"sycophantic" poems
I am a fighter
Because I know someday
That things will be brighter
And I will find a way
I am a lover
Holding on to the possibility
That I might discover
A person that has virility
I am a romantic
My desires are unwired
Trying to be sycophantic
Easily I become sired
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
Can I trust the eyes seeking mine?
I want to
Because they look like home
Through sepia tones
A bittersweet nostalgia before
We learned how easily people break
I want to trust your arms
They look just big enough to hold me
When I know the only way I feel safe
Is in the shape of a ball
And if you were any more beautiful
I’d be ********
Much like the ten beers I should’a
Said no to
Before you
And they
Had me sycophantic and stumbling
And already
just a little bit
********
I want the smell of you to linger on my clothes
The same way fire does
After a book burning
Just a little bit shameful
I want you to stop my stammering
With a kiss
To preoccupy my mouth
Long enough to subdue my stupid
I want to let go
Of the fever that makes my back sweat
When I see you
And the worry
That your eyes might lose their shine someday
I want you
In all the ways that
I am probably not supposed to want you
But I do
I want our wrinkles to one day fit
Like ****** up Ziploc bags
It’s that bad
So kiss me
Before I tell you that
And maybe
keep your eyes closed
Until I can trust them
Because I want to
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 10:34 PM UTC
i seem to only see three constellations in the night
sky these days... the modo -
it be the sign of: the age of scorpio,
there's but the big & little dipper (respectively)
º
º
º
º
º
º
º
do these people really need to be spoon fed?
the smaller dipper is akin to the big
dipper, hence to write in the other
and last constellation (minus that odd rhombus
without a name) -
and believe me when i say: orthodox
astrology doesn't agree with me:
º
º
º
º
º
º º
i guess i managed to draw the right
schematic,
besides the point, there are but
three constellations in the night sky
around here, and one is a revisionist take
on the scorpio...
**** you hippies, and your age of aquarius,
this is what a scorpion looks like,
and nothing what you've indicated,
i'm starting to think that astrologists
did poorly in geometry class...
but i'll end it on a positive note...
*there is more dignity in being ascribed an
epitaph, than being given a "proper" burial...*
and by "proper" i mean: the leech family
members waiting for inheritance,
the sycophantic actors of attendance -
throw me into a mass grave, i don't mind
for a "proper" burial...
there is no dignity in whatever burial
ensues as many will do...
but allow man to transcend
the date of birth ** / yy / zz
and the date of death zz / yy / **
with an epitaph...
however "wise" the man was in life,
his dignity only arrives postmortem,
in the form of an epitaph...
but one epitaph overshadows a thousand
quotable mentions of the man, when alive,
but one epitaph of a david,
overcomes the oeuvre of maxims of a goliath.
whatever argument for light pollution exists,
even when in the scottish highlands
i didn't see any more stars...
there are only three constellations in play
on the night sky,
and one of them is the genuine scorpio
constellation,
with the orthodox constellation being
bogus, fake, unnecessary...
i, i've spotted the constellation of scorpio,
and i did so: with my naked eyes!
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 8:21 PM UTC
I'll tell you what you want to know I'm sycophantic romantic
I keep your number in my phone
But named you "do not answer it"
I'm old enough that I should be someone now
That made a point of making it out this town
And arguably I'm better than previously
But starting to hate people that act like me
I'm holding back the urge to focus
Why I prefer my silhouette?
Cos detail paint a prefect picture
One thousand words all say **** whit
And much like your shoulder we're colder now
Haven't spoke to you in months and it makes me proud
Arguably I'm better than previously
But still a narcissist with out any self esteem
I don't think I
Understand
What makes a
Person Decent
You keep your heart
On your sleeve
Darling you're
Barely twenty
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC
Live through me vicariously...
