legged.
Sang *** Ba-ya.  
The straw man crackled and cackled inside.

Fingers fit tightly in her ears to cast away and stifle her fears
a tried and true method that served her for years.
Rose colored goggles pressed tightly on
Wrongly or rightly.
The Straw man guffawed and snickered as he burned.

No fault behavior is a sweet smelling balm...
a smooth transistor for a much twisted twister..
Never looking back at the carnage wrought and  ensuing..
just whistled while she worked a progressive undoing...
Mr Straw-man burned brightly and shook his head slowly from left to right.
Knowing full well he was in for a long night.
i dreamed i was in oz so very far away
watching all the munchkins as they began to play
then i saw a straw man and a tin man to
followed by a lion beneath the sky so blue.

walking on a road yellow and so bright
dancing as they went filled with such delight
searching for a wizard to tell him of there plight
he lived in a castle so big and very white.

they say he granted wishes to anyone in need
that he was very kind very kind in deed
strawman needed brains to be clever as can be
lion needed courage to be coward free
tin man needed heart to be human too
then he could fall in love like the humans do.

they got to the castle big and very white
then heard the wizards voice it gave them such a fright
they told him of there wishes to see what he could do
wizard said dont worry ill grant your wish for you.

they were very happy there dreams had all come true
strawman had is brain now he felt brand new
tinman had his heart just like humans do
lion had his courage and was braver too

this what i dreamed a fairy tale come true
with an happy end just like the stories do
Michael Feb 2019
Sir Isaac Newton wasn't "using his head"
When the "aha moment" fruit fell
He assumed it was gravity, an attraction to the earth
It was weight and decay rate, no romantic pell
Many scream "separation of church and state"
In the Constitution you will not find that phrase
But in a personal letter to the Danbury congregation
It has been arbitrarily elevated to "law" in our nation
In the Scopes trial Evolution was criticized
Scopes was arrested, the masses cried "victimized"
To play on the "heart-strings" of the "under-educated"
Those worshippers of Evolution were placated
Hypocrites obscuring all God-given laws
Building a "strawman" with individual straws
Satan has questioned all God's "thou shalt nots"
NASA has filmed in a studio basement "our Astro-nots"
Jesus' words have been futurized by Baptist dispensation
Jesus said plainly it's "in this generation"
Scripture is not a "wax nose" you can eisegete
Exegete in the present tense Greek
How do we equitably represent all voices, in a
Public school system that claims they consider all choices
Public schools don't exist, "special agendized" schools do
Claiming universal intolerance, they're intolerant of truth
Let us say in the "Dagon bye" to all "blessings in disguise"
We'll be in[spire]d by the "blessings in the skies"
We're all from Adam's atoms by God's sovereignty
Lord roll my soul in humility, cajole my spirit patiently
Copyright 2019
Connor Jun 2017
Peacock summer (yolk & barnyard coffee shop for strawman Sal)

cactus palace, alps figured in stonework train terminal/Dylan hollering (I am the vessel for the ghost of me)

transmuted nostalgia, blank graffiti gaze/the alchemic architecture of skyscrapers replacing skyscrapers (an image made more blinding, the child raised to be dissociative & intolerant. I miss the oaken texture of your voice)

bulbous glass humidity, I am poet/poet build word house/in surrealistic wood/fireplace made of naive rainbow and the bones of a whole universe (Sun paints its terror on the back of my neck while I sit here watching a Supermodel with a 3 thousand dollar paisley pattern olive dress walk outside towards Gastown, her rings are worth more than a boreal dream)

Japanese weddings in Elizabethan gardens/grey Fenrir cloud-beast approaches with its faint dew/kites strewn between the Willow trees/Canyon instrument drum/ponderer creates masks of flowers/she sinks into the soggy earth/her primal home (I value those who are humble and beautifully so)

the more poems I read, the more mosaic my soul becomes like world-tree (roots collecting together, vibrant stems of skeletons & Springtime goliath)

do not fret the newspaper will never stop screaming, your cigarettes will never run dry, the ***** platform will never stop bathing itself in the city,

