"underpants" poems
Whatever you do, keep smiling.
Be nice to everyone and stand up for your rights.
There are many paths to the top of the mountain
but few of them are on the map.
Keep running, never give up,
and watch out for the seriously weird.
Avoid psychopaths, if you can recognize them,
be polite to witches and warlocks, eschew cannibals,
beware of the hippopotamus in heat,
don’t drink the second bottle when dancing the Funky Chicken,
and only massage someone without
pimples or hairy legs.
Never give up and keep smiling.
It's a hard life, it's a beautiful world, life's a *****
it's great to be alive, life is nasty, brutish and short,
don’t give up and keep smiling.
Everyone is a guru but ignorance is everywhere,
and don't mix hallucinogens with depressants.
If someone tells you that they're honest,
treat them with the greatest suspicion.
Live to the limits, we're only alive once,
and that's just as well, because
imagine if people you didn't like were immortal.
Keep smiling, never give up,
always hawk to windward,
and never leave your underpants or ******* behind.
Everyone's equal but only the strong survive,
especially when they take from the weak
because what you seize is what you get.
The meek shall inherit the earth,
but the earth that they inherit will be of
poor quality with no mineral deposits.
Party lots, work hard, never give up, and keep smiling.
Don't work so hard you don't enjoy yourself,
remember that the bird is on the wing,
then it falls off its perch and becomes
a miserable pile of feathers and feet.
The fast lane is the best lane
but it's very smooth and slippery
and there are no road rules.
Watch out for lawyers. Seriously.
They put the devil in the details
while their hand is in your wallet.
Everything comes to you if only you can wait,
but this takes too long.
Clean your teeth, obey authority,
except for arrogant ********
and don't forget that love and pleasure are
most important, despite what anybody else says.
When you panic, other people will panic,
which is good, because
in this confusion, you can make your escape.
Mike T Minehan
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 9:14 PM UTC
If you're attacked by a Lion
Find fresh underpants to try on
Lay on the ground quite still
Pretend you are very ill
Keep like that day after day
Perhaps the lion will go away
10k
How can I be myself if you are my vampire?
I can never sleep at night.
The windows won’t stay closed.
You come and go as you please when
I am in my pajamas, such as they are
A tee shirt and underpants
You are always trying to mesmerize me
But it is you who is really
Always you
Who can blame you?
It must be complete torture to look at me
And feel me
But never possess me
If you could only eat me.
If you were my Siamese twin I would **** you
Can you imagine?
I would hack you off with no qualms
Or saw slowly, it doesn’t much matter
Even if I bled out
You are a quagmire.
An existence always with you
You knowing me better than I know myself
Listening to my thoughts
Stealing everything and thinking it’s yours
I am not you
And you are not me
We are not a we
I am not the key to your survival
You, a peculiar abscess
That faces me and holds a conversation
That wants to do this or that
The endless talking.
The windows closed
The heavy curtains drawn
Me in my underwear
I’d watch you while you slept
Thinking about crosses and solutions
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 11:37 PM UTC
Girls will be girls
they’ll sing and dance
so boys can’t help but grab
girls right in their underpants
Girls will be girls
they’ll flirt and sass
but they never ****
‘cause they aren’t crass
Girls will be girls
they’ll study hard
to ****** the boys
who’ll mow the yard
Girls will be girls
they’ll say no and stop
but we won’t believe them:
the boys are cops!
Girls will be girls
they’ll cook and clean
and raise the kids
but must stay lean
Girls will be girls
they’ll work all day
and take home just part
of what boys are paid
Girls will be girls
they’ll talk and chat
but then get hysterical
when boys call them fat
Girls will be girls
they’ll wear nice dresses
and never soil them
wiping up boys’ messes
Girls will be girls
they’ll run and vote
while boys drink beer
and win and gloat
Girls will be girls
and we know what that means:
they must always smile
and never scream
Girls will be girls
so let’s hope and pray
that girls are girls enough to save
this ****** up world
we boys have made.
