"sycophants" poems
You’re a sycophant for a selfie.
selfish daily rants are of the plenty
up here.
(Up where?)
out there in the world wide-
who cares it’s everywhere.
There’s no room for you to hide.
so beware! and be wary of what you confide.
I’ve seen words on their heads and their intent on its side.
Your rambles are a gamble, every un-thorough thought
is a stance you take with pride
on something you were never taught.
Did you go find it out by yourself?
I doubt that. Just loud chat from those sat out around you
was enough to change your point of view. so will you choose?
Or will it not really be you? did you construe this opinion or did it construe yours?
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
Freedom At Kannyakumari
“The destiny of India is molded in her class-rooms”
Kothari had no confusion; no vision on the fusion-
of the East and the West, as Swami Vivekananda’s vision,
“The comingling of the East and the West will dawn a new Era”.
As tissue culture, transplantation or cloning
we Indians imbibe the Western Culture;
or as G.M cotton or brinjals,or tomato
Indians are produced, transmuted
destroying the very indigenous genus for material growth.
Ayurveda is preserved not in Sanskrit but in English letters, now !
Followers of Lord Maccaulay as obedient servants,
by experiments,bring up Indians only in blood and colour-
in every other respects-Europeans
(using imperialist - capitalist media);
poor sycophants ,for a visa,
the Indians: now , turn to the West for light,
leaving the bright light under the Urn;
cry for a way of progress, safety and food;
and beg:once self reliant nations as cells of a body
No retrospection or introspection,
only putrefaction, hence , no resurrection.
On August 15th ,at Kannyakumari beach , beside me,
a bare body of a woman(my sister?) lay asleep;
I witnessed at the starry cold mid-night:
the surging sea spitting frothing snow
upon the black rocky *******
protruded, greasy, mossy. bare but fair ,
ever young at the feet of Bharat-matha.
Wet in the salty breeze , from the foul smell of death,
I walked and walked searching shelter,
but no room for a single son with meagre wealth.
The tourism net -workers with the thirst of mosquitoes
hummed around me with highly rented room offer-
source of tourism exploitation- I bargained,
till, morning red balloon rose up in the Eastern horizon
cleaving the vapours of the sea,
when , thousand tongues chanted Gayathri;
then , the locals thronged around the woman on the shore;
somebody among them, staring blear eyed
as the police jeep and the ambulance arrived , bewailed
“O! Gayathri, my darling, O! Gayathri…” Unsoothed.
The chanting and the yelling dissolved in the breeze
that passed by the Vivekananda rock, afar, south
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 3:50 AM UTC
If you give me long enough
I could paint a vivid portrait of myself
with every blemish and pore behind a brush,
and hush the voices that would criticize
unsubscribe and dance it up over in wonderland with the sycophants
put on my bedazzled pants
let the local singles know I'm a dancer
just a beating heart away
From being another square upon a lattice
a writhing mass of hair gel
and cologne working up the ladder to fuckboi status
Imma walk the line between
a marble arch eclipsing the sun
over an angel statue kneeling in prayer
and a black leather boot clad
bad *** with bad habits
but he's so cool he doesn't care
Look at him go
all on his own
with only a thousand or so, little paintings
that are equally as photo shopped or filtered
just floating around waiting to see the show
and letting other people know they liked it
or not
What a spectacle destined
to leave us senseless and restless
what a test of the patience to be a slave to the masses
to see my juxtaposition against the rest of the best of us
and think "I should go with clever with glasses."
What a brutal twist of civilized life
to have an AI made for driving my car
so I can shimmy down and sneak another **** pic
THROUGH SPACE, to some guy who works at taco bell's wife
Laura something or something
I'm so social
What a medium,
Exchanging ideas,
and hunting body heat from out of the ether,
to have the pleasing distortion
of the speakers
drowning out all the wearisome noise
of our contortions
"You gotta learn to love yourself"
She says, and posts another photo
buried somewhere under 60 layers
of dog noses and rainbows, and angel wings
Oh **** this isn't boyfriend material let me change some things
-
You don't ever need to change girl,
there ain't anything, in this world
That I wouldn't do, to be with you.