My rich neighbors got upset
Sycophantic ******** pretentious jet-set
I am the pariah the iconoclast blasted by rumors, iron-curtain of suburbia hurtin' tuff darts pointed at me
Think young it's only the vicissitudes
That control your mood and attitude
Am I gay? Your wife doesn't think so!
Go ahead live through me vicariously...
D. Clare
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 6:20 AM UTC
Early on
it was clear
I was coming nowhere in this race
and so my eyes began to wander,
pick out the daisies in the grass,
note the sweep of the horizon
and -
stop.
A long time,
the thunder of feet
fading into the distance,
leaving breeze,
bees
and other tranquilities.
Until a small man
in a tight suit
approached me with a clipboard.
"Ah," he said,
sycophantic smile
splitting his tanless dinnerplate
of a face,
"I see we have another
"like-minded soul!
"We'd like you to join
"the non-racing society!
"You can look at daisies all day long
"and at the end of every day
"we quantify who has done the best!"
And I, sad,
sat,
and wished the sky
would swallow me
whole.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 12:30 PM UTC
Watch out, or you will find that you're
On President Trump's Enemies List,
For democratic values and Donald
Trump cannot coexist.
Former CIA Director
John Brennan, now has learned
That when it comes to silencing critics,
Trump will leave no stone unturned.
After hearing Brennan's critical
Words, the angry Trump was stewing.
Bam! He revoked Brennan's security
Clearance despite no wrongdoing.
The crazed, vindictive leader called
John Brennan's behavior "erratic."
Muzzling the freedom of speech, Trump's
Becoming more autocratic.
The office of the presidency
Has never, ever been sullied so.
This vicious attack on our First Amendment
Rights is a terrible blow.
Trump accused Brennan of making
"Baseless charges." Real translation:
Brennan didn't hail Trump
With sycophantic adoration.
On Trump's list are others who
Might lose clearances as well.
Here his lack of integrity
And pettiness have no parallel.
Another motive for Trump's action
Is more diabolical yet:
He wants to strip the power away
From all people who might be a threat
Because of their connection to
The Russia probe. That makes sense.
As more dots are being connected,
The situation is growing tense.
While servile Republicans in Congress
Defend their despotic president,
Let Brennan's powerful words
Resound: "I will not relent."
-by Bob B (8-16-18)
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 10:58 AM UTC
a circling vortex of disarray
starts inside my head
clasped by unsure
yet supportive hands
the helpless recesses of which
lets the sycophantic white light of my desktop monitor
summoned upon a wretched click
scatter on this scattered face
forming a weak shield
amalgamated by the desolation
and imbecility of a roadside orphan
ignorant but lasting
on the crumbs left over
from a stranger's life
a familiar unsettling sound
cracks open this pale shield
and my brooding eyes open
to see her making contact
one instant
one magical instant,
and die the next
leaving my impressioned eyes
wanting more
i lie, lie to myself
when the truth is
there woud be no more
of her tonight
retreating never meant giving up
and i do retreat,
to escape the insanity
of her charm get to me
amidst real affection
to run away while wanting to look back
when an embrace is just outside my door
desperately wanting to hear that unsettling sound
which drowns the familiar sounds of laughter
the circling vortex now inherent
inside my head
clasped by my helpless
supportive hands
the helpless recesses of which
lets the servile white light of a numb monitor
trace my tears
oh how I weep
to be her onscreen ******
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 4:39 PM UTC
she has prized credentials
where grovelling is concerned
and many a brownie point
without merit she's earned
******* up to management
is something she's good at
her activity is as undistinguished
as a gross gutter rat
she crawls all over the high ups
like an uncontrollable rash
her sycophantic behavior
causes our teeth to disdainfully gnash
to observe her inching
up the head honcho's ***
makes us all snigger
at her sniveling farce
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
You cringeworthy, evil pismire;
Your father did surely miss-sire
This personification of flatulence,
The embodiment of self importance
Overflowing with abject peccancy
Devoid of any sign of respectability
Replete with gross odoriferousness
Horribly and infamously unscrupulous.
