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Mike T Minehan Feb 2013
Poor little octopus.
Big head and eight tentacles
but no *****, ***** or testicles.

What's that, you say? Then how do these poor little cephalopods
buck such terrible odds when they feel like a ****** agenda
and they don't have any pudenda?

Well, it's quite simple, really. He hands her ***** on a tentacle
and what do you suppose?
She says, thank you very much, and sticks it up her nose!

Honest. No dinner first or shoulder massage,
she just whacks it up her nasal passage. You can be quite sure
this is an amazing olfactory aperture.

So the moral is, don't complicate a simple process.
When you're feeling frisky, *** need not be tricky.
Just consider the inventiveness of the octopus with no ***** or a *******.

Because it's the ingenuity of the octopus, not it's ****** act,
that we should court. Compared to the octopus,
the human nose is naught.
It's too high up and tight for such naughty, wicked sport.  

Also, such a human act is fraught with political incorrectness.  
A gentleman who tries this little rort to get the girls to snort
and says, up your nostril, madam, might all too well
receive a rude retort. Or even worse!

I say herein lies food for thought.
                                                        ­                             Mike T Minehan
Maka22alburn33 Apr 2015
Knick Knack, Patty whacks
Give away a soul
This old man just paid his toll.
Lisa Ann Rakow Mar 2013
SLAP! The graceful whale whacks her tale on the pristine water.
SLUMP! The pod of dolphins flow down in the water.
SLOOP-GLOOP! Breath bubbles soar up to the top of the water.
SHHH! Fishers cast their lines into the deep, clear, water.
SMIP-SMIP! The bats of the seahorses’ tails fling through the blue, blue water.
SLIP! The green, blue water flows through rocks and moss.
Pierre Ray Mar 2012
Consisting of grown, persisting as shown and unknown. Insisting entities, rivalries and sworn enemies! Deformed, forewarned, formed, informed, mourned, performed, reformed and scorned. Dates of great storms! Family tree of hate, horns and thorns. My family tree of gore, horror, more, poor and sore. Perhaps of mishaps galore. Briefly sit

back! I’ll roughly take you back… Heck! Back to a time of attack,
blacks, slacks and whacks. My family tree of practical, tactical, methodical Aztec. Some beckon and reckon in seconds. A family tree of crime, grime and rhyme. A nation of communication, dedication,
dissemination, motivation and procrastination. The splendor of sin

of my corruptive, disruptive kin. They rely more on the color of one’s
skin. My family tree of abuse and misuse that misuses and seduces! Family tree of warfare and welfare legalities, moralities and family-prodigies. Picture this scriptural twist! Some assist on a kiss. I insist
some are idealities in social technicalities. Alcoholics, diabetics,

******, exotic, fantastic, Catholics, eccentric, horrific and poetic. I persist… some gnomes, some roam, some in poems, some with no homes. My family tree of adventuresome, awesome, handsome and troublesome. My family tree of beautiful and bountiful! Some are a
handful some handicap some locally and vocally-rap. Some slap,

gift-wrap and yap! Some are snuggly, pretty, witty or ugly. In my family tree, some crippled, some with pimples, some with freckles
and some that heckle. Some belittle and little, some wrinkled and old. Some are bold and pray to the lord! Some are Frio, meaning cold we
were told. Some I say, are poor with no Amor. Some are here no more, in my family tree of Amor.
Marshal Gebbie Apr 2013
Preamble at the showdown the fighters eye to eye
Droning pulse of discourse from the referee is dry,
Bouncing back to my corner the butterflies take charge
For the other guy’s a monster, like a Doberman at large.

Bell resounds alarmingly, I shuffle forth to meet
A combination thrown with steel…it whacks me off my feet.
Seeing stars I resurrect to lurch about the ring
To try to keep some distance from the monster’s punching sting.

Roaring crowd are baying now they call to take me out
The Doberman is grinning for he reckons it’s a route,
The flashing light confusing, the noise a steady din
As the monster comes in quickly to achieve expected win.

Throwing jabs to keep him back, retreating to the rope
I cover up with everything to give myself some hope
He pounds with his salvos they hammer hard and fast
His breathing rasping in my ears I pray to God I last.

Saved by the bell and cold water, such disgrace
The crowd are loudly booing, I’ve not put leather on his face,
A wash of resolution hotly surges from within
So I **** the mouth guard back and rush on out to tackle him.

Defensive expectations had him open up his chin
So I feinted with a left and launched a mighty right with spin,
Boring in with fury and a combination score
I hit him with an uppercut which traversed from the floor.

Miraculously the eyeballs rolled and disappeared from sight
I threw another flurry…but had no one to fight
Flat out on the deck he lay, the Doberman was out
As I bounced around like Rocky to the punters frenzied shout.

Camera flashes blinded as the raving crowd went wild.
It defied all expectations, I was the sacrificial child.
Bets were laid that I would fall within a round or two
The screaming din reflected that all bets were in the poo.

The countdown took forever and I swear I watched each stroke
And kept one eye on the fallen, should he rise he’d go for broke,
My amazement with two wobbly knees and heaving lungs of fire
When my leaden glove was held aloft to victory entire.

Winners come and winners go but this I’ll not forget
When fortune favoured sweetly…and I collected on the bet!


Marshalg
My thanks to Shane Cameron…a real fighter.
14 April 2013 (Pukehana Paradise)

© 2013 Marshal Gebbie
Mike Hauser Jun 2014
Jackie boy, why are you bleeding

From inside the soul to the out

Take another drink of life my friend

Cause I think you just whacked yourself
Niket Sep 2016
It's my life which has your glow
Simmering every day when you show
Your face which is like snow
Soft and beautiful like the flowers as I blow

I want you back cause you're my hero
My angel who removes me from sorrow
To whom I can never say no
Together we'll live furrow

But it seems that you don't need me
Anymore
Pain I have suffered is to the chore
I wanted more
But you went away before I counted four

I need you back
Or I'll again lose myself
I'm ready for your whacks
and ready to eat all you're snacks
Lilly frost Jun 2015
Lizzie burden took an ax
Gave her mother forty whacks
When she saw what she had done
She gave her father forty-one
Such anger
You're in danger
Run away
You can not stay
Serial killer
That's what we call 'er
Ax stained with blood
Her shoes caked with mud
In court innocent as can be
Everyone but the jury can see
Lizzie burden who took an ax
Gave her mother forty whacks
Who when she saw what she had done
Gave her father forty-one
Was set free
Because all but the jury could see
The first four lines are from the actual rhyme about Lizzie burden.
SøułSurvivør Jul 2019
Mars, they say, is God of War
Venus Love...
But not no more.

Mars is red, an angry shade
With knuckles like
A sickle's blade

His right hook
has some might in store
He lays her on
The threshing floor

There he whacks
The chaff from wheat
She's just a dog
For him to beat...

Mars is red
Venus is blue
Black as well
A nasty hue

Her friends tell her
To up & leave
For all the beatings
She's recieved

But she knows
That if she leaves
He'd find... and ****
With none to grieve.

So she stays down
On knees to pray
That Mars would simply
Go away...