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 7:05 PM UTC
The boy haden't bathed in over a month
His **** crack was itching and burning
His underpants were soaked in slimy, wet muck
And his toes a thick jam were churning
His armpits stank worse than a fat pigs raw ***
His breath smelled like rancid fish
His hair was so oily, matted to his head
His own mother wouldn't give him a kiss
"Enough!" he cried as a passing fly died
When he raised his arm to exclaim.
"I must bathe right away! I am long overdue!"
"I sure hope the washcloths are brave."
"To the bathroom man!" He shouted as he ran
And his underpants sloppily squished
"I will remove this filth and brush my green teeth"
"And my mother I will kiss!"
"The closet's ahead!" He said as he sped.
And he stopped there to get some stuff.
Some soap, some shampoo and a towel or two.
But he knew that it wasn't enough.
Look though he might, to his horror and fright,
Not a single washcloth could he find.
Then panic set in 'cause the stink of his skin
Was driving him out of his mind.
He looked yet again but to his chagrin
The washcloth shelf was bare.
The washcloths had run off
For they would not wash
So filthy a boy on a dare
"Oh what will I do!" "Boo-hoo, boo-hoo!"
The boy cried as flies swarmed his head.
"I'd **** myself but I already smell"
"Far worse than anything dead!"
Then one washcloth came back
Holding it's nose and a sack
Of bath salts that smelled like dill.
It said to the boy "Go pickle yourself!"
"And give me a nausea pill!"
So the boy rejoiced and filled the tub
With water, hot as he could stand.
And using the bath salts, he jumped right in
And the pickling began.
He lathered the washcloth with water and soap
And scrubbed with all of his might.
Away he washed all of the filth
'Til none was left in sight.
He washed his hair and brushed his teeth
And dried and dressed himself well.
And the washcloth exclaimed as it hung on the tub
"Holy crap! that was pure hell!"
So the boy now clean ran to be seen
By his mother he loved so much.
And she gave him a kiss and said "This is pure bliss!"
"I can kiss you and keep down my lunch!"
The moral I'll tell you and true I will be
So no one will say that I lied.
Don't wait a whole month to take a bath
Or you washcloths may run and hide.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 7:53 AM UTC
This is not a poem.
This is a rant.
I will put on my rage face,
And paint the town red,
And "just go crazy, man"
With the company of myself
In the comfort of my own home
Because I can tear my shirt,
Or draw a knife
Or shout shakespear off a balcony
And I openly scream at the shadows
Who answer politely with silence
I can behave badly
And if I am my only witness
I can sleep at night
Without the peace and solitude that comes from iron bars
And padded cells
I can fight with myself and indulge in the guilty pleasures
That make me feel sullied and stupid
I can argue with a hundred dream girls
And when I sleep,
They are still there in my dreams
There is no loss or losing
I can spend three hundred dollars
Monthly on alcohol
If it saves me three thousand
Monthly on sanity
I can look in the mirror and see a hundred different faces
Each more honest to its emotion than the last
I can bite my tongue to spite my face and
Laugh that it was my reflection that drove me to do so,
You never know what that son of a ***** will say
When i am not looking
I dont spend the night on the town
Because I no longer need to surround myself with people.
I no longer need to go out to buy a hat
That suits me and makes me look interesting or meaningful
When I sit alone at the bar
I have no one to impress except myself
And myself already knows I am unimpressive.
There is no one to disappoint
And while this seems like a sad tale,
The truth is that it is the free-est I've ever felt.
In the sanctity of a space that is mine
Surrounded only by people I disagree with
My reflections
And shadows
And to be able to write this while wearing underpants.
Bukowski was right
God is dead
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC
Put on a clean shirt
before you die, some Russian said.
Nothing with drool, please,
no egg spots, no blood,
no sweat, no *****
You want me clean, God,
so I'll try to comply.
The hat I was married in,
will it do?
White, broad, fake flowers in a tiny array.
It's old-fashioned, as stylish as a bedbug,
but is suits to die in something nostalgic.
And I'll take
my painting shirt
washed over and over of course
spotted with every yellow kitchen I've painted.
God, you don't mind if I bring all my kitchens?
They hold the family laughter and the soup.
