"vamoose" poems
Trump and Brexit,
Two beautiful scrolls in a sync
Singing a song of white nationalism
On the crest in the Ivy League station,
Busy Muffling the **** drop sounds
On the bowls of foot-loose beggars,
A lesson for you dark son of Africa
That tomfoolery is no defense before
The rational altar of Trump and Brexit
Riding on followership’s bitter hangover
For the Nostalgia of the waning glory,
Sired by Machiavelli, groomed by ******
Festooned by Mussolini into a Jim Crow tor,
But fault not them, that is politics or religion,
Always sweet only in full gear of power-piety,
Then Nurture your tiny ***** for no pawn earns it,
To pile your wood for pharaonic winter is obvious
In paranoia of Brexit and Trumpish megalomania
Coming in a stampede with Tigre’s thorax, only
To worry us for nothing as it is the fear of change
Truly, they are not the first clouds in the sky
Of global terror and politics of self-idolatry,
Soon to vamoose in service to their nature
Of aureate appearing to whimpering fade,
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 5:24 AM UTC
*yonder wave wants to come on in
can't make it go away
try so hard to chase away
steel reserve*
1.
don't come cryin' on yo broken shins
who dat talkin' ova der?
yo muvva just ain't home rite now
take ya scraggy bags
and vamoose outta here
pick up dem rings 'round yo trappin' eyes
and lasso 'em round dat red fin
tackle yo chapped lips
afore dem ships fall in yo calyx-cracks
quit dat naggin' bitch-mouth
here, have dis apple, ma piggie
and dems eyes o' yours dat shine so brite
might as well switch off dat lite
hide dem leather-hands dat look like dry branches
wat, even da desert don't win dis contest
pack dat stupid head in a box
der ain't nuttin' inside a see-through noggin
hide dem silly hopes under a hevvy sea
or bury it under da soles of yo crazi hart
take yo blasted treadin' to some udder place
some dark mine where dey can use yo help
and all dem purty words on pages yo just lurve a-spewin'
ain't no party here for fools no more
2.
den, der some funny rhydm 'gainst ma door
pushin' dat big wave
pushin' dat big wave
I'm a-pushing back jest as hard
but dat wrestlin' wave jest a-growin'
keeps a-knockin'
always rockin'
gonna come crashin' rite in
*ain't no good wishing, ma beloved darlin'
so many fine dreams
running silent
in dem luvverly veins under yo kick-startin' tongue*
yah, yonder waves gonna make a breakthrough
some day...
(mebbe)
S T, 21 augury 2013
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:18 PM UTC
Lucifer just said I'm two-faced;
But the reality is I wear many faces
Each one a mask
Picking a bouquet of oopsie-daises
Unabashedly lashing out at you
I eviscerate; wielding a scalpel
Then I pounce; scalped him,
Pelt dangling from my ***** pack
**Went Kerouac on ***** ***
Surprise, surprise
Palpable attack
Thumbing tacks into your eyes
Lame as a bad sitcom
Band-wagon careening off the laugh-track
Everybody loves disarray
**** Vamoose!
Underlying interloper
Feel the allusion in high resolution;
Little tike on the *****
Anne frankly I'm that Führer fomenting furor
Have you lost your marbles?
Inaudibly garbling warbled garbage
Mauled to death
**I **** narwhals**
Convoluted revolution
I revel in it
Elusive illusion
Testify, I bring the excellence in electrocution
I'm the executioner
Putting the fun in funeral
Like a neurotic necrotizing narcotic
A lobotomy to the temporal
I dreamt the demented torment of descent
Cascading like a torrential waterfall
Ghoulish delight
Primeval upheavaler
With hopes to elope, many fold
Mic bold, but I suspect she's hitting the slopes;
Ice cold
Evoking emotion but a hopeless show
marionette in a stranglehold
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 9:01 AM UTC
Roddy's Rooster, man! you couldn't
oust her
Standing up there on his dunghill fair
Announcing to the whole world, to All
everywhere
My **** He's the greatest doodle doer
O! that Roddy's Rooster.
He don't need no booster, does
Roddy's Rooster
He'd even go after the goose sir
Don't you fouster with this Rooster
You'd only lose sir
Now vamoose sir.
Very dapper and quite the scrapper
Patrolling his perimeter
Strutting around the farmyard pound
Invariably, henhouse bound
If you were to meet him
It'd be "Put up your dukes sir
Me! I'm Roddy's Rooster".
With his tail feathers all fluffed up
Like a feather duster
And his chest all puffed out
Quite the Dandy and always randy
What a Suitor that Roddy's Rooster
And O! what a Wooer, that wooey
doodler.
I I
He came a cropper though one day
When he fell in the Hopper
Now he's a good deal shorter
And not half as cocky as before,
Now he sits on his wall lamenting his
fall
Thinking of the days when he used to
have a ball
Has Lady Luck that Grand Old Duck
deserted him I wonder.