He will not
She's bound to lose
Red & blue...
A purple bruise.

Finally she'd had enough
Packed some food
And all her stuff

Before he could
Wake up to belt her
She went into a caring shelter

He searched and searched
But never found
His goddess was
Nowhere around

He drank and drank
His days away
Finally t'was
As she had prayed

Mars hit bars
With liquored breath
He finally drank
Himself to death.

Mars was red
And Venus blue
But now she's FREE

She could be YOU.

.



SøułSurvivør
4/20/2018
This poem has been in my drafts for a long time. I was hesitant to post it, because it has very violent content. But something told me recently that I should put it up. Maybe there's someone who needs to read it, I don't know. All I know is that if you are a battered woman there is help out there. You don't have to suffer in silence anymore!

I was battered... ONCE.
I ran away and called the cops & that was IT for HIM. But he stalked me for 2 years before he finally gave up. I'm lucky to be alive!
DieingEmbers Jan 2013
She's a nurse a maid a beauty queen
a cop a nun and mistress mean
she's heels and whips and ******* chain
and the whacks and scream of pleasured pain
she's hot she's bad she's all I seek
as she leaves her mark on reddened cheek
she's forceful gentle sometimes coy
and the fantasy of ev'ry boy
Is this going to be another joke-
A shiny nickel welded to the floor
So when I bend to pick it up
A paddle whacks me from behind.

Will this turn out to be a whoopee cushion
Hidden underneath my chair
So when I proudly take my seat
The room erupts in cruel laughter.

Will I put forth a major effort,
Break my back and heart in trying,
Only to find the load’s too heavy
For me to ever hope to lift it,

Too complicated to untangle,
Too precise for my small skills,
A recipe for certain failure
If I dare to take that step.

Doubts and fears are ***** traps
That I must circumvent to win
And if I find that I can do it
I can be the hero of my life.
    ljm
Yes to all of the above.  I wrote this a couple of months after I lost my job.  I thought I had found a new career but I couldn't make it happen. So I put this aside.
Kagey Sage Oct 2015
A gray cat with a white tummy sat upright in his owner’s living room. Yet, it was his living room, too he thought. Though he only perceived the lower half of their bodies, Tom felt he had fooled the humans into relinquishing nearly all their luxuries to him. Their food, their sitting spots, their sleeping spots. Yet, the humans would not let Tom enjoy these luxuries in complete freedom. Sometimes, when Tom laid on the couch or in the bed, he was kicked onto the floor - but that wasn’t the worst of it.  Whenever Tom put together a sandwich using every single item available in the kitchen, Tom’s owner’s plucked the violin strings clear out of him, with broom whacks and concrete body slams.

“No food until you catch that mouse, ya stupid cat!” they’d yell.

Some nights - as he watched his beneficiaries drive off to the opera nightclub - Tom pondered his predicament. So if I catch this mouse, I get free reign over the house. He thought. Unlimited fridge access and legendary furniture spots. Mmmmm. Better catch me a mouse. Tom chuckled.
            
Mice came and went throughout the house, but one always remained. Jerry. In fact, all of the mice coming through the house only came over to chill with Jerry!

Tom stooped low to the ground in a pounce and placed his eyes millimeters from Jerry’s pint sized stance. Jerry felt as though he was pierced by a slew of razors. When Tom quickly relaxed his gazed and let out an enormous sigh.

“There is no magic ideal is there Jerry? ”Tom asked “We’re enchantingly random. Just automatic creatures with base desires. I hunger in the void, so I still want nothing more than food from the human fridge.  In this universe, and a number more, I will pursue what seems the easiest means to human food, whether hunch or trick, or, right or wrong.”
I want to **** all the people I love

how their veins persist in me
how they do steal my plastic foam
how their tongues clean my eyes

and every morning whacks my stomach
and every morning seems nothing to me

the last one to be killed will be you
at the end of these words a barrel of a gun
will stick to your neck
and the last thing you will be thinking about
is this text
you will desperately search for salvation
a code among these mingled words
but this will be in vain

I will pull the trigger
in the ******* silence of your room
your cerebrum will be dispersed over your display
your blood will weep over your keyboard

look what you've done
with your thirst for aesthetics
with your inquisitive nature

I don't care who you are
you will have to die too

while you are reading all these
I am beginning to love you
lmnsinner May 2018
“extra condoms” (explicit!)

a title deposited in the poem-to-do file/notebook,
with no body yet to follow through on or upon

which she tumbles to, an irresistible unrepentant
crooked finger hook line and she is sinker stinker caught,
worming in her feigned anger

current curiosity comes
fast and furious further,
demeanor—demanding
ex-explain-nations,
how could this
ever be a
poem?

stare ferocious, I am the prettiest pretense
of a pride incarnation hu-mane incarnate

call me in another language
Vasco da Gama
a sea route to India will uncover
on your worldly tattooed body,
drawing maps as we go along

devour her neck with stingless bites,
explorer voyager a rambunctious tongue undenied,
every space in and between needs  
surging surgical tastings, erupting into her indentations,
inserting her appendages into my places where they
have a business going-knowing

just in case that’s the one!

secret passageway canal holy crossing crossover

later she whacks me because the question goes unanswered
and no sheath employed when my tongued fingers are ten times
more demanding and supple and supply the exploratory course closing with spices and woven silks in Indian colors vibrations
why then,
extra?

god she is so lovely locomotive annoying!

to peak you peeking
to see your astounding astonishment,
you are our provisions for a sea voyage
and put the risk in, the trigger in,
when wherever you see the world-word,


extra
Poetic T Mar 2016
I tied you to the boot of this stolen car, what a pile
of rust but beggars cant be choosy, you do beg but I
chose this place specifically don't worry I tied you
to an old fords car door,  let the fun now begin.

I put the peddle to the metal, I hear you screaming in
anticipation of what happens next. Got to love speed
bumps, 30, 40, 60 then I brake just before swerving
so you sail past then you fly. Screaming all the way.

"I found ford doors have the right weight ratio to land
door side up Skoda's, Audi,

"No,
"The mess of so many to clean up road pastry is not the
easiest to clean away, slinters in my fingers hurt like hell ,


They fly through the air I see them just before some with
eyes closed fear etched on the sweat dripping or is that
tears? I put a three pronged circle to see where they finish
up. Each has a consequence, red, orange and green.

"You land in the outer dam, out comes the penalty stick,

Not many survive that, as I am angry for ill landings a lack
off at least trying, I warn them but some just cry till I give
them a good few whacks. I know silly but I do little sound
effects "bang, bang, splat, then silence and twitching

"Bang, "I hate those that just linger and twitch die already,

Now orange that's ok at least the next one tried, but not hard
enough,I give you a two pronged choice, gouge your sight out
with a spoon or a fork "what at least I'm giving them a choice,
now they scream but some got ***** it must be said.