You have reveled in misrepresentation
And tried to elevate your calumniation
Disinformation and deception exists
As capitalistic dissembling persists.
You’ve collected an evil government
Built mostly of human excrement
And have such a lack of veracity
That you speak in constant mendacity.
Sycophantic eructations of dogmatic bile
Issue from your unsympathetic smile
And your inauthentic glad-handed gropes
As if we all of us are unbright gullible dopes
That buy your fabrications completely
While you pilfer and prevaricate indiscreetly.
You are a Vaudevillian villain miscast as star,
But most of us know exactly what you are.
Deceit, deception, dishonesty; a tragedy
But not for you, for us and our country.
Distortion, evasion and fabrication the rules;
You despair of any other kinds of tools.
Falsehoods, fictions and forgery are your tricks.
You demand we build with straw-less bricks
Your erections that are planned to be palaces
Filled with your giant golden carved phalluses.
Those monuments, inanotomically correct,
Established to celebrate and somehow protect
A mountebank on the way to an overseas bank
Claiming to eradicate the scoria he creates
That decades of privation will not quite alleviate.
But you, the Great Prevaricator, will always blame
Other players in your sick, unconstitutional game
Instead of admitting your complicity and guilt
About the disgusting, putrid swamp you built.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 2:32 PM UTC
I like to think I'll find peace for me
resting beneath a sycamore tree.
I can't feel its roots burrow into my body,
sapping me of my strength.
No
No
No
No
No
Can't you see?
There is peace beneath this sycamore tree.
Look at how it shelters me
in the shade, so I can't see the sun.
No
No
No
No
No
What on earth are you telling me now?
This is just a simple sycamore tree
it is not acting sycophantically.
I'm not held down, it's protecting me.
No
No
No
No
No
*It wants your death to fertilize its growth.
You're rooted to the sycophantic tree.*
Just go, there is nothing here for you.
I'm corrupted, leave without me.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 9:32 PM UTC
pull back the thin veneer
of pretense that obfuscates
this holiday season
profuse excuses of joy and peace
are hollow and brittle and leave
bitter proof of our lackluster compassion
expose the specter
of greed
dormant in capitalism
vestiges of a dying culture
the refuse of an apathetic
American people numb
to the trauma inflicted
by megalomaniacal leaders
consent given implicitly
in the complacency of obedient conformity
will we refuse to acknowledge
the stains on our hands this Christmas
red liquid misting our faces
bloodlust and endless war
there’s no
rhyme or reason
to these
sycophantic intonations
deafening these words of treason
in vain attempts to assuage guilt
with endless iterations
of false hopes and puny gods in
brainless trying to defy reality
we belie our true intentions
our self-serving obsessions
and inane consumption
hazes of the mundane
in suburban graves
if the greatest gift is giving itself
we won’t find solace in the holy temples
of strip malls shopping centers
and corporate retail palaces
a Friday as black as our fractured hearts
witness the death of humanity
choking out all we were
grateful for the day before
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 8:24 PM UTC
He was the only guy I met
Who wore a genuine fedora
And for all he struck a figure
He turned out to be a horror.
He was Satan with a swagger
A thin cheroot hanging in his lip.
He got into every nightclub free
I never saw him leave a tip.
His voice was like his words,
Smooth and slick and few.
When he talked everyone listened.
It seemed the proper thing to do.
But later when you remembered
It seemed he didn’t say much at all.
You just remembered his affect
His posture and that he was tall.
I don’t mean to imply he was a loner;
He had his choice of friendly fare.
And, it seemed the were both genders
So, there were lots of us out there.
We entertained, or at least we tried,
Just to keep him where we were.
And throughout the evening’s fun
Competition is what we all were.
So, we flirted and we flattered him
And we kept his cigarettes well lit.
Once in a while one of the silliest
Of our sycophantic group threw a fit.
Most of the time we stuck to our goal;
Some girl went nuts we’d ignore her.