And the Brief exchanges we had,
didn't reveal any red flags,
that I am willing to skip on *** over.
So somewhere down the line,
when the filters start to fade,
we'll just kick that can down the road,
and neither of us will change.
And the picture's that we painted of our Love
will degrade.
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 12:29 AM UTC
I'm never alone, but I always feel lonely,
Surrounded by sycophants and courted by cronies.
My only true value is that which I give
To myself, nobody's willing to just let me live.
Jumping through hoops made of fire and bone,
Searching for nought but a place to call home.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 9:07 AM UTC
The cheerleader,
Hearts goes to the highest bidder,
An encapsulation of beauty,
She has the license of beauty,
She elucidated my vague and indistinct dreams,
Her voice is mellifluous in my dreams.
Cheerleader is unaccustomed to mundane.
Her admiration full of gains,
Bloomleader is unprofane damsel,
She is immaculate even in tunnels.
Cheerleader is like an epiphany,
Enternity with her? Not still many,
The charm in her face us very potent,
My reasons are arrantly cogent,
Her presence chastise dolor,
Laughter with charismatic colour,
And as the emotion creeps on me,
Making me a sycophants to her knee,
The Cheerleader,
Her love is not a treacherous swine,
Her lips is exquisite than any wine,
Though is infatuation sound very lame,
My heart adores her with fame,
A pragmatic way to study her frangipani face,
I want to be the first in this race,
The cheerleader,
She with crystal teeth
And blue eye *****
I see her climbing on walls,
Auspicious love without any wit,
I realize I was only in a dream.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 10:34 AM UTC
The cauldron bubbles and sputters and pops.
Odors from a foul witches' brew
Fill the mansion. It's called the Nightmare
On Pennsylvania Avenue.
A ghoulish warlock babbles gibberish,
Spreading deceit, anger, and fear.
He summons his lackey ghouls to his chamber.
They bow to the ghastly profiteer.
Their incantations reverberate
Through the rooms and down the halls.
The din stifles the voices of reason
And bounces off the windows and walls.
Witches assisting the grisly assembly
Grovel and spew nonsensical chatter,
While friendly ghosts, horrified,
Grab all their belongings and scatter.
The leading warlock raises his staff
To silence all the ear-piercing shrieking.
"Our work here has barely begun,"
He shouts, "in a manner of speaking.
"We have a lot more poison to spread
To circulate anxiety and doubt.
All we must do is stir the ***
To give them something to worry about.
"Fan the flames of division and discord.
My techniques are tried and true.
Keep 'em guessing; then you've got 'em.
And then you cater to the chosen few.
"We have more rivers to poison,
Coastlines to alter, lands to sell,
Coffers to fill, coffers to rob,
And voices to quiet. Welcome to hell!"
The glowering sycophants dance and cheer--
Thirsty for blood, eyes agleam.
"Dishonesty is the best
Policy," they fervently scream.
Oh, it's a frightening Halloween night
When one's worst nightmare comes true:
The gruesome, macabre, spine-chilling Nightmare
On Pennsylvania Avenue.
-by Bob B (10-31-18)
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 9:53 AM UTC
HP sycophants . . .
Why would someone prop up hacks?
. . . Idiots praising.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
There's movement afoot.
Occupants and sycophants
Are scattering
From the Rainbow Rooms
To the more concrete setting
Of the Oral Office,
Where the North and South Porticos
Admit the transients
Behind the secure cement walls
Of the Skinners.
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 10:35 AM UTC
It started when I looked at the clock:
9:17
The coffee maker convinced me to stay
Had I planned to leave?
Yes, of course, the channel
I left it on
She's there. Again?
Wait, I heard that!
Who's there?
#*“Could find my way to Marianna---ahah--ah”
The sine wave! That's it!