Sad to see, now he's a bit gammy
More Bandy than Dandy
He still South's in the Summer
But has doubts in the Winter,
Now he likes to crow his woes and
lows away
Climbing up onto his dunghill, he
greets the day
But now in a high shrill falsetto
voice
He sings in a whole different way
" I've been round the Ringer but I'm
still quite a Dinger
**** a Doodley Doo"
Now... now he's a ****** Blues singer!
O! that Roddy's Rooster.
Roddy's Rooster Yeeaahh!
Mar 17, 2020
Mar 17, 2020 at 10:29 AM UTC
and who then'll
vamoose with the papooses
eh?
.
who then'll be the Big Cheese
in the mountains in the face of god
.
with the papoose most famous for his "terrible ways?"
.
who then'll rage against the Evil?
.
(you know i know you know
what i mean!)
.
bein a part of the machine
that eats the world!
we
.
stupid, puny yet, still
in good moments, displaying
what's exactly needed
right now
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 7:44 PM UTC
“It’s just a rough draft,”
he said with a laugh
but the joke is half epitaph.
I know I’ll regret it
this helping him edit
his thesis, this knife,
that will cut through my life.
Somehow, it’s become real
this part of the deal
where my dear Dr. Peter
will vamoose from our theater
where I’ve acted like I could go on
when I return next year, and he’s gone.
Nov 29, 2022
Nov 29, 2022 at 2:20 PM UTC
Western women have their rights.
For goodness sake don’t set your sights
On marriage to this sumptuous goose.
She’ll have your kids, and then vamoose,
She’ll leave you very high and dry,
With no-one there to see you sigh,
Your kids are gone and if you want
To see them you must never flaunt
Your rights before her stony face,
But pay full well, or your disgrace
Will plague the daily paper run
While she disports out in the sun.
Indeed you’ll pay for all her joys,
Your house is hers to sell with poise
And re-establish somewhere else,
While you must foot the bill or else.
This is the feminist home ground.
You want to go another round?
She’ll run your nose in all the dirt
So when you finally lose your shirt
With filling lawyers’ purse profound,
And get up, snivelling, from the ground,
You’ll find your company’s hers as well.
You know you’ve landed merry hell.
So if you marry yet again
(when finally recovered,) then
Look somewhere east but never west.
They’ve failed relationship, you’ve guessed.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC
Snapped out this morning from this languorous phase of time,
The grande-sized aftershock of loving too much.
When I cannot seem to make words perfectly rhymed,
My knuckles crackled as reminiscion went back to your touch.
Regret and remorse are on the same page today
As I lament the loss of the would and should be
Dear, would the script at the end be always sorry?
Or I just made cowardice and insecurity a part of me?
I talk bullcrap again and again with no gain.
Using words that makes you boggle in vain again.
I’d make haste and tell you my story
Just listen a while for I wont and I don’t want to tarry.
Well, I met this gal on a drab gloomy room on a tuesday.
I was taken aback for she came in vamoose-like doomsday.
You ever experienced this, when your sight crops to 4 by 3?
Background blurs and she’s completely all you see.
I could’ve went to her straight and say hey lady, I could’ve.
But I was held in my seat for bravery did I not inherit.
Numbers flew by and still I’m far from ready,
That until this day, I still don’t know what to say.
The days I’m with her, I’m only half alive.
Every word I say to her are either true or guarded.
How can I compliment as a friend and appreciate as a lover behind a wall that's 12-inched?
How can I hold her hand as a friend while my insides are turning-twisted?
I’ve wronged her seven shades of Sunday,
And I’ve been pained 32 shades of **** day.
Is the universe unfair to me for being ****** to not love her throughout?
Or not fair to her for this love of mine she has missed out?
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 3:54 AM UTC
Why am I so torn?
This should be easy
I should tell you to
Leave
Scram
Vamoose
Be gone
see you never
But I can't
My heart
it pleas your case
Each time I begin my protests
It begins to whisper
And weave
The memories of
Hands being laced
Bodies made of super novas
throwing me deep to oblivion
Where my world
Was made of our beautifully mingled laughter
Your perfect faces
Our silent conversations
The secrets
The time we spent
Building this world
Why can't I have it?
Oh yes
I remember
You left.
I moved on.
Didn't I?
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 12:54 AM UTC
Dear father. Beautiful mother.
Please allow me this opportunity to thank you, but caricature of my decisions needs to be put in place first.
As the days passed me by, long ravenous nights, restless and unaware. You helped me realize that the white lines turned into white lies, the dice I constantly rolled made me a sucker for the rule of threes.
You made me realize that this is not who I was made to be, and I can be a better man I know. I never needed to become a shell of the man I used to or intended to be.