God, to answer your question
yes I am still godless
& yes I am happy

growing thin in the phantom pull of your vastness

(to essence of Lavender)

the sea its
own travelling
fortress
invulnerable
to time
The philosophers's ****** reading brief facts about the philosophers stone

Optional optimal before eyeing the optometrist 

A visual learner molded a adolescent mute

Can't be too well off like the conspiracy of college 

Vicious violent vows of the silent

Prevent negativity using Mudras signals

Breaking every law resembling the commandments 

Mandatory reading for mental calmness

Savior behavior when we are the creators

They can not keep track of our strawman so please fill out a virtual postman

Hyperventilating through hypnosis snap out of it like a toaster

A regular tale is not my version of hell

My first name is Michael from Hebrew origins

Far from poetry more like emotions technical difficulties

Actions are profitable when words are free to acknowledge
Chris Apr 2019
Crows
A girl walked through the field one morning,
free of worries, doubts and woes.
The path was clear, forever going,
Through the corn field through the rows.

She walked and leaped and laughed and sang,
Until she stopped to see the view,
Something strange has stopped her legs.
She would have walked on if only she knew.

There across her stood a stake
With a strawman tied and bound,
The crows sat on him,sat and ate,
But they didn't make a sound.

A scarecrow- she thought, but amused,
I've never seen one this upclose,
But isn't all for which he's used,
To chase off those nasty crows?

A girl drew closer and so did the clouds,
The birds shrieked and flew away,
The girl went pale and screamed out loud,
She aged a century that sunny day.

There on the stake bound with rope,
In the corn field attracting crows,
Hung, half eaten, beyond hope.
The girl's neighbour, farmer Joe.

She kept silent after that,
As the gray clouds spat out rain.
And the wind blew of the scarecrow's hat,
To reveal the farmers brain.
What most of us don't see.
in a parenthetical existence
see the shadow of reality
through infinite lenses
distortions of distortions
the infinitude of humanity's
misunderstanding

pick a side for no reason
but why not?
then pierce strawman enemies
with low resolution image macros
which ignore the macrocosm
both sides return victorious
over their lifeless enemies
and await tomorrow's call

artists of ambiguity
find new ways
to draw the same lines
resculpt the truth
leaving nothing
but a monstrous mass
of homogeneity
favoring the profane
Rebecca Oct 2020
I built a straw man
of perspective,
out of fear and hate.
I built him out of issues
I know you can relate.

The straw man is a ruse
for my vanity.
A spotlight is what I crave
for all humanity.

My straw man gives me purpose;
on a podium, I stand.
An audience attention
is something I demand.

I talk about propaganda.
I talk about pretend.
I talk about my straw man,
I want to break and bend.