For a bra
(need we mention it?),
the padded black one that my lover demeaned
when I took it off.
He said, "Where'd it all go?"
And I'll take
the maternity skirt of my ninth month,
a window for the love-belly
that let each baby pop out like and apple,
the water breaking in the restaurant,
making a noisy house I'd like to die in.
For underpants I'll pick white cotton,
the briefs of my childhood,
for it was my mother's dictum
that nice girls wore only white cotton.
If my mother had lived to see it
she would have put a WANTED sign up in the post office
for the black, the red, the blue I've worn.
Still, it would be perfectly fine with me
to die like a nice girl
smelling of Clorox and Duz.
Being sixteen-in-the-pants
I would die full of questions.
2.9k
Words are a fickle thing.
They claim those faint of heart,
Destroying those heathenish men,
Who dare try to control the world
Through the power of words.
Those who try are instantly conquered
By the omniscient dictionary,
Destroyed by their constant use of a thesaurus,
And taken over by attempting mimicking another man’s voice,
Instead of trying to find their own.
They fail because they write for the wrong reasons.
They fail because of their selfishness.
They fail because they want fame.
They fail because their words are…
Lifeless….
Hopeless...
Stubborn…
Their words refuse to conform to their ideas.
Their words punish their minds with sleepless nights,
Over their horrid word choice.
Crush their dreams with metaphor upon metaphor.
Win over their imaginations by continuous simile stacking.
Imagine if you would,
Attempting to perform heart surgery,
With a sledge hammer,
While a hungry lion is in the room,
And you’re in your underpants.
That is the challenge that these miserly men face
When they sit at their desks, with their pens twirling,
And their minds racing, asking why their characters
Are like puppets with no puppeteer.
Why their poems have no reason.
Why their words truly have no power.
When you write, think not about what you want to accomplish.
Don’t think about what will make people stir.
Think about what you feel.
Feel your heart pound and your soul quake.
When your words make you want to dance,
That’s when you know that you wrote something worthwhile.
Because it made sense to you, someone else will feel it.
Someone else will know exactly what you mean.
Always remember that your first draft comes from the heart.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 4:19 PM UTC
*In their blind bid
To become westernized,
They lost touch with reality
Created shadows of themselves
Despised their own intrinsic values
Embraced a twisted dress sense
Of fallen pants and revealed underpants
Idolized everything they're not
The good, the bad, the ugly
They birthed dual personalities
Picked up foreign accents
On ****** home-based passports
The American Dream, they call it,
As they wear winter jackets
In scorching African sun
All in the name of fashion
Trading our simple hues
For complex shades unknown
Bleaching skin and hair
Trading natural black for artificial white
Unaware the very gods they adore
Are tanning theirs to look darker
Insecurity drives them mad
Inferiority complex overtakes them
As they ban mother tongues in offsprings
Placing exotic tongues on pedestals
At the expense of our cultural future.
This is not an attempt at poetry
This is wake up call to Africa
Be bold, be proud, be black!
You are BEAUTIFUL!!
You are AFRICAN!!!*
© Raphael Uzor
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
It’s always Monday here with the hustle and bustle of the boisterous marketplace,
Negotiations carried out over loudspeakers and hailers,
It’s never without a fight.
It’s always Monday here with the cries of half-dead swans and suffocating dolphins,
Collateral damage is a word used loosely,
Now that the main guy is here.
Last night was a good night, befitting a Sunday’s catch,
Rest is only for the lost and lonely on a lovely Sunday night.
They brought them in, lined up in rows of ten,
Nothing on but a white singlet and pretty underpants.
They cowered in fright and tried to huddle,
The whips flew as freely as the flies that came to meddle.
It was not long till your turn came
Pretty as a rosebud
One man claimed
Smooth as a rose’s petal
Another one gleamed.
It was all too real for you and you fell dead, in silence
It’s always Monday here, someone said,
She was so pretty...
As they carried you on their back
to dump you in the truck
to throw away the body
just outside the city.
It’s always Monday here, said the man shaking his head,
as he went to the playground to fish
for another haul of fresh blood and good meat!