For some mad reason all we thought
Was to please the man in the fedora.
I never heard anyone talk of him
And mention his accent or race.
In fact nobody seemed to be able
To remember aspects of his face.
And he never seemed to walk away
He just faded back into the flora.
He was like a will-of-the-wisp;
A Flying Dutchman in a fedora.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
pasty white ghosts haunt
the corpse blue cornfields of Iowa
whispering wisps of smoke
shimmering shadows of the past
setting the pace for the rat race
that is the 2016 U.S. Presidential Election
senators billionaires doctors
frauds liars fools
campaigning for selection in an
archaic and outdated
form of governance
witness the spectacle
the orgastic worship
of solipsistic oligarchs
bloated by their own
sycophantic rhetoric
it's just another form
of all-American
entertainment
each orator's charismatic adage
froths forth from a
throat like a grave
pragmatism throttles hope
as we stoke the fires of
self-indulgence and neglect
the fact that we acquiesced
as another deceiver stole votes
we're choking on placebo pills
every ballot cast is another act of apathy
escapism pleading vainly for a
savior to rescue our sick society but
these hands didn't evolve so we could
collect a representative to lead us
blindly into one fiasco after another
these fingers penned
humanity's symphonies and
these calloused palms have
toiled for years under an apathetic sun
we learned to make love
using our fingertips and
with these fists
we could chart a new path
but only if we raise them in
defiance
our only chance is leaderless resistance
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 12:05 AM UTC
The yonder above is forever bruised and opaque
Reigning over glum faces
Complexions washed with a bloodless shade of dispassion
Robotic, disengaged.
Material desires are quenched with vast shopping centres
Credit Cards hold on for dear live
As every last drop of sweet money is rinsed from that plastic rectangle.
Living beyond our means
Whilst simultaneously refusing to give up on Sky TV box sets and liquid lunches.
Hooked to our phones, but not for telephone communication
Rather, for self validation
Defined by the click of a heart or pathetic thumb.
The once friendly communities
With blood coursing through their veins
Are husks of their previous life form, gentrified beyond recognition.
Filtered faces with protruding spines and modified features
Infiltrate mass media
Corrupting the definitions of success and beauty.
Plastic personalities reign supreme
Vacuous minded socialites profess women’s empowerment begins with the flaunting of skin
Rather than the possession of a strong mind.
Many bury their heads in the sand
Residing in ignorance
As mass genocides and civil wars manifest every second.
Or worse, they read the TORYgraph and THE ****
Believing immigrants spawn white genocide
And white conservatives suffer oppression.
Pffft!
I have deep contempt for those behind these ***** tabloids
Murdoch and his monsters
Orchestrating lies and bile
Destroying lives or scaremongering the impressionable
Committing the most savage, sycophantic crimes
In order to extract Monday’s headline.
I do not suffer fools
Especially those who make up the tapestry of dystopia
A failing age of doom.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 12:00 PM UTC
I spent my fifth grade year in school in my fourth new district
writing timed multiplication tests while blood fell from my nose
in hot fat drops splattering my papers,
a rusty brown organic counterpoint
to the red ink of my teacher’s note
“Emily- see me after class”
and my stomach dropped faster than the blood
or the bobble-headed Care Bear that my Social Studies teacher
threw out the window during class
because she once mentioned that she hated Care Bears
and so we covered her room with them.
I spent my fifth grade year at home in my parent’s bed
with blankets tacked over the windows and towels stuffed
into the cracks under the doors
while my parents tiptoed through the kitchen
and I dug my chewed off nails into my scalp trying
to claw the rot and smoldering ash out of my head
and flinched at every creaking floor board.
It was an old house.
The mourning doves called sycophantic dirges every dawn
(and noon, and dusk),
and I grinned when the dog chased them off to hide
with the one-eyed tom in the barn.