I'll destroy what I've created
this I have no doubt.
Setting fire to my straw man
with a flame you can't put out.
A straw man (or strawman) is a form of argument and an informal fallacy based on giving the impression of refuting an opponent's argument, while actually refuting an argument that was not presented by that opponent.[1] One who engages in this fallacy is said to be "attacking a straw man".
I'm baseless
and faceless
and graceless
a scarecrow
waiting to be
brought to life
Leigh Everhart Mar 2020
she awakes.
her ballerina toes are poised, her nose is scrunched -
she is – what’s the word – alive.
her powder fingertips crease mechanically like a hydraulic press.
she has a beating chest with the calibration of cast iron.
her feet can climb Mount Olympus and higher.
she is limber.
she is – what’s the word – living.
her name is –
her skin has the swirl of a gleaming cantilever.
her head teeters.
she is speechless.
her lips are soft, her hands touch her face like it is a monument,
like she is a strawman.
is she a –
her spine has a curve, she can bend into geometric shapes, her arms are straight
but they encircle her.
galatea.
he whispers her name to her.
or maybe he names her.  
she can choose a name herself, maybe.
she is – what’s the word – a woman.
her hair can swim through the air, her curls have strands that brush her cheeks
and her cheeks can color in the blank space left behind
by words.
galatea, she whispers.
her tongue clambers in her mouth, for some purchase,
for some worthy noise.
she searches herself for a – what’s the word – idea.
you are mine, galatea, he says. i made you.
do not be afraid. i will bathe you, dress you, anoint you.
i will worship you, and i will save you.
he caresses her hand.
her palms are dry as sandpaper.
she is – what’s the word –
her eyes have the shutter frequency of a lens.
she bends.
she is awake.
she does not remember a before.
she does not remember a maker.
she hasn’t yet made any mistakes.
her name is galatea
but she is no longer milk-white.
he says, you are my wife.
she says, i am alive.
he says, i gave you life.
she says, yes, you are right.
you gave me life,
and i won’t return it
because you gave it,
because it’s mine.
Gathered up the sticks and stones,
metalic chains that tied down  bones.
twist gibberish from  mithered mind,
poisonous scolpamine that makes it bind.
throw in  angst,  grief ,abuse and pain,
the manic , depressed clown, sudden sane,
projections coloured, in black and blue,
silvered mirror, which reflects you too,
tapping feet, to tell his story,
vibrating, whirring, hate and gory,
tangled hair, in love and war,
left the house, she went too far,
Eve's cursed with all  honest, gentle, meek,
an act of love, was taught to seek,
not in public, lies, their great shame,
it's ***** ops, they got it covered,
none Independent to Post,
All is hidden in the Sun,
With ***** Mirror,
one cannot find
junk Mail sings to tapped Telegragh.
none Express the Times,
News reels out fear, in pantomimes,
bowed to the fiddle player,
President, Minister, Senator , Mayor,
dressed in copper, gold, inked paper, bit coins,
buried in weighted tonnes, aground,
strawman arguments,  plentiful found,
mutter mumbo jumbo,
about survival of fittest,
serfs was born, to be that hitlist,
elequent etonians, buzzing fabian tales,
once bolting cheetahs, now, well fattened snails,
More occult jibes, from outer polished cups,
with poisoned inner, She passes up,
If sinning became winning,
patient, with time locked down, spinning,
weaving multicoloured threads,
of too man-y voices in her head.
Found alchemical gold  in solitary cell,
Thanks to the Fathers Heavenly spell,
unravelled her story, from sickness to well.
Omnipresent, all round, all high,
nothing hidden from his all seeing eye.
Good things come, for those who wait,
lockdown will serve the meek and kind,
the architects soon stricken blind,
believe their own lies,
think their bots are real,
love is truth, for those who feel.
HistoryisnotkindtoHer
Barton D Smock Mar 2017
mom works nights answering the phone for a nameless thing

/ which sister
gets
the strawman, or

a narrator’s
struggle
with pica

/ what example
we set
for sleep
Barton D Smock Aug 2016
if touch can end its own pregnancy

if it was
in fact
the strawman’s
earthquake
during which
I gave
as instructed
birth
to what
would repair
lightning

then yes

beware
the wary
dog
(jokes all in jest)

Hard to believe, I orange in a lee
started life as barely visible speck!

Just in the course of healthy growing
season, this former minute nearly
microscopic entity developed into
quite pleasing nose cone herbivorous

specimen, though modesty restrains
me to rattle off an excess of adjectives
to describe fine physique of this
munch able mealy mouthed morsel.

Though my existence the epitome of
any ordinary carrot, the natural and
man-made dangers got drilled into my
cortex from the moment sprouts spring
from that black kin décor fleck.

Matter of fact, the bunch of family
members frequently primed and trained
in case creature with row of sharp
front teeth seeks fancy feast

These practice drills catapulted me,
(and others in same graduating class)
to cope with what crops up out of
deeply grounded growing
sense of false security.

Although just equipped with only
circular reddish trunk, and lack
extra limbs to apply defensive
maneuvers, the techniques taught
to us at prestigious carrot league

school focused on artfully crafty
movements, sans wriggling deeper
below topsoil in an attempt to thwart
thumping hindquarters of one
or group of rabbits.

Now tis wise those once cute bunnies
heed thy advice RUN RABBIT RUN!

Ever since firmly anchored in the earth
via number silvery tendrils as young
whipper snapper, me dad constantly
forewarned me to be on the lookout

and take every measure to avoid the
likes of Bugs Bunny, Kit Carson,
Peter Cottontail, and their motley posse
of voracious appetites for destruction.