It’s always Monday here...
Someone said...
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 7:53 AM UTC
I want something to calm me down at bedtime it is the only way to be
Everyone should be calm at bedtime oh yeah we should
It is good to be calm and it is
Good to be cool
But being calm at bedtime oh yes indeed
Dreaming of going to space to play around with the dead
Like my uncle Stan and ray
And my good old dad
It is really good to be calm
At bedtime
And think about the parties
You will have and don’t forget to say as you are planning to go to bed it is a happy thing to be
Welcome to Australia Britain
Or France i turned to the party
In my underpants just my underpants nothing more
If you plan a good birthday party
Plan it after bed
Because you will get really tired
Oh yeah my Aunty said
You see plan your life never turn back yeah mate yeah it is fine
It is good to be calm at bedtime
Dreaming of silly things as well as smart
Getting drunk in methane smoothies and you feel very cool
You will always break the golden golden rule
Being calm at bedtime is cool
Don’t you think
Welcome to Australia Britain or France I turned up to my party in my underpants just my underpants nothing more
Nothing more nothing less
It puts me to the test
You see being cool at bedtime
Oh yeah that sounds fine
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 7:19 AM UTC
I
I've never hit my children.
My own father spanked me perhaps ten times:
for riding my bike on a busy street,
for "acting up" in church.
I have no nostalgia for these beatings
(as in: "Sure glad Pa whupped some sense inta me as a young'n—
don't know where I'd be if he hadn't.")
He would make me pull down my pants and underpants
enough to expose my buttocks,
position me between his legs so he could hold my own legs still,
bend me over his left leg with his left arm,
and hit me with his bare right hand.
What I remember as much as the pain
is his angry expression: Was he angry at me?
Or at something else?
I believe it was mostly an unpleasant duty;
usually done because my mother had asked him.
They were afraid we'd become juvenile delinquents.
I suppose his own father had spanked him--
and that he, in turn, had been spanked by his father--
a family tradition. . . .
There've been times with my own children--
God knows they're far from perfect--
where I've almost given in to anger.
Somehow I've always caught myself,
always remembered that unseemliness. . . .
II
Our house is kind of ugly from the front, a split-level
with the whole left side facing the street being a solid brick wall.
Our picture window faces the grass and trees of the back yard.
Each morning, no matter how much of a hurry I'm in,
I open the curtains to this window--
that my children might see not just the man-made objects of our living room
but some hint of the grace and beauty of the whole, great, natural world.
Jul 30, 2017
Jul 30, 2017 at 3:54 PM UTC
I knocked my knee on the rod under the table.
I put a runner in my tights.
I licked my finger to wash the wound clean.
It stung for only a second.
Then it was as if it never happened.
The ditsy waitress with the blonde bun and bubblegum
was annoying me with the way she wouldn't pick up her feet.
She had a stupid Chinese tattoo on her wrist,
and like most of the world
she thought she could use a band aid as a cover up,
but nothing that obvious stays hidden that long
without being noticed.
And to top it all off, they burnt my tuna melt.
I got weird looks from people who passed,
catching the 50 Shades of Grey title on my book,
disgusted and pondering why
I would ever hold it up in a family restaurant.
The black man was eyeing me up in the corner.
The lady with the pink lipstick in her teeth thought I was erratic and disturbed.
The businessman thought it was merely for attention,
Well
jokes on them,
I did it just to **** them off.
That's when I looked over at you,
You were eating breakfast and a ****** cup of coffee.
It was 4 in the afternoon.
I could see your Captain America underpants
creeping out of your jeans without a belt.
I could see your eyes judging the newspaper headlines.
You seemed almost as unhappy as me.
So I went over and asked if you dropped the pen
I found in my pocket,
and when you didn't even look up at me to respond
I told you it was just a poor excuse to talk to you.
"I respect that,"
you said between bites of your omelet.
You glanced up at me for only a moment,
blue eyes, **** chin
probably expecting me to leave after the prolonged silence,
but I sat there unchanged,
I don't really pick up on social cues.
"You're pretty hot."
I guess neither do you.