Some do it, see no evil you know what I'm saying hanging tears
of claret weep from there now semi vacant sockets, and still
they try to blink "look at me, as their head rise, but their still
staring at the floor and I prune the with but two snips. Some
survive others just clutch to a chest and like that "DEAD,

Now those that survive, well lets just say I am a man of my
word I put them in the car to the safety I promise, I talk to
them but understandably their not in the talking mood,
I give them water to hydrate and replenish lost liquid that
has others wise bleed slowly out, and some even say "thank you,

Now what can I say luck, skill, survival instinct but so few have
done it, like a four leaf clover they land in the pastures of green.
I jump up and down like a child at the fair who just won the
big dinosaur on the very first try, punching the air and a very loud
"Hell ye that's what I'm talking about baby,
Then kiss um on the forehead, lips are to personal for my profession.

I tell them what skills what entertainment for some as twisted as it
seems liked what I did, a few even asked for double or nothing.
But luck only goes so far and then the regrettably the penalty stick
came out, I do the sign of L on my forehead then their silent once again.

But those who sighed with relief, as I promised were released, at the
end of a gun mind you a bottle of water given gratefully drank,
then on their merry way, I bid them fair well and as that they never
Divulge this incident as I have their wallets, purses even email
you never no maybe bored and recollect our good times past tense
of course for we all must face what is inevitable,

"Life is moments, where death is a breath that will always last,  

But as is death, freedom is a fleeting moment, and a mind changes
like the wind different direction, different path. Trial and error were
key, things that mattered "weight, height, ***, all factors in the
end result of what is like a momentary freedom to the air then
realization as they descend to a finite moment of death.

I always picked those that drove, why easier to cover tracks of
what was perused in my desires for a unique way to challenge
others need to survive. To breath another moment to exist in this
time of now not to pass. But life is fickle and my fun must last.

I always made sure that they drank the water, a necessity of
what came next ever drop drank, if denied then you guessed
it, penalty stick then "Dam, I do love my sound effects.
But released those with sight no knowledge of their ill fate.

Those I killed in the drivers seat pick a place where
gravity would take president in this delicate manoeuvre
so that they would go through what was needed a accident
of fatal consequence. Then on to the living that was next.


Like jack they rolled down the hill till unconscious they fell,
this little automobile swerving,  ricocheting off boundary and
wall till wheels graced air and the reeve of the engine heard.
A little gift of what was left in the boot a full tank of petrol
and the lid so loosely covered, accidents do happen.

I did one more thing I doubt they noticed there cigarette
lighter engineered to be so slightly hot, just like porridge
to hot would be seen and felt, to cold and would be a waste
of battery not enough, but warmth enough to ignite an
accident in the back and I firework of flames birth forth.

Some exploded they were the best, while others tumbled
flame and wreckage spread out what a mess. I always chose
the location, never the same suspicion would fall and my
fun would expire and probably my life snuffed out in a
breath. always cliffs near by and wall was best.

Now I bid you farewell as other circles must be drawn.
New doors must be had, who will hit the bulls-eye or
who will fail the test. I'll try two doors at once spice
up life's fun a little who will hit green and who will
be the one who twitches and then "Bang, silence is best.
Terry Collett Jun 2015
I was on the bomb site
off Arch Street
collecting pieces of wood
and newspaper

-******* in a ball-
and small pieces of coal
liberated from the coal wharf
near by

plus a few Swan Vestas
borrowed from
my old man's box at home
I lit a fire

near the railway arch
and Ingrid said
are you allowed
to do that?

not that I know
I said
what if a policeman
comes?

she asked
I'll just say
it was alight
when I came

and I was
keeping warm
I replied
but that's lying

she said
stretching the truth
a little
I said

she frowned at me
her bruised eye
was on the mend
and was just a slight

memory now
-her old man's
handiwork-
what if you get burnt?

she said
risk of the game
I said
I shouldn't be here

if my dad saw me here
I'd be for it
she said
you're always for it

I said
you've only got to look
at your old man
and he whacks you

I replied
not always
she said
looking away

he slippered you
the other week
for dropping
that bottle of milk

she said nothing
but looked across
the bomb site
at the passing buses

on the New Kent Road
I got out a small tin
and opened it
want a cigarette?

she peered at me
then at the tin
where'd you get those?
she said

I made them
I said
made them?
yes out of dog-ends

I picked up
from the gutters
and borrowing
cigarette papers

from an uncle
I made them up
she pulled a face
but they must have

other people's
spit on them
she said
but the papers

are fresh
I said
and besides
the burning tobacco

gets rid of that
she looked at me
and said
yuk

I put the tin away
and we watched
the fire burning
a Rozzer stopped me

on here the other week
and said to me
did I see you smoking?
I said

no I've not been smoking
I'd flicked the **** end
onto the bomb site
behind me

and he looked
at me suspiciously
and said
better not let me

catch you sonny boy
and he walked off
I'd have wet myself
she said

if a policeman
stopped me
we watched the fire burning
for a few more minutes

then we went across
the bomb site
to the chip-shop
to buy 6d of chips

and stood outside
and shared them
watching the small bomb fire
burning across the way