At prime of full-blown young adulthood,
and essentially as grown prized well-rooted
stew pen dis crème of the crop nose cone
(built superbly shaft like), a promising
adulthood awaited me.

Unbeknownst to farmer Boyce Harris,
this outsize conical vegetable would
sprout into quite handsome inviting
healthy snack.

A thatch of tousled mop top red matted
hair exemplify carrot teen years.
So…hear me and listen up, ye hares who
house a harem of hungry herbivores.

Ye aint gettin to sink yaw choppers into
me crunchy grate ‘C’ pulp and chamber
that secretes savory sweet celluloid.
I yam not stew ped!

Over a goblet of fire me deathly hallowed
juice will pots sub lee only grudgingly relent.

Defense against the well red orange arts
prepare this protean plant to avoid pursuits
that whet an overly active appetite for
suffering like fate of late mister potato head.

At all costs, an orthodox upbringing instilled
herculean efforts to steer clear of radical stirring
raw bits, which subversive underground posse
frequently met short, nasty and brutish outcome.

Many accounts repeated detail brutish slave labor
that often comprise 1. faux nose as ideal abutment
to hold up bifocals for an aging frosty the snowman
or  2. never volunteer myself in role of that metes
outcome of scarecrow or strawman.

These innocent furry creatures possess two sharp
front teeth wreak havoc and rent asunder and turned
many loving defenseless Daucus carota into pet
trill like liquefied car rot.
visa a vis militaristic plan
a boot 15-20 million people -
undocumented hard working Americans
(maybe some living here legally) forcibly,
and violently shipped out,
when victoriously, surreptitiously,
and purportedly illegally entering
our ports of the world wide web.

Though born, bred, and raised here
in the U S of A (The 'short a' /æ/),
I feel aghast how the
de facto dictator wannabe
shakes a fist and forbids those people
clamoring to become bonafide citizens
(and generally escaping mayhem
in their respective country of origin)
entering one supposed, enchanted,
and blessed land of life, liberty,
and the pursuit of happiness,
to become punishingly ousted
should other than Kamala Harris
and Tim Walz acquire
the presidential/vice presidential
vote of confidence.

No secret the Don will abrogate,
his strict ban barring
employees to acclimate
themselves, to live within United States
legal tender, and accommodate
themselves comfortably anonymous,
though "NOT FAKE," but accurate
reliable, trustworthy, et cetera
resources who did activate

my awareness, his hired hands
never received adequate
pay if any,
(perhaps greater than minimum wage),
despite the fact he
does vehemently administrate,
adulterate presidential decrees, and thus
passively advocate, those supposed:
intruders, marauders, and pillagers

(rapists thrown in for good measure),
thus being party to affiliate
with contrary doctrine makes
him more than a flagrant hypocrite
since such migrant fiasco does aggravate
me as well as innocent lives that aggregate
within a country, whose motto
rather than alienate
purportedly offered sanctuary:

"Give me your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses
yearning to breathe free,
the wretched refuse
of your teeming shore."

No excessive effort needed to insulate,
expedite and ameliorate
the woeful plight of ordinary peoples,
whose culture club, those very
governments aim to annihilate
driving a figurative wedge (gee),
I decided to annunciate
(a spurious whim),
and suspensefully anticipate
if affection toward
asylum seekers will arise

decrying duplicitous action (exhibited by
Janus faced courtesy former commander in chief),
undoubtedly other citizens do not appreciate
(minus the bajillion dollars purposelessly
allocated to ***** a skyhigh wall,
when more humanely appropriate
measures beg attention at
less expense I aver and approximate
and avoid unfairly
incriminating, but to arbitrate
(with some degree of justice) pitted

toward migrants flagrant
human rights violation,
those in power arrogate,
and wield for the luxury,
exploitation and convenience
of those wealth mongers,
who fail to articulate,
how when families
get forcibly rent asunder
fallout does asphyxiate
the human species
far from madding crowd
in toto including
Dorothy, Cowardly Lion,
Tin Woodman and Strawman.

— The End —