I smiled something creepy, because I don't do it that often,
You didn't seem to mind.
Within two minutes you had me laughing,
saying stuff too loud,
and it was the first time
that I think I actually saw myself,
and I don't really even know you
but somehow, insanely
it feels like I already do.
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
When a barroom filled with laughter
can't lift your head, even momentarily,
from your sad, soggy plate of nachos-for-one...
When passing girls in narrow hallways
flash the fires of passion from their eyes into yours
simply to be smothered under a heavy, wet blanket stare;
a cumbersome quilt of all your yesterdays' shame...
When the supernal opportunity to live for another 24 hrs
is met with all the ambition and grace
of a house cat forced into a cold bath...
You are used up to this world.
You are lost to your purpose of being.
You are dropped to the dirt like
a flower whose spiked stem pricked the caressing fingers of it's holder.
Hold no expectation of a familiar, loving hand
to reach down, relieved to pick you up
and reunite you with what you wish to be;
or to place you where you belong.
Look around,
The ground is littered with us unwanted things.
We've all seen that ***** pair of disregarded underwear,
miserably caked in rainwater mud,
laying on the side of a road or under a bridge somewhere.
Whose hand is reaching down for that?
But, I won't compare myself
to a bum's forgotten underpants
and neither should you.
I'm sure the universe views us differently than that.
It will soon pick us up, wash us of all those grimy wrongs
and wear us out anew.
Yes, that has to be true.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 6:44 PM UTC
*Fingers frolic beneath the confines
of soaking wet underpants
Tasting yourself.....
Forcefully jamming every inch
of finger down your passion filled throat....*
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC
Attention Wal-Mart Shoppers..
You know them
You've seen them
I hope you aren't one of them...
I don't drink
Not anymore
For my entertainment
I go to the store
I go out after dinner
That's when the show will start
I go and watch the people
Who shop at Wal-Mart
Cowboy boots, a tutu, and yoga pants with ***
with a muscle shirt and top hat
worn by a man named REX
a pair of pants just hanging
a pair of crocs and leather vest
with "she loves me for my money"
emblazoned on the chest
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
In their finest shopping clothes
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
At Wal-Mart, so it goes
I don't go clubbing
There's no fun in that
Late night trips to Wal-Mart
That, is where it's at
A woman dressed in plastic
a man all painted blue
and how many people have you seen
that look like escapees from the zoo
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
In their finest shopping clothes
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
At Wal-Mart, so it goes
Underpants, and stockings
garters and blue jeans
size 50 denim jumpers
Stretched like skinny jeans
Men wearing high heels
Women wearing...well
Use your imaginations
From a distance you can't tell
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
In their finest shopping clothes
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
At Wal-Mart, so it goes
Body parts free to see
******* and legs and butts
And people with their little dogs
The ugly, squeaky mutts
We know them
and we watch them
Take their photos
Yes....we do.
dress right when you go shopping
Or we may take one of you!!!
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 5:43 PM UTC
…i have learned my lesson / One should not give the impression / of being too happy / as you don’t do
happy / you and angry / are comfortable / misery / your longtime friend / but with happy / you are
unacquainted / and / too much joviality / for too long a period / puts the proverbial underpants in a bunch /
too much free-range fondling / and unnecessary emotion / is a commotion / that puts the Neanderthal in
you / into uncharted territory / off the clear and obvious path / with a virtual stick / banging the bushes of
my spirit / waiting to see what emerges / and surprisingly / you are surprised / that what emerges is /
seldom what you expect / but what do you expect? / That i will continually ride this / histrionic
rollercoaster? / apprehensively peaking hills? / uncertainly braving valleys? / stop the maniacal ups and
downs i think i want to get off / on you / and with you / but that just wont do / cuz you / fail to realize /
that I am / percolating and oozing / straight inundated with / sweetness / and to get the full overflow / of
said sweetness / is a privilege… / and not a right… / therefore / to the benefit of no one / and as a
consequence of your / vacillation and inconstancy / i have made the determination / to Cap this most
fundamental Well / sadly / i have learned my lesson…
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 7:21 AM UTC
I must confess that a while ago,
I wanted to be a superhero, you know,
to blaze like a thousand suns and shout
hello, I’m here.