on that cold
November day.
A BOY AND GIRL IN LONDON IN 1958
Zulu Samperfas Nov 2012
On on select part of an Israeli beach in Haifa
Army kids, boys and girls
Crowded in this one place
Cordoned off by Kadeema
Badmitton without the net
or soft little bungy thing
Two ping pong rackets and one
hard ball back and forth
Bat! Bat!
Two boys, in lines up and down
their beach, two rows deep at least
near the water's edge for traction
Walk through and a ball heads for your face
but never hits
they are that good
and you feel silly
for being scared
until a racket whacks near your ear
and your hair moves
with a current of air
Zillions of bat! Bats!
They never think to
stop for your benefit
that is not in their culture
as you are unscathed,
only fearful
A beach cluttered with boys and girls
sit on old towels close together
Ceaseless, lively chatter in the hot sun
Displaying to each other as the sound of kadeema
and the ocean waves slosh in and out
Girls relaxed *******, start to peak out
of their string bikinis
As boys look on, move closer
ever closer
and the *******, feeling safe, expose themselves more
to the Mediterranean sun
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i'll just say what it is, quiet frankly a beautiful
elaboration - for maxims are shake-shocks -
i'd call all proverbs or maxims Blitzkrieg annals -
well, something of that sort, once said:
a flash of genius, but then years of squabbling,
before someone emerges with what the maxim
requires: an elaboration - one of plain, simple
understanding - but of course, after the elaboration,
someone must second the elaborated understanding,
and put the genie back into the lamp,
and oddly enough, write a poem - the twist is,
the secondant must too elaborate on the elaboration,
as way to deviate and start a new subject matter.
this has been the case with what i picked up
a few minutes ago, Kierkegaard's Christian discourses,
the care of lowliness: do not worry about what
you will wear - the pagans seek all these things.
i for one know this to be very true -
once in a while i travel into London for opera and
ballet - i put on my standard outfit for the
occasion - so i basically do not look like a ***:
brown trousers, navy jacket, navy shoes,
light purple shirt - a typical grey area in a crowd -
and already upon stepping into the crowd,
that vast sea, i feel like i just temped into an
ant-mound, a colony of itchiness - in fact i used
to wear clothes in variation - no... well, let's just
say i'd get airs of contempt walking down
the golden-plated streets of civilisation -
where enough chewing gum patches create a horde
of concrete dalmatians -
but that's beside the point, that passage is ingenious
in its simplicity, Kierkegaard is a rarity in
philosophy, he writes like a novelist, there's an
actual narration in his works - he can almost
remind me of Rousseau (rue sow, said) -
i don't the concrete ideas (both are completely different)
i just me stylistically - Kierkegaard as such
is uncomplicated to have a firm footing in systematisation -
like i once said: systematisation is not
so much dishonesty, as a military approach to
language: a strict (limited) competence of language
(vocabulary) - and the incessant Holtwitzer* /
Howitzer style of bombarding a key concept, revising it,
coming at it from a different angle - but refining
certain concepts, instilled with what i already mentioned:
a strict competence of language / systematisation:
limiting the vocabulary; Kierkegaard epitomises the
Heraclitus river - it flows and flows - never minding
the whirlpool of the anti-claustrophobic fathers:
who's works are just that: all of them comfortable fitting
into a suitcase. ah crap, digression over,
mind you, it's not easy finding google whacks - it takes
a decent imagination to misspell a word to get the billions
reduced to 1: apparently there's a website dedicated to
them... well, that's a 2nd in my diary.
anyway (hopefully for the last time) - the comparison
of the bird and the lowly man, the two are unlike each other,
one has it easy, the other has a beginning in which
he sets out to be a lowly man, or to not be of such
disposition... the bird already is, what it is, so
the bird has it easy - the man faces a hardship of
the optical illusion, kindly provided by Vogue et al.:
he composites this with the bird's ontology as
pure animate - singing for its own delight,
the bird's death by impatience should it ponder itself
as being a bird, rather than as being-in-itself -
so there's the bird, pure animate presiding over its
ontology and not allowing hesitation or anything...
where am i getting at?
                                       the javelin throw,
the discuss throw, the baseball throw, gymnastics -
and Noah's ark: and the philosophical concepts
went up to the ark, two by two of their respective pairing:
existence & essence, subjectivity & objectivity,
good & evil... and of course animate & inanimate (objects),
for this is crucial for me... there's no thought
attached to the above stated activities, there is man's
respective animal-like representation - intuition and
gamblers luck remain in the head,
no boxer in a boxing ring can actually be said to be thinking,
too many chemical reactions are taking place,
and these athletes are not exactly chemically minded to
talk about the next more... that's the animate side
of man's ontology - the bird on the wheat shaft singing -
pure and simple... which brings me to consider
the following object that i have in my hand (head,
but never mind, i took it out and it's in my hand now) -
the inanimate nature of man... the buildings around us,
the garden fences... thought was derived from
us having the shadow duality with being animate,
we have instilled in us an inanimate nature,
from which thought is derived from - along with all
that comes with it: telescopes, hammers, autism,
solipsism (self-conscious autism), syringes, l.s.d.;
i set out to find out how we conceived thinking in
the first place - apart from the cliche duality contained
within: good v. evil or beyond that... well, beyond
that there's this... i could find no reason to imply that
man has only one nature in this pair going up to
Noah's ark... this stretches into the common misunderstanding
in the western world in the realm of medicine,
or as i like to call it: the Cartesian dark ages...
whereby a mental health issue is treated on the basis
that we are only animate beings, which, to my understanding
translates as: you have a puppet inside yer 'ed
and one of your strings snapped, mate... that's
what i don't understand... why is it that western medicine
conceived this idea that our nature is only animate,
and that we have to have a respective dynamic in
our mind to comply with the body's animate nature?
this is where the inanimate nature of our inner
life comes in, where thinking is derived from -
otherwise there would be no ****** good reason to
sit under a ***(h)i tree like a plonker for days,
would there? hey! probe all those words in the Asian
languages - dhal! probe! buddha! probe! probe them
all, wake up the h in each and every single word,
then start probing the y and the w in European languages!
boom! out pops a variation of n.e.w.s. of
Jewish mysticism.
David Nelson May 2013
The secret life of
mack the knife

his teeth shined a pearly white
they glistened like fallen snow
his smile would melt the ladies hearts
and leave them feeling aglow

but when he chose to leave his bite
the smile turned to a snear
Louie called said I'll see you at the club
yeah Mack meet in the rear

he was a banker by the daylight
a vicious killer in the night
he always thought that he would
find time to make things right

he left his victims on the sidewalk
or a tugboat by the shore
their throats cut from ear to ear
the coppers going door to door

but not a single soul was talking
nobody saw anything
but they could tell by the looks
they'd be dead if they chose to sing

Louie wanted Souky Taudry whacked
he was messin with Jenny Diver
she's my girl and I ain't taking that
I'll set you up to be his driver

he wore a disguise of a chauffer
fancy coat pants and a cap
but when he took a wrong turn
Souky knew he was in for bad crap

they found him in the alley
his life oozing out on the street
his throat cut by Mack the Knife
another job had been complete

back at the bank the next morning
he was all smiles and slapping backs
nobody knew his secret life
or if they were the next one he whacks

Gomer Lepoet...
concept based on the play "Threepenny Opera" and the song "Mack the Knife"
Butch Decatoria Feb 2016
Jibber jabber gobbledee-goo
tittle tattle engenues
verbosely nosey Velcro verbs
sibilant smacks or lips a purse
wealthy whacks stickball whips
no tweet or talk but mailbox spit
gnawing down our chews of cud
converse with street rubber tongues
pinky-swore on Bazooka gum
summer wonder learning none
we Schwin & Huffy bike the day
child hood friends what else to say?
especially at that age...
Teeny tiny laughter dust
we race like Del Mar champion studs
no babble trouble wordy sting
our Super 8 remembering
"look no handle bars!"
our arms for wings
young ole boys California Kings...
mark john junor Jun 2014
old saint bob
whacks a hefty tune out on a beer barrel
full of noise and nuance
like a dammed version of samson
tearing down these city walls
and like a blessed version of delilah
walking in mystical light

saint bob has a penny opera vocal
on his thin mans frame
but all the pretty girls say he's got a  voice like sin
and the eyes of an angel
they are all a-flutter at his nearness
hes there just off shore if you look with care

old saint bob and elston gunn
had taken to the waves hoping
to be saltwater henchmen in such grand style
only to be shipwrecked in the strip malls
of suburbia with the catholic schoolgirls and
the paint by number sinners and saints

old saint bob and the charlatans of love and loathing
sit with a *** runner and swap sea stories
on the deck of an english privateer called penance
hoping to salvage the folly of their youth
but they have drank themselves to a fitful slumber
and the *** runner has fled with the gold

while all good sailors romance ladies of spain
old saint bob held out an old tin cup
and a hooligans song
by the sunbelt highway
one of the lover girls by his side
she so in love with his rough jester lost and lonely style
he will make it home someday
but he will only come if it can be
with a peg leg and a parrot on his shoulder
in grand style
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2022
title: at <H. 20>
body:
troop movement
w.
ammo shortage:
abandon
   <H. 20> position.   502 bad gateway bypasses have become more fun than looking for google-whacks