I tell you these things not to make you feel sorry for me,
but because I am confused how I can feel sorry for me
and yet miss that time so much.
In the end, I am left only with the firm conviction
that timed tests are every child’s bane,
and mourning doves are just country pigeons.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 4:20 PM UTC
“I don’t believe in love”
He said
“There’s just this
Sycophantic idea with forever
And that somehow our passion
Could last exactly that long”
I think about you
And I almost believe him
But I know
I can love you forever
I am too good at bear hugs
And am fully flexible
When it comes to Kama Sutra napping
I can hold you in slumber
From any angle
I know there are days
Where I fall so far apart
The slow drag of my soul
Along the ground
Pieces me back together a little *****
I am a little *****
Especially when it comes to my mouth
I say things sometimes
That surprise the disgusting
I hope you like ***** talk
And I hope you can be patient
Forever is a long time to love somebody
I mean
Centuries from now
After my soul has doubled back
On it’s ***** self
So many times I come back as just a flower
I will still try and smell nice for you
And I will try and stay alive in
Whatever *** you drown me in
For as long as I can
I mean
I can’t live forever
But as long as I do
I am fully capable
Of loving you
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 4:37 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
They’re the party of wealth
Unconcerned with the health
Of the economy
Relative to you and me
The situation’s getting frantic
Still they’re up to their old antics
Of symbolism ‘n semantics
Symbolism ‘n semantics
The problem is gigantic
In fact it’s transatlantic
His approach is sycophantic
But they are quite pedantic
Is he being too romantic
As they come with their semantics
Their symbolism ‘n semantics
Symbolism ‘n semantics
They’ve tried to pass a bill
Over there up on the hill
But despite the public will
They keep arguing it still
They’re complaining ‘bout the pork
But haven’t put down their fork
So we’ll have to wait
But the hour’s getting late
The problem is gigantic
In fact it’s transatlantic
His approach is sycophantic
But they are quite pedantic
Is he being too romantic
As they come with their semantics
Their symbolism ‘n semantics
Symbolism ‘n semantics
It seems they have a crush
On a pill popper named Rush
Who someone should tell hush
And stop talking so **** much
By hoping that he fails
While we lay on the rails
He’s blowin wind up their sails
So how did he avoid our jails
The problem is gigantic
In fact it’s transatlantic
His approach is sycophantic
But they are quite pedantic
Is he being too romantic
As they come with their semantics
Their symbolism ‘n semantics
Symbolism ‘n semantics
They voted millions down the drain
In a war that was insane
But now hear them complain
Instead of trying to ease our pain
Their politics remains the same
But we made our selection
Where were they the last election
Cos it changed the whole complexion
With a call for redirection
The problem is gigantic
In fact it’s transatlantic
His approach is sycophantic
But they are quite pedantic
Is he being too romantic
As they come with their semantics
Their symbolism ‘n semantics
Symbolism ‘n semantics
(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester. All rights reserved.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 2:33 PM UTC
I can’t decide if I was right or wrong for giving up and shutting you out.
We both know you ****** up,
and we both know that I’m terrible at forgiving,
and even though I said, “I’m fine,”
you know better than I do that it was just another defense
I built back for myself so you didn’t have to feel bad
and I didn’t have to feel forced into trying steer us away from the cliff,
even though you kept clawing your way towards the edge–
dragging me along as if I were some sycophantic, conjoined-twin trophy.
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 1:41 AM UTC
(1)ones laughing like a dog with 2 22's
who're like 3: a whorish slightly giggling mess
3 prods the carpet by footed semblance of leather
assembling her flesh in the left corner of a lazy
rectangle cinema cube. 1nes still cackling throat
******* cords vibrating stupidly on every face with the 2 maybe 23's
mouthhanding and eyefucking with his fat grunt syllabary. 3's uncomfortable
atthe sycophantic panting of her 23's atthis masculine discharge
wetting the silence a pulsing ***** of tongue barking vomit . as an usher ushers fleetly our
moist intellects to the quiet little. the quiet little notch. of waiting excited
screaming visuals a screen crucified blathering.
the 1's ungiddy prance detonates by the skinnyjeaned legs pumping fetid motion. in company of long femininity. and the ovals of 3
grate swift bile at they're lump. and they swallow inthedarkness
his moronic spit. and puke . . .