I left them in the car.
These fibers are congregating
They want to get me,
But I am just a flea!*
It started when I looked at the clock:
9:18
I sat down with Earth and ate Earl's burrito
Saturn bent down and showed me tomorrow
The radio crackled as the molecules throttled
^“We're all Immigrants and hypocrites, delusionals and sycophants”
I saw my fingers start to disappear
Then my hands, my arms
Even my ears! My EARS!
I loved those ears...
It started when I looked at the clock:
9:16
They're here, aren't they?
Radio crackles, you heard them!
They're audible!
(3333333)
The gorilla near the out goes strut, strut, strut
I felt the universe collapse inside my gold tux
Could you watch my fish for me?
Marked stuff borrowed from:
# Pixies- Wave of Mutilation
^Star ******* Hipsters- Immigrants and Hypocrites
I felt like it, that's why.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 6:47 PM UTC
*HP sycophants
Why would someone prop up hacks
Idiots praising*
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 2:09 AM UTC
********* sycophants
Obsequious mosquitos
Blatant fuckery
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
Their relevance has been abducted
excuses stealing dogma’s heart
by the master of this domain
knowing victory is now assured
power given comes with a price
the soul is laid on dark altars
still the theories are put forth
to explain the disconnect
the world is flipped to discern
why good is evil in the mind
asking hearts to then follow
the will-o-wisp of Lucifer
tempting lights for the lost
any harbor in the storm
as the leaders avow the bait
turning from their holy paths
the rugged wood is consumed
no longer standing on the hill
when the pyre demands its fuel
to sustain Satan’s plan
the past reveals the same themes
slavery and civil rights
both supported with the chant
‘complicit sacred rules us all’
now a leader has come forth
supporting hints of the righteousness
while rejecting on the whole
holiest Testaments no longer held
they are nailed to the walls
stored in shrines by sycophants
asking for the crumbs of power
to be tossed from gilded heights
relevance has now vanished
dogma twisted once again
previously found after straying
sacrificed to an Overlord
small victories are assured
with compromise firmly grasped
kneel before a deity
born of Satan instead of God.
© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180722.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
The Circus gongs excite the Throngs in nighttime Never Land –
They swarm to see the destiny of Freaks at their command,
While Acrobats step pitapat above the shifting sands
And Lady Fat sits down to chat and oozes charm unplanned.
The Dwarfs in suits, so small and cute when marching with the Band,
Ask crimson Clowns with frozen frowns, to hold a mutant hand,
While Tamers’ whips with withered tips, throughout the winter land,
Lure Cats entranced through hoops enhanced with flames of fires fanned.
White Elephants in big-top tents boast black-tusk contraband
To regiments of Sycophants who overflow the stands,
But No One sees anomalies, and No One understands.
At night’s demise, the dither dies, the lonesome Crowd disbands,
Down dead-end streets the Horde retreats, their tattered rags in strands,
And Janes and Joes reweave their woes, for thoughts of change are banned.
To play a part in Three-Ring Art, I thought I’d try my hand –
I mastered skills, I felt the thrills, I breathed and seethed firsthand –
But destiny denied to me to taste a lifetime spanned
With tightrope walks and trapeze chalks ... excepting second-hand...
For alcohol provoked a fall, as if a reprimand,
And now, a heap, I sometimes keep the ticket office manned...
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 10:57 AM UTC
She mulls over
a void dance tactic
Before proclaiming
Me damaged and telling me
You need to meet a nice girl
And stop with all these
Pornographic sycophants
I insist I'm not sure
The nice ones would deal with
The cacophonous buzz saw
Roar of my thoughts
And she says
What about me?
Write me a poem like you do
For all the other girls
and then I'll straddle you
And make the pain go away
And I reply
Okay, but I am not paying full price
for this session.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 7:25 PM UTC
Have you ever been Cinderella at the ball?
Have you ever stood there so completely in awe of the impossible wonderful you're experiencing?