i once tried to be this dad-rock sort of guy:
a massive fan of the stuff from the 1960s and the 1970s...
but... the more i explore the 1980s...
i'm finding out that... in all honesty?
sure... the 1990s grunge scene etc.:
not to mention TOOL... Fugazi... etc.
   but... hmm... well... there's a war on...
no one knows how far its going to go: or how
it might escalate...
          i'm not going to take sides: or write with
moral overtones regarding what is good
and what is bad...
i've heard the argument that moral judgements
are not right: to mediate this conflict as
a third party... or just as a person...
moral grandstanding: Ukrainian flags on profiles...
pouring Russian ***** into the drain...
just drink whiskey...
                          this stems from the Pariah Principle...
i'm just guessing to giggle a little:
the doping scandals finally got to ol' Vlad...
because it was funny when Mo Farrah pulled out
at some point... as did Bradley Wiggins...
started making income from adverts...
           yeah yeah: no, doping of athletes is not
systemic... all over the world...
   i guess some countries just have better doping
schemes...
   and while Russian was kicked out from
the mighty club of the G7 that was for a while G8...
i guess no one likes being left out...
no mention of China expanding the club into
a G9 or India for that matter... G10...
            plus... if the whole world spins the narrative
that you're evil... Russian subversion of American
politics... you're going to one day wake up and be
like: o.k. - fine... i'll be evil...
             aren't people liable if they slander someone
for no good reason / proof? can't someone be
sued for slander? i always thought the Russians
to be evil geniuses... but that softens the blow:
they're smart - in a malicious way because:
hell... what's there to do in a Russian winter...
you can only **** so much and drink so much *****...
so you get into hacking... for fun...
        but it's not Ukrainian politics was ever pristine...
i remember the days of the Orange Revolution
when Poland was involved in Ukrainian politics
for a while... long ago i said to myself...
it would be useful is Ukraine was allowed to join
the E.U. - just after the "famous five" joined back
in 2004... obviously i have no proof that i said something
along those lines back then... i wasn't writing then...
blah... politics... as ***** as money...
   i rather think about... how i managed to get
a ******* to want to meet me outside of the brothel...
rent a hotel room for the night...
pay for dinner... get a free **** all night... talk...
improve her English... learn some Turkish in return...
and music... i rather think about music...
i was going some ironing in the afternoon...
and i realised... of all these old vinyl records
that i brought back from Poland from my grandparents'
house... the ones my parents collected...
i was stuck on Maanam's Nocny Patrol (1984)
for too long on repeat... let's see what else is there...
oh... the original New Order Low-Life vinyl (1985):
**** me... an object that is older than me by
a year... well i did already know that New Order
emerged from the collapse of Joy Division...
well... the suicide of Ian Curtis... the precursor of
Curt Cobain - post-punk... well what came of that...
i never liked punk... more into psychedelic rock...
prog rock... but like i said... 60s and 70s music...
it grew on me... then... i grew out of it...
the whole boomer schtick of: we had the best music
your music is ****... give me a break...
- and it's not like i could get into Joy Division either...
i tried... it would be much easier to get into
65days-of-static if i were going to be perfectly honest...
or boards of canada...
      i tried... but... you can't let a tragedy go to waste...
so with the emergence of New Order...
and never looked into them... blue monday... faith...
but never looked into entire albums...
gateway album... Low-Life...
   and then it hit me... this is really the proper alternative
to The Cure... the Smiths... Depeche Mode...
i must be having this post-punk phase...
               at one point youtube was spewing out
post-punk suggestions all the time for me...
as if in the good old days of youtube being the best
jukebox on the internet...
plus... on a vinyl that's 36 years old...
oh: with the older vinyl you can hear the imperfections...
"imperfections" or rather the crackling...
newer vinyl doesn't have that crackling...
now i have a few good hours in the bag of going through
the entire New Order discography...
again... this conflict... i'm not even following it...
i've built-up a media burnout after all the repeated
news about Covid... i followed it at the start...
until... people started clapping for the NHS...
i switched off... i' already switched off regarding
this conflict... i'll make that dreaded hippy statement:
make love, not war...
  well... i'm on it... perhaps if i could be a mediator...
i'm not going to use moral language...
i'll just show people what life can be life...
do some ironing... put on a decent vinyl from the 1980s
plan a *** marathon in a hotel room...
with a girl you have no qualms over the "body count"
as some guys look for frigid nun types...
ah... what a mandible beauty...
            elsewhere... yeah... people are fighting...
but people are always fighting elsewhere...
- and it's not like nothing is being done...
over 1 millions refugees fled to Poland...
      i went into a forest and found something symbolic...
a branch of wood in the shape of a Cossack sword,
the shashka...
             i think my extended family might have
been affected by the UPA genocides during the Second
World War... mind you: the Ukrainians cheered
when the Nazis invaded... mind you: such wounds
should run so deep in me... it's ridiculous...
i should, maybe, just maybe: have the English attitude
toward the Norman genocide of Anglo-Saxon nobility
after Hastings from a purely historical point of view...
but then again... i knew a woman: my great-grandmother
who had to give opiates to her new-born daughter
(my grandmother) so she wouldn't cry when
they were running and hiding on the front...
  or how my grandfather remembers his uncle lying dead
in the back garden after being shot by the Nazis...
or how he would run up to two SS-men in their infamous
Hugo Boss black and shout: herr! bite bon bon!
and they would give him sweets so sweet that
his hands would be stuck together... etc.
           there is a lineage... memory... it's almost like
one person having many hosts... you can't exactly cut it
off... but... how ridiculous western democracies look
now, for their former criticism of Poland not taking in
enough refugees... really?
just like Turkey didn't take in enough authentic
Syrian refugees? oh... the type of refugees that drove
the trucks of peace in Nice... or performed
the Bataclan attacks? the Cologne *** party?
no Ukrainians on rubber-inflatables crossing the Channel
from Calais? i get it... the wrong sort of hue...
well... i guess old grievances can rest for a while...
you must really try your hardest not to be called
racist... but then one day you'll wake up
   like a Russian... after being called evil, foreign affairs
meddler... Olympic cheat and be like...
**** it... i'll own that slander... i'll just act upon it...
hmm... Dinosaur Jr. - but that's more grunge
than post-punk... no no... post-punk is something
very beautiful... it gets mixed up with the term Indie...
like... the Smiths are probably considered Indie
rather than post-punk... but i think they're post-punk...
god... i hate punk... probably as much as rap...
- and it's sort of a crying shame...
Russian, back in 2007... was such a welcoming place...
obviously my then Russian girlfriend
timed trying to get impregnated without my knowledge...
how does it work with women?
the highest chance of getting pregnant is just after
a woman's period: i'm not a woman, i don't know...
she was supposed to be on the pill...
hey, unprotected ***... well... she was rich enough
to not need my money, just my genes...
but the people were so welcoming...
i'd put the Russians on par with the Scots...
oh hell: her father was a timber oligarch out
in Siberia... she had multiple flats scattered around
St. Petersburg and even Moscow...
i look at it as follows: being a ***** donor doesn't
really cut it... what, just reading a man's profile:
window-shopping for *****?
obviously she wanted the relationship
to get to know the character of the man...
rather than some objective rubric: education X,
employment Y... but character? in person?
in practice? well... that's Z(ed)...
               well... if i'm not going to the type to
shoot bullets from a machine gun...
i might as well be shooting something else
somewhere else...
                              is that the conclusion you come to
when she calls you... tearful... in a happy way
and says: 'i think i'm pregnant!' - i think therefore i doubt...
i don't think that applies to how women
use language...
years later when i visited her... hmm... toys scattered
all over the apartment... hush-hush atmosphere...
she invited a lot of people round...
i think she was still with her newly wedded
neuroscientist: would be dumped months later...
married some poor Scotch schmuck...
well... at least she's keeping a tally...
    she might get to no. 5 and finally be like:
                     well... that was a good enough party...
no ***, just watch t.v. with me...
   oh hell no... i was exposed to Marquis de Sade
"too early" in life to somehow ******* without
a proper hard-on...
              well... first shot with the Turkish girl...
second one might hit the mark...
who knows... but this one photograph she sent me...
there's this young pretty thing sitting
in the background... a nice looking bump...
hmm... the last time i was there....
and shot a load into a ******... must have been...
oh... 4 months? 5 months?
what happened to that ****** with the payload?
women are such subtle creatures...
i might just be living in La-La-Land...
             but your mind sometimes goes out to lunch
in a non-demented way...
   it's not like people are transparent with each
other... it's not like we don't have our secrets...
secret avenues that other people never hear about...
it's not like that doesn't happen...
maybe the less i know and the more i speculate...
the happier i am... whether it's true or not...
i like to think that women like for a full beard
a hairy chest and a hair stomach, a 6ft2 100kg posture
is something that's worth salvaging...
freely given, on a whim: because... eh...
   i'm not a fat 4ft9 stinking Mongol who left a lot
of people in Pakistan with a surname: Khan...
and he done that by ****...
                                 spectacular... life...
and as long as i'm in a working environment and
i treat the... less lucky guys with candour:
with a camaraderie... what could possibly go wrong?
obviously everything...
                     but if they don't know jack ****...
and i keep them at a mutual-respect length...
ah... no open flirting with female coworkers...
at work... i feel so fake at work sometimes...
   at least in the schoolyard there was open banter...
at work i have to force myself: all the time...
            i just want to be left alone... do the shift...
*******... go back into seclusion and scribble down
thoughts to remind myself: i would never say as much
with my mouth as i "say" with the use of my
itchy-finger-tips... it's staggering how rhetoricians find
talking so easy... what's the old suggestion?
they enjoy the sound of their voice?
must be... i drift... mmm hmm... 1980s post-punk...
feels good... now that New Order discography to sift through.
JM Romig Jun 2018
Mid-April in northeast Ohio.
She’s bitter at the cold,
for overstaying its welcome.