Yes, you're right, it was a bit pathetic, really,
but you see, I was afraid of being
just another speck
in the swarm of time,
swallowed up and
insignificant.
So now I’ve changed, and
I just want to say
hello, I love you.
Love is incredibly more
incandescent, iridescent and resplendent
than all that hero stuff and blind ambition
and all that exhibitionism.
Maybe my spandex suit was too tight in the crotch,
or whatever, but so what,
I now don't feel the need to be a superhero at all.
Yeah, so all of those old galaxies can spin around
and glow in the dark
and wheel through time
as much as they like,
because I’m doing just fine now,
simply being me, right here.
And anyway, love is much more fun
because love is when you don't have to
wear your underpants on the outside,
like all those superheroes.
Actually, and this is very logical,
because when you're a lover,
you don't have to wear any underpants at all.
Mike T Minehan
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 9:49 PM UTC
You deserve a poem,
at the very least,
you really ought to have a feast,
with all the people that,
see you,
for you,
you deserve to have sounds from stars,
playing to delight,
till your day has become your night,
you took a chance,
on a broken,
tired rhymed poet,
it's your birthday,
and this is the best I can do,
you deserve a band,
and people to recognize you across the land,
to wish you a special day,
because you have that way,
to make people feel,
like it's their day,
depression and nutella,
socks and underpants,
dances with no end,
you deserve the better,
and never just something,
people feel like that they lend,
coffee with cats,
castles with open mic nights,
you deserve more,
a year ago I would have killed to write this,
a year ago you were just a kid,
behind bars,
or across oceans,
you deserve more,
a year from meow,
I know that you will be even better,
because, **** girl,
like a meteor,
you'll make another big impact,
you deserve more than a poem,
but it's what I can give at the very least,
and all that's left to write,
is,
Happy Birthday.
Dec 16, 2017
Dec 16, 2017 at 4:03 PM UTC
I don't know what it is I like about you.
I like your mannerisms, your politeness
and your willingness to chat to my mother
with a smile on your face that says you aren't scared
of the world, and welcoming arms that embrace
the unknown and death.
I like your warmth, how you complain
that I'm always cold but my house is too boiling hot
and that you strip down to your underpants
as soon as you walk in. But there is no half
dressed for you. It's nakedness or done up to the boots.
You'll even lie in bed with your boots on, smoking,
and I hate when you do because I know you're
texting. Waiting on a lift. And that's it for
a month or more. I like how you're so unpredictable,
how irritating you are. I like your stupidity
but I hate you and I don't know what I like about you.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 6:00 PM UTC
If, Mother washed her pinny
And father never swore,
If, Jimmy went to the loo
Instead of on the floor,
If, Our Sammy didn't turn up
In his underpants for tea,
If, Our granddad would keep his flies done up
Phoo, that's an awful sight to see,
If, Gran's teeth refused to fall out
When she dropped off to sleep,
If, My sister didn't steal my razor
This beard I wouldn't keep,
If, That copper had only looked the other way
Our Robbie wouldn't be spending time in jail today,
If, Our Lucy had bothered to learn the facts of life
Eight kids wouldn't be here now causing so much strife,
If, We all stopped smoking ****
And swilling beer till we were sick
This family would be smart, very elegant and slick
Heather P Wilson..........http://www.heatherpwilsonpoems.com/
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 5:44 PM UTC
I don't want a Hollywood love.
I don't want a hot pink, blazing hot love.
I want my love to be cotton briefs.
I want my love to cradle that which I hold dear.
I want my love to be gentle and soft,
But only I can feel it.
You don't share your underpants
As such I don't share my love. It is only mine.
I want my love to make others feel uncomfortable when I talk about it. Because the more I rant on, the more they realize that while sometimes it sounds constricting, it keeps you all together when you need to move.
I want my love to be marked with my last name.
To have and to hold forever.
Because I know that my love will be with me
Through all the **** all the ******* and every last bit of life.
