"ticklers" poems
Hypocracy Mandatory.
Gullibility Mandatory.
Insensitivity Mandatory.
Obesity Mandatory.
Immaturity Mandatory.
Childishness Mandatory.
Monarchy Mandatory.
Capitalism Mandatory.
Conservatism Mandatory.
Terrorism Mandatory.
Corruption Mandatory.
Incompetence Mandatory.
Socialism Mandatory.
Dictatorship Mandatory.
Militarism Mandatory.
Liberalism Mandatory.
Bhuddism Mandatory.
Islam Mandatory.
Christianity Mandatory.
Judaism Mandatory.
Hinduism Mandatory.
Vedism Mandatory.
Hatred Mandatory.
Anarchy Mandatory.
Jealousy Mandatory.
Nationalism Mandatory.
Fascism Mandatory.
Racism Mandatory.
Lies Mandatory.
Hypocracy Mandatory.
Obesity Mandatory.
Heart Disease Mandatory.
Cancer Mandatory.
Idiocy Mandatory.
Eco-Nazism Mandatory.
All of us Humans.
Of all Five Colours.
Wherever we be.
Whatever we do.
However we "see" ourselves.
What do we call ourselves now?.
How about shallow nitpickers?.
Or celebrity obsessed morons?.
Or religious hypocrits?.
Or Democrats?.
Or Socialists?.
Or Revolutionaries.
Or just plain "nice folks"?.
Or supporters of oligarchy policies?.
Or immature backpackers?.
Or government assassins of integrity?.
Or juicy ***********
Or swift tongued ******** ticklers?.
no matter how many lie dead or injured as a result
of our obfuscation and avoidance.
As if poets have the explanation to life
except in strings of meaningless associated
but fine sounding words.
When "poets" are the voluntary slaves of Mind
and Conditioned Identity..
As if poets had the ***** to go beyond all these things.
As if .
Scrape the Moons suface and you will find a delicate Castello Blue Cream Cheese.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
**** fists and twisted wrist ticklers
spitting witch hunting cow wranglers
power ranger danger squad
cod chewing confused cows
abused by masses of cattle prods
snobby steak chewers refuse to pay
claiming they know how good steak should taste
steak paste stays caked around their lips
their face stays fixed on whatever **** they wish
our riches erase our minds
turning us into unkind swine
crimes against humanity
shine on a big screens
part of everyday reality
pigs squeal and cows moo
simple beasts compared to you
but look in the eyes of the beast that cries
and try to believe the lie
that we have earned the right to take life as we please
it's just a belief, but it spreads like disease
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 1:03 AM UTC
A simple sample of a symbol used to approve the work of another.
But who was first to fist the quill and downward pull and upward ping?
Mr Tick of Tuscany? Mrs Tick of Tijuana? Or master Tick the ticklers son who tagged his type with ticking fun?
The actual answer is I'm sure a bore and a slip of the tip made the tick a score.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
The River Styx is not for fishing
Nor is it for skipping stones
It is for weeping, wishing,
and collecting polished bones
One can float for hours
Lulled to sleep by the ambience like a lullaby
Until the waterfall drops to Tartarus
The pit of unholy things mankind would deify
There are the eternal towers
Home to those frigid burning chains
The ticklers and tormentors plan their artifice
On it all like a fond memory the waterfall rains
Dec 13, 2017
Dec 13, 2017 at 6:08 PM UTC
i just read your poem Anne
about your desolated masturbations
after you fell through
into that atomized monoxide
dream of pantomimes glittering
vague shapes and black holes
where slumber sinks
and silence rolls
we couldn't follow
you into your
receding suicide labyrinth
of timeless echoes
past those dire meadows
of serpentine fires
and shrouds you saw
where life eclipsed
by cosmic law
so i read you
one of my black little pieces
of erotomania
headless Barbie ejaculations
all Marquis De Sade
shadow fantasies
of dead play toe tag
and spilt milk
kisses' true
under Habeas Corpus
sweet dead you
you made me giggle
like jumping jellybeans
and *** honey
I'm so glad you liked it
and your cute comment
about how my poem
made love to you
like multi chromed
teensy weensy
**** candy throat ticklers
at a careless Halloween party
where everything forbidden
in troves
is hidden by the hidden
how you loved
dancing with Night-gaunts
from temples of the astral
past those incessant ruffling whispers
past shadows flesh
somewhere high up
beyond the glimmering headlights
of muttering pastel colored boulevards
that flicker contorted images
of the resurrected living dead
still warm
in your dreadful toxic bed
so tell me dead girl
till the day i die
is it better now
beyond father time
no more words and wounds
no more toothaches
and lunging depressions
pulling you helplessly
into gloomy vortexes
shadowed cups
of looming spacelessness
with no downs or ups
instead you say
you're published
in the Dead Leaf rag
where words like shrouds
blur ballooning solicitude
of indecipherable
mirrored reflections
under tongues of crystal ethers
where life lives backwards
and you just
write beautiful
white
nothings
like flat eyed Phoenician ghosts
beyond the ages
in windless skies
on empty pages
Dec 24, 2020
Dec 24, 2020 at 12:46 PM UTC