Nov 15, 2010
Nov 15, 2010 at 10:17 AM UTC
One more recess
and I depress the lever
then laying prone
with a metronome that ticks away
like a clock that's gone awry
I lie and close my eyes and listen to the steady beat
tick
tick
I lick chapped lips and wonder where the balm would be
inside the conservatory
or in the kitchen drawer?
My lips are sore
my life's a bore and so, prone upon the bed
I step outside of this weary head and wander through the passages
remembering massages and brief encounters
steps on which I've stood and wept
stairways crept up fitfully
just to see what was up there
and now
I come across the bare light
the coldness of the moonlight
and the howling of the winds that bite and harried me along
for I in fear would not delay
to welcome in another day and welcome out the night
polite is always best to be
never know when you might see or need a darker place
so just in case
I go that extra mile put out a charming smile
and all the while
my insides churn
my body burns
twists and turns and
in turns I see
the metronome that laughs at me
and what a waste then it would be
tick
tick
never as sick as when you're well
too much heaven down here in hell.
Then rising
realising that I'm back at where I started from
is like someone has dropped the bomb
and I am just collateral
a colony of flattery
and a sycophantic man I'll be
until the evening when I see
that no one stands alone with me.
In this saturation
this desolation spiced up with my perspiration
I don't smell so sweet
another timely beat from my friend metronome
ticks the box and I am home
tomorrow I may lie prone again
tomorrow just might be the same as if in this never ending game
I do not go to jail or collect my bonus from the bank.
Why So Serious
well Frank, the Government sponsored failsafe think tank
said to me,
'drug free is the way to go and then he went'
leaving me with bones so crooked,bent I can hardly stand
A helping hand that helps itself
to dreams of youthfulness and health
I see
or rather cannot see
what is the point and what's for me
but that is just another lie
tick
tick
my how time does fly.
Why
I don't think I'l ever know the answers that I seek so
dearly
I'm not nearly bright enough.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 3:15 AM UTC
Where regrets ice over,
The disemboweled freedom rings:
Strolling down defunct bridges,
Unseeing by the dismembered dolls, and orphaned house shoes,
Sycophantic candy wrappers boomeranging,
Piano notes tumbling by on dusty wings.
The air current adds a gauzy, cheap thrill.
Detoured and lost again, casting off the surplus as you go;
The rattle and clatter of the dirt raising roads,
Trying to remember what to disown and
What to abandon in the wake of leaves,
And random shimmers from old butterfly trails.
The forgotten hopes pooled, where you once spent a day
In decisive despair, and decrepitude.
The vacant future come tumbling;
Not so much unexpected, as unwelcome
The loose ends dragging
Bird song remnants, cottonwood pollen,
Unspoken dearness, and unintended consequences.
The key glitters its way to the shallow bottom of the river
I watch it going down, with a half smile-
I stopped marking time ages ago, in my half-life.
Apr 20, 2010
Apr 20, 2010 at 1:03 PM UTC
sycophantic poetry
im only here to please you
im only here to ease
this starvation of attention
my words are only
hollow messengers
that mean only
that im devoted
but when
im gone
who will turn you
into the poetry
that you dont understand
[holyoak]
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 3:44 PM UTC
Hey
Miss
dagger
twister
You think you so cute
dont you?
I got
a quarter ounce
of sticky sweet
ponics waitin to be
picked up.
Gonna get high,
and leave you to your
sycophantic
slaves.
Tired of your
slights and
baby
bites.
Take your
dagger
and
go twist it
in someone elses back!
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 6:26 AM UTC