The snow obscures the line
between the sidewalk
and the Devil’s Strip.

There’s a long line
of determined footprints
punched into the snow behind her.

Halfway through a song and a cigarette,
the CD skips -
figures.

These library disks never play for ****.
She ***** her fist
and whacks her Walkman.

Across the street,
in a wifebeater and sweatpants,
he people-watches from his front porch.

Sipping ***** and orange juice
from a chipped mug -
World’s Greatest Dad.

In his driveway sits a ‘97 Cavalier
with a plastic wrap passenger window
he’s hoping holds up to the wind.

Will this ever stop?
he says to himself, toward the falling snow.
A passerby might think he meant the weather.

Next door, she’s been up all night
with her newborn tornado siren
fruitlessly singing lullabies off key.

Six cups of coffee
keep her from collapsing
into a pile of ***** laundry.

She thinks about herself as a kid.
Thinks about how she used to like to
walk with her eyes closed.

How she used to like the thrill of it
the uncertainty and doubt of it.
This is like that. She tells herself.

She almost believes it.
from Everything Defenestrated
RW Dennen Sep 2014
The great upside down **** WHACK
2. You're the child you have parents
3. Your living autobiography
4. Your the parent of your kids
5. Your kids are the parent of you
6. An unwelcome flowery parlor
7. tears
8. Slow decent into six feet of Hades
9. Scriptures read
10. Sprinkles of dirt; a rose on metal
11. More tears
12. Mound of flowers; mound of dirt
13. The catering
14. Remembrances
15. Hand shakes, embraces, kisses
16. Many more tears
17. The after clean-up
18. Empty building
19. More great primordial WHACKS for others
20. On going de'ja' vu
Kuzhur Wilson Apr 2014
I will tell
Surely tell
Wait until Meenakshi teacher arrives
I will surely tell

That you’d pinched me
You had hit me
You’d hidden my umbrella
Your hand had delved into my lunch box
And you picked up and ate the tender mango pickle
I’ll tell everything

That you’d peeped into my math book
And copied my homework
You’d forged my handwriting
You’d spilled violet ink
On the cover page of my science book
You’d inscribed
“I love you” in my palm
You’d scored on my back with the compass
Everything, everything

You’d called me names
Didn't you call me monkey?
I’ll tell that too
You threw the marbles
That my grandpa had bought me
Into the river
I’ll tell that too
You spoiled my new slate
That my brother had got me
That too

You had written in page fifteen
Of my double lined copy book
That Padma teacher isn’t good
I’ll tell that too

Well, nope
Not saying that
What if Meenakshi teacher relishes that
You may end up getting fewer whacks

At any cost I’ll tell
That you’d eaten
Raw mango with salt
In the classroom

Before the teacher came in
You’d written
The film song on the board
For sure I’ll tell that
Just wait and see
Teacher is going to grill you
You’ll cry
You’ll burst into tears
I’ll see that and burst into laughter

When you cry
I’ll drop some ants into your bag

Oh!
Have you already
Started to cry
Now wipe your tears
Hey, come and sit
Here
Next to me.

(If
you give me a kiss
on my cheek,
I won’t
tell anything.
What you refuse to give me that?
You don’t need to give that for free
When I grow up
I’ll return that;
Will give you double
Of what you give

Forgot to ask you something
The birth before the last
You’d borrowed
A 316 kisses
From me
When will you return them?)

I wish
to go to school with you

(Letters from inside My Stomach – A Part )
Translation : Rajasree Ramesh
SøułSurvivør Apr 2018
Mars is red, an angry shade
With knuckles like
A sickle's blade

His right hook
has might in store
He lays her on
The threshing floor

There he whacks
The chaff from wheat
She's just a dog
For him to beat...

Mars is red
Venus is blue
Black as well
A nasty hue

Her friends tell her
To up & leave
For all the beatings
She's recieved

She stays down
On knees to pray
That Mars would simply
Go away...


He will not
She's bound to lose
Red & blue...
A purple bruise.