The lines I drew was nothing more than a mark to build a wall, a barrier between myself and candidly company. I've replaced real words and genuine touch with a new best friend and she's called loneliness. I can feel her but touch so fake, I can hear her words but similar to the voice in my head.
So I want to thank you for allowing me to make my own mistakes but never vamoose my side. Just know that I've learned from my mistakes and trying my best to be a better man than yesterday, everyday.
You've raised me with love, clarity, and a soft touch and I need to thank you for that.
I hope you hear this.
I love you.
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 5:36 PM UTC
Beat it
Into resignation.
Flog it
Into degeneration.
Disparage it
Into decomposition.
or
Leave it
To wither all alone.
These are some choices.
There are others.
Embrace it
To become integral.
Surround it
To become enclosed.
Adopt it
To be your mantle.
and then
You wither alone.
May 18, 2025
May 18, 2025 at 10:14 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
What should we deduce
About those killers on the loose
How’d they get the juice
Who helped them go vamoose
The authorities were confused
As to how the system got abused
Who was it that they used
The answers were forthcoming
What they discovered was numbing
About the racket they were running
They had wits and they were cunning
Prompting the warden to say, “ I’ll be ******
Like they say, “Cherchez la femme.”
Find the woman, “Yes I am, “
Now she’s locked up in the can
It goes together like hat and glove
We call it crazy, she called it love
They were all she was thinking of
So their well being she placed above
Her own job security
She was blind and couldn’t see
What the repercussions could be
She wanted them to be free
Twenty-one days out and running
Like I said the pair was cunning
They went right out through the plumbing
Their escape, nothing short of stunning
But the police picked up the trail
That at first had gotten stale
And for one to no avail
That’s the first one that got nailed
So by the time you read this poem
I betcha all the facts are known
Prisoners are mistake prone
And the survivor, just flesh and bone
His escape plan, no doubt fractured
He’ll be diminished in prison stature
Finally be’ll be dead or captured
And his picture will be plastered
Copyright © 2015, Cedric McClester. All rights reserved.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 3:42 AM UTC
My heart, my mind
Twitching for spring
Satisfaction
Way more than bling
Spring season
Stirs my heart in a zest
Propelling me to vamoose
Upon a blooming success
Pollen swirls in springiness breath
Budding the next chapter of life
Forth with blooms of freshness
Vivid colors
Omnipotent delights
Guarantee
There will be strife
Springing forth beauty
Assurance storms
Will arise
Twitching for spring
Blooming nature
♡Triggers my heart to sing♡
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 6:26 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
I’m other-ized
And despised
By those I surmise
Who are none the wise
That what they are seeing
Is a fellow human being
And just that recognition
Could improve my condition
I’m vilified
And denied
When the system’s applied
Convicted before tried
So it’s easy to hate me
Or under rate me
What’s harder to do
Is to inflate me
I’m over hyped
And stereotyped
When certain folks griped
I’ve been prison striped
And not for nothing
Removed or forgotten
As a direct outgrowth
Sometimes I’m both
As you might have deduced
I’ve been reduced
Forced to ask what’s the use?
Told to vamoose
And it’s become clear
They’d like me to disappear
But despite what they’re praying
I declare that I’m staying
Cedric McClester,Copyright © 2018. All rights reserved.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 10:46 PM UTC
One more social media message recorded at 5:25 am,
her familiar monotone chant, a mumbled abusive taunt,
another claim for something to change, a demand to be met;
an irrational strategy out of old deep pain for the upper hand,
to shame a different outcome for her life,
to put me in my place, as a failure, a non-entity.
My daughter’s 2020 dispatch to her 1970’s mother,
to gain control in an uncontrollable world,
she’s quite unaware her old Ma is gone,
flew the coop, vamoose, worn out, toast;
she’s unaware my reckless life lived only for others is ended,
my worthiness through frantic sought for approval over.
Back in the day this kind-a, sort-a, mother,
tried **** hard to figure out how’s it done,
how to parent while trapped inside an empty,
broken, clueless, twenty-year-old,
wondered everyday how to raise up, nurture, guide,
care for my children while still a kid myself.
Watched my mother suffer, die in an abusive marriage at fifty-one,
for years I’d prayed at the top of the stairs for their fighting to stop,
they never stopped… so I learned to survive my life,
made a “me” up, no internal identity, no actual obvious self,
never took the chance to become someone, instead played the role,
figured out what others wanted, did it, did it well, did it ‘til it hurt.
Now, seventy-two, over ripe, deeply bruised by a life gambled away
bewildered no one left to blame, victim of my own doing,
living but not alive, days and nights of untethered sadness, regret,
still Something beckons, shows itself in the kindness of strangers,
who appear, care, love without agenda, a new family sent
by angels whispering you are loved, you are loved, you are loved.
~ PE Kaplan
Jun 7, 2020
Jun 7, 2020 at 8:44 AM UTC