Even if my love rides up every once in a while
I know that it's just trying it's best. And I love my love for that.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 10:50 PM UTC
Shortly after the school systems began defecating on the dreams of my generation,
We found different outlets
Through which we could bring our loathing to a head.
My generation now writes poetry and
Finds solace in video games we can beat
In lives we can't seem to live the right way.
It's funny to me that The Legend of Zelda,
When completed,
Tells you that "You are great!"
While your teacher berates you for being sub-par
Though you tried your damnedest
To please them through drafts and drafts
And drafts of work
Spat out at 4am because
There are more important things to deal with
In regular waking hours,
In regular waking life.
They tell us that we have failed
Because we ****** up in one class,
A single credit,
A single number on a sheet of paper
That tries to measure us
When we can't even attempt to do the same.
They tell us we have failed
Because we do not look good on file
And apparently we do not look good
Walking down the street
With ****** eyes and baggy sweaters,
The only clean clothes we own
Because the system has ****** us clean of time
To do much else than
Study, study, STUDY our **** lives away.
This is atrocious.
When a young boy feels more accomplished
Beating Pokemon
Than he does when he writes a stellar paper,
The best he can pen
Only to be told he has a lot more work to do
And that the paper
"Is good...
But it needs work."
The culture of my generation does not discriminate.
It does not tell us that we have more work to do.
Instead, it tells us that "we are great" and
It gives us a restart screen when we **** up beyond repair.
It does not tell us we have failed,
Instead offers us a kind
"Try again?"
It is sad
When the voice over of a video game
Offers more kindness
Than our instructors and parents
Combined.
School should not send us home, wanting to **** ourselves.
The system should not make a pen cap,
A pair of underpants, a simple metal bookmark
A weapon
In the hands of the human entity of depression.
We will not be marked suicide risks.
As long as we keep getting our restart screens and
Compliments from bits,
We will triumph.
We will be the heroes of our generation
As long as we keep getting the chance.
One day, when all the suffering is over
And we have escaped this war-torn soul of "The Caring Community,"
Maybe those words will extend from an NES and find their way
Into the mouth of a boyfriend, girlfriend,
Wife, husband, friend, professor...
Someday, we will hear the words and we will truly believe them.
"You are great!"
Maybe not today...
But someday.
Soon.
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 10:16 AM UTC
Like Winston Smith,
I think it’s time to start a diary.
Follow me now: it’s April in Oceania,
The cruelest month,
The silly season, printemps,
A regular I see London, I see France.
I see Winston’s Underpants.
If you catch my drift?
La Primavera: Vivaldi’s rocking the
Juke box and the vote, Botticelli’s painting,
A mural on Jerusalem's wailing wall.
My diary will be hard evidence of thought crime.
Thought crime: one of the more severe varieties of
Religious experience & the most psychotic form of mental illness,
In a category known as antisocial personality disorders.
Thought crime means never getting into any serious trouble,
Until you’re caught, can we at least agree on that?
So, we'd better add the DSM to our stack of essential literary classics.
The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders,
Published by the American Psychiatric Association,
Providing a common language,
A shrink’s Esperanto.
DSM-IV codes classify mental disorders.
The DSM: a Frommer’s travel guide &
User’s manual for life on planet Earth.
So, like Orwell's Winston, I start a diary of my own; but
Unlike Mr. Smith, I address my message to the here &
What’s happening now, not the future, not the past but
N-a-zayer, N-a-zither NOW.
That's right, I write for the present:
“If thought was ever free, it is not free now."
If truth exists it is a closely guarded secret,
Although McLuhan’s observations hide in plain sight:
*“The new electronic interdependence, recreates
The world in the image of a global village.”*
Which makes us all global village idiots.
We are no longer different from one another;
The age of groupthink is here.
I write to you from an age of security & surveillance,
Warrantless search and predator drones,
An age where no man is ever truly alone.
From an age of standardization, replaceable parts,
Whirling dervishes, dabblers in spin control,
Newspeak and doublespeak,
Atlas shrugged, drugged and fugged,
The new world order:
All but the faint of heart need apply, …
"I send greetings.”
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 3:56 PM UTC