SøułSurvivør
4/20/2018
I was once battered... ONCE.
I called the cops & that was IT for HIM.  He stalked me for 2 years before he finally gave up.  Lucky to be alive!
Giuseppe Stokes Sep 2016
So November's Come,
Hazy leaves deck the trees;
Rotten ****** wrecked the sprecht,
gotta please, gotta tease.
Cotton crusted smile
took the style while spine dumb;
Freeze as whacks churn
spurned, danced to the crime hum.
Early squeeze amidst blitzed spritz, dark romancing,
prancing picket line fum-
bled; Ambled twixt crowds antsing.
Glazed, took prior avenue
espoused culture tazed/
Fazed, ascends erased hub,
Dire mazed/Liar snubbed;
Nah crowd sourced: after-shock stancing/
Corp core flexed waves/paves vexed glancing,
Dropped four, floor to score, music cull en(c)hancing.
Enchantingly out of touch; Butchered lemming dancing.

Rupturous rapturing gospel takes all:
Sports neck line with wreck wine drenched via stall,
Appalling, talling tower looms abroad
Broad took shin dig as grin, fling; swig accord.
Objectified Subject, with verb kept in tow
flits through the fine lines, and cracks in the snow.

Noticed grave shadows, slow; ravens attest
a'Gig'a'Sibling invested in scoping, and chest;
Blooming bioluminescence scatters down/
Frothy broth fairly broiled. Scorn fawning Noun/
Habit forming, tarnished, ab(d)jectified malt-core
Verby? Nun-thank-you-muchly, Mary Mag-dolla store.

.... So November's Come,
Clubbed, stepped and altared.
Brushed away the dark hype
crowd mic check faltered.
Dastardly respite. Psyche.
Planted positively preened
nature:societal fiend
crept crudely, rudely James Deaned.
Pants 'cocked, stewed, steamed',
Megalithic mount gleaned
as posture postulates
cost you fate, spate-spoke-stake, ****-rate
vibrate denatured, protein plucked feud
fueled larger sense of afterlife tense imbued.
Spotted shortly crossèd portly,
tautly tossed courtly cost,
'nawt'ly flossed' possed thoughtly;
Sportly Mossed Kate washed
scene brimmed/beamed/loved
'Leaned' fussed. Trussed team musk/
Stock puppet power-aid, raid's pretty husk.
****** sidekicks show side slicks, stuck chiming bitty.
Flickering afterdark lark glistens, gritty-city-fitty.
Bought distorted Faster Mark, Narc acrossed shark,
passed past the Rasta Park, embarked'n'stashed arc.

Dark the dreams that crept to the fallen gate/
dazzled gems and hellish rhinestones irk fate.
Grated joy, plated coyly, then doff broke;      
spoke symphony of fattened tire/wire frame joke;
Took twisted lyre, choir, to tame my europa,
maybz next time a better luck'n'fly my eloper,
clucky chickens plucked/fussed/cussed, a fitting trend,
Spare parts missing neural heart; a plasticated end.
bleh Oct 2016
there's a wasp nest in the roof tiles
when it rains they all drown and get angry and stab you to death

the school up the road
   kid with the big cardboard
whacks the ground
envy of class
   ******* mother dripping
croissant ears and belgium tails

no this, isn't where i -

  no matter
if i pass through myself i'll get to you
god i'm pathetic
pathetic pathet-
Ah,
good. Here we are
back again

yes, this warm embrace
feels like styrofoam
in winter breeze
crawled on by the ants

your plaintive smile of
split wood
rusted tin and copper green
damp coffee beans and barley mold
tumbled **** and dry retch

light a candle in a puddle
watch it fizzle and melt

beneath the pavement flecks
you once dreamed of caverns
of solitude and lime
biscuits and frozen pizza

distance is always warmer in memory

now
                 we're just

rows of slates stitched break and crack cross hatched
the greased snide of new age atheist
scrambled eggs of surplus tongues
muzzled **** of an aphasiac dynasty

weightless

yesterday i read an essay on post-colonialism
and then watched some ****
of a japanese woman ******* on some african man's feet
he looked mostly scared
    somewhat confused

its all so
  unbearably inundated in discourse

i tend to prefer sleep these days
i guess that's getting old

but there's always a guilty disgust
in knowing you're the intended audience


white man is a gaze
reified in disappearance
immortalized by impotence

a genocidal roar
of muffled incompetence
minions was a real **** movie
Kelly Rose Sep 2014
Love just is
but....

Self hatred is taught
It is all that she
has ever known
Leaving her
uncomfortable when love
comes her way
With Machete in hand
She whacks those choking weeds
Come hell or high water
She will find
her way
to
That path that leads to Love
9/10/2014
Lawrence Hall Apr 2017
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

If you send me kind words, let me thank you now, because trying to reply is often futile under the new regime.

Whack-a-Cabinet Secretary

The New Children’s Game for Old Children

One pops up; someone whacks him down
Two more pop up; we can only frown
After the third, we take the hint:
We have no stable government
Breeze-Mist Oct 2017
There's a memory of a long time ago
Or was it a dream? How could I know
It's not as if I could ask you as to wether it's true
As if there were anything asking could do
But than I think of the shouting and it seems
Real enough to run from, to want to cry or scream

Was it really a laptop, or was it a plate
That was thrown against the wall, irate
Or maybe the whole thing never really happened
Maybe I misheard something, I was mistaken
Besides, it was nine years ago, I was too young
To even really realize what was going on
But even back then, I knew I was frightened
When I heard a crash before the fight ended

And some days I wonder if I would feel this way
If it was the man doing this to the woman one day
You're against abuse, and try to call out wife beaters
But you applaud a girl who whacks a guy when he cheats her
And I wonder why, if you say you care
Why you sometimes say things that make me wish I weren't there

And I wonder why you don't respect my space
Walking up to my form like you own the place
And I know you mean well, but could you stop
Sneaking up and hugging me in a way I'd rather not
I know you have good intentions, but why can't you see
That there's a reason I'm starting to get a little jumpy

But these are the things I'll never ask
Because I'm to spineless to find out at last
So here I sit, writing an interwebs litany
With a secret profile on a site you'll never see
Jabbering Ignominious Hypocrite Gabbles - against the backdrop of gross unbridled viscous wracking zealotry bruiting extinguishing inherent national trust...  

Poetic Introduction:

I wax and wane rhapsodic
plus prosaically politic
aware severe erosion
of American democracy
over run by narcissistic
over stuffed ego-freezer,
whose vocabulary
extremely laconic
foe swash buckling braggadocio
commander in chief
not gun shy
to brandish (hugely
bully like) jingoistic
tirade unleashing horrific
banshees more'n 10, 000
foo fighting maniacs
(nemesis of liberty) fatalistic
to sanctity of
United States democracy
throw back at him bigly,
his woeful treachery,
quasi xenophobic, tragic,
and lunatic bred anarchy!

Each ticking second of every single day, the pensive, doughy face execrably debased “dunderhead” criminal commander in chief (trumpeting acrimonious, calumnious, egregious...yakking), while donned in gay apparel) trumpeting lunatic, jingoistic, ideology imbues heretic catalysts.

Thou art unduly seething, quaking, and oozing mercurial kindling ideological glommed ethos of mine. These atrocious blaspheming, castigating, denigrating, excoriating, fulminating gross humiliations imply jerkiness, kookiness, lunacy.