Have you ever had to leave the ball so no one sees your riches turn to rags
Return to the drudgery of a reality full of tyrants and sycophants;
Thinking that you'll be okay going back to being just you after the clock strikes midnight?
How do you go back?
How do you ever taste anything the same again?
How do you learn to not ache for that kind of love; that kind of beauty?
How do you go back to living as a scullery maid?
How do you go back to the cold hearth alone?
Do you tell yourself you never deserved it?
Do you tell yourself it wasn't real?
Do you tell yourself the prince never cared?
Do you just sit alone by your hearth, covered in the day's cinders and hope beyond hope that it wasn't all in your head?
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 2:00 AM UTC
Fuji, Rainier, now to Africa’s pinnacle
she followed, behind a parade of sycophants
marching, single file behind his greatness
few made ascents with him
she only Fuji, on a windless day
though others made the trek up Rainer,
surviving a blizzard that hit halfway
down
she told her lover
his faithful must have thought his presence
imbued them with immortality
which he seemed to possess
maybe it did, the lover said
seven decades and one, still *******
old mountains and young women
and she was still there, despite
the doctors’ bleak sentence
she was painting, moving
while she still could, a water color
of Rainier in mist, hanging in some
haunted hall in his home
now a pale pastel of Kilimanjaro
for which he would spend a fortune, to hang
somewhere he would not spend a minute
when her extended contract expired
she would be ashes scattered in Big Sur
and he would still be climbing higher
breathing heaven’s ether, a color
she never captured
but her signature
would be on overpriced art
which from the start, he commissioned
to keep her from leaving without
having seen rarefied air
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC
my naked bees are stinging knees and never dream more kind
the honey, black... they lack the knack of natural acts. they pine.
they surly fume. they bark at doom and dangle chintz and fiend,
they serve a nerve as raw as words that pinch a finch’s wings.
my wherewithal, with all your spots, are not my dots; but sod.
by all accounts, it counts for naught...but sounds a lot like god.
the absent one. the ubermensch. the lint i sent you, cracked !
a dagger’s mind. a hellish hive of worse than curse. a laugh !
la mort, petit. du jour, for sure the purest night to bleak... the white !
the eye:; it seeks to sink at least a league beneath the widening gyre !
fie ! and thunder pun my plums
of glumful dungeons, one by none.
and glory wrack my sycophants.
and ransom damage done and done
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 11:13 AM UTC
Just watch them get out of any situation
watch those slugs and worms slip through all
lies of the so called people we should trust
with their super sensitive slime politics
I don't think any are corruption free
just look at those sycophants
anything they say about power
do they just come in their pants
Predictive masters of lies
**** poor excuses for human beings
just ****** of shallow promises
all in the name of their success
Worms in sewerage works make better
then the laws by their letters
watch those slugs try to justify it
in salt, with their super sensitive slime
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
An army of ants, black, brown, red and white, in disciplined columns,
each one no less than any other,armed to the teeth, ready to ****
on their marauding march,find this giant, not a day too long ago was
too fierce as a man, whose reign of terror was most feared, lying still,
as if all those deeds were incidental,and he in no way is to be blamed.
They are equanimous, the ants, next wave, this is no more than just debris, this relic from the past, for them, something to be dealt with,
the army of disciplined ants, as per their manual, meticulously inspect,
whether the body has some strength left somewhere in the system,
to pull together rise, overcome the fatigue of a life full of misdeeds
not nice to remember, counted all the same as glory by sycophants.