No! Not for one more term can this acidulous, indecorous Mandates need outspoken politicians quickly removing this utterly vile wicked Xerses.

Thus spoke Zarathustra (without blandishment) to me, a gluten and monosodiumglutinate free, NON-GMO non-alarmist, nonestablishmentarian, nor ham aye a nihilist.

Yukon just **** sitter me a copacetic, energetic, ironic language lover (English is ma lingua franca late mother tongue), who waxes poetic, but tall so one babbling, creaking, and dabbling dis arming marine naval (gazing) scrivener expressing stance toward thee present lord save us (Te Deum) included despite admitting to espouse atheistic tendencies.

This “FAKE” president aces at blabbing acerbic, caustic, empathetic, fatalistic hoary jabbering mishmash!

I aim to affect a chain reaction while this paunchy dumpling remains in office, whereat he flirts, debases, colludes, with amoral, diabolical, execrable horrible ingrates.

His see-through debonair, imposter nuanced orbit poseur quite revealing sans, (inviting guests, sans agents provocateurs to join his all-star ensemble of mailer daemons, lampoon kickstarting imps of the pervert further underscores this delusional faux equalitarian huckster as an unqualified commander in chief!

A flourishing gesticulation (hocus – pocus) kindles, flickered and evinces braggadocio. This pantomime a charade, facade, inlaid limp odiousness. Via compounding gall, he makes official indiscriminate ******* legislation all the exempting himself and kin.

Smug slinking, sneering, sporting antics attempt to cocoon diabolical, horrible laws (automatically abrogating, evading, flaunting every decree, whereat he affixes his signature). This absolute zero with dangerous liaisons significantly, knowingly, and increasingly shortens the metaphorical burning fuse.

He sets the figurative and literal global shaky sphere stage setting off a global conflagration. If privy with box office seat, you will rub shoulders with guest appearances sans, worldwide webbed sheep in wool clothing faux allies.

These Janus faced grungy beastie boys, cagily, edgily cadge facile self-possessing knack to acquire fruitful knick knacks (paddy whacks give their dog a bone), which forsaken good and plenty treats blithely, blindly, blandly exchanged at the emotional, financial, and spiritual expense of American taxpayers.

This collusion to fiddle (while Rome burns), gamble and mollycoddle with turncoats actually, demonstrably, generously favors these chameleon nemeses.

Poetic Polemic Bookends this rant:

Though poor (financially),
this figurative anchorite
doth no longer
wanna feel powerless
against bicameral blight
thus approaching 2020 election...
uneasily doth excite.
Ken Pepiton Mar 2019
all a teacher can do is learn and live,
see.
Situationical, long ago, tradition
Teachers tell stories,

with force. Whacks and such.

The reason, once, one time,
the ruler to the knucks
was to loosen a stuck clutch o'

clingers to the edge, who knew what
could be known,
who were
witnesses,taught to see

perceiving sub til ity plowing furrows

through explosions of new math,
new bombs, new moms,

new wars for no reasons, the edge
clinger fingers

let go, just before

a teacher who
they knew learned,
as he lived,
to hear whos
beyond the bubble's edge.

slip

yet no sense

    {clique}
Filter Heinlein through Vonnegut,
squeeze the dregs,

sort each bubble by whos heard.

--Suess, a gain, point ought ever one,

heare that? That is an echo. A bubble pop echo,
in the halls of all imagined worlds

redeemed by children seeing the meaning

wave form on the GB scale storys are sung to.
Waiting is, on the BE scale

the ceiling leaks in the poet's prison,
but his window faces west,
so he is pleased to watch
the wind he claimed

bring rain. And so it goes.
How long do stories live these days?,

Asked the peacemaker, in the distance.
Fun, peacemeeker fun. And a fine OG kush.
Randy Johnson Oct 2019
Some agree with what my brother did but others don't understand.
Something bad happened and he decided to cut off his right hand.
It all started when a boy played truth or dare with our stupid nephew.
When my brother walked outside on his porch, he found Blu-rays of the new Doctor Who.
He picked up the Blu-rays to throw it in the trash but it had been covered with Gorilla Glue.
When he saw that it was stuck to his hand, he started screaming and he knew what he had to do.
His doctor examined him and said the Blu-rays were stuck to his hand permanently.
It could never be unglued and my poor brother knew what he had to do immediately.
He knew if he carried around those Blu-rays, people would think that he likes the new Doctor Who TV Show.
He couldn't let people think such a terrible thing and he decided then and there that his hand had to go.
He couldn't afford surgery to have it amputated so he used an axe.
He closed his eyes and it was severed after he gave it two whacks.
Our nephew owned up to being the one who pulled the prank.
It wasn't a nice thing to do and the brat sure wasn't thanked.
Our sister is mad because our brother and I got revenge against her son.
When we were through with our nephew, people would point and make fun.
We posted a picture on Instagram of our nephew putting rolled up socks in his underwear.
He had a nervous breakdown because the humiliation was too much for him to bear.
When my brother chopped off his hand, some people said it was a stupid thing to do.
But it was worth it to prevent people from thinking that he likes the new Doctor Who.
sandra wyllie Nov 2018
The Universe **** on Me

today. It didn’t ask if I was ready
for it. It must not have known what I was
going through. It just laid a massive dump
on my head and slithered away, smiling duplicitously

as a snake. It didn’t pick me because I was pretty
down. It wouldn’t have cared. It just picked me randomly,
out of thin air. Why couldn’t it have picked the *****
across the street, the man that  whacks off in front of

little boys,  rapists and thieves? It treated us all equal. It
didn’t matter our history or future, or what we
brought to this world or not. OK, I said, and got
a shovel. I cleared a path off, enough for me to walk
away. Enough **** for one day!
Ivan Brooks Sr Feb 2018
Today I had a premonition about something
It was about the kinds of poems I keep writing.
I know most poets don't deem them fit
And not every one of them will be a hit.
I know most people will think it whacks
And will boldly write a comment like *****!
And by the same token tell you '' just kidding''
We all know this is direct intellectual bullying!
And every poet sits here and do absolutely nothing.
How can you live without any remorse of shame?
Maybe people do it to silence the poet in me,
Maybe they do it to ease the pains in themselves
Or to find identity in their miserable lives.
As for me, you just wasting your precious time
You really need to up your bully game.
For me, I certainly will not be defeated
Neither will I ever be intimidated,
By any pathetic, mean and sad individual
Masquerading as a poet or intellectual,
Using Hello Poetry as a cocoon
To scar people's emotions like in the bully room.
You know who you are
And I don't care.
For I'm here to stay
And will write any day!

IBPoetry
2/8/2018
Some people do things to hurt others.We all know they are just sad individuals.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
oh, believe me jimmy
                                     (the scoot),
they're afraid of me...

because what could
possibly be more
intimidating
  than a niqab
if not a "madman"
twirling an umbrella,
sitting on a windowsill
just so he can
smoke a cigarette
           without
it getting soaked?

who the **** needs
goth make-up?
all it takes is the right
hour, the right weather
and a coursosel...

**** yeah! another
google hack!
  
    http://tinyurl.com/yasd9onk...

i swear