They want to finish the work fast, fearing the return of the nightmare,
busily they went on doing what they are good at,they had their brief,
from the command center ,to clear up the debris from the battle front,
The last of the ants leaving the gnawed white bones, under moonlight,
writes the epitaph on sand,with it's spindly legs,thus:"This fort too fell"
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
Four patties of ******** he wears
Two upon each shoulder wing
Polished gleaming egocentric air
Marching like a king
His Chief of Staff
And parade of sycophants
Make me want to laugh
All aligned like **** ants
Until their buckets of ********
Are sloshed upon my desk
Right or wrong just do it
Another bullshit-filled day
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
Religious zeal and explosive prowess make incendiary bedfellows
searing calculating moralism where all fall short and deserve to suffer
self righteous corrupted calumny put forth in a sally of sectarian selectivity
your ilk is heading for Hell and I'm (already there) not
fanatical zealots marginalize intellectuals with their mythical mire of mucked up claptrap and copious lack of a priori specificity
a glorified preposterous plethora of pompous pontificating platitudes
the sins of others they deplore but of themselves they don't keep score
Sunday's best is Sunday's worst
you sanctimonious ******** just can't leave people alone
who elected you to point fingers anyway
Jesus was born in a barn to an unmarried woman
And your mommy got shtuped when you were conceived too
you don't walk on water you insolent impertinent fool
the brain police can't wait for Sunday's
oh the satisfaction of a mutual admiration society
knee-jerk hackneyed pavlovian dog speak
Is anything anymore real if you jump around and shout about it
recipients of adulates get accustomed to sycophants
fawning complacent obsequious kiss ***** and Sunday suck-ups
pass the plate
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
I dare not tell yee go to Ego
For Ego goes with me only
Narcissist love shrouds , my I
Like kings it stands by sycophants.
Idol of the faithful fanatics
Mislead them from the Truth Eternal
As mirage in desert ,deserts
Creatures seeking drinking water.
Then I leads me astray as wise
Trojan generic virus attacks
I know I know , the Ego in me
Causes my gradual demise but
I fail to tell Ego,” shrink,Shrink.”
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 11:28 AM UTC
how does one obtain a ticket
into the select coterie
it seems one must fill the pocket
with copious amounts of ***
but some have not
a ******* preference
nor are they must interested
in displaying
a fawning deference
the pocket *******
is a daily event
so often one picks up
a whiff of its scent
one was given a heads up
about the pocket ******* crew
one well heeded
the words of Sean Drew
he said be mindful
of those sycophants
they'll be ******* around
one another like flattering ants
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
We are savage and we are cruel
And we know well what we do.
The imprints of sycophants
Echoes in blood red rooms.
The certainty of colour
Washed white and hung too soon.
A memory of light,
A bloom of deja vu.
Remembrance forgotten
Rewritten and then renewed.
Still we know not what we do.
The past is a sombre portrait,
Watercolour hung askew.
Dust and skin belie the truth
Stroke sure yet misconstrued.
In the maelstrom of intent
Will is broken before it is bent.
A promise spoken, never meant.
Still we know not what we do.
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 5:15 PM UTC
1 If ever I wrote a thousand gospels of Hope, but meanwhile did not love,
I am the empty words of politicians and sycophants.
2 And if ever I knew the world in fine and time and with all shared my mind,
but so burn in hate that I bar any Faith, my words are cinders.
3 And if ever I laid down my life for a friend or died so that you all might live.
If I do not have the Love that did it, the deed meant nothing.
4 Because Love feels far, feels deep, and feels forever.
Love is kind; and it does not whine, chime, or shine.
5 Love is grace. Love sets free.
Love is gentle. Love let’s be.
6 Love is a repletion, the completion of joy despite of,
because of the shared, dark Truths of our twilit souls.
7 "For Love beareth all things, hopeth all things,
endureth all things.
8 Love never faileth:" But when these prophetic words pass,
Love shall live where life and strife wither.
9 For fiery stars we will never see whose light has not come,
And any act, however fierce, is only the orbits of atoms.
10 But when Love came in our lives, all the littlest in
the drowning dark embraced as (w)hol(l)y One.
11 When I was small, I thought and felt and feared small;
but my heart has grown and now can no longer.
12 Anything meant nothing until Love came and
bade us recognize the I in You and You in Me.
13 And where all else fails, there is three: Hope, Faith, and Love.
And greatest of these - Binding Hinge of Life - is Love.
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 8:44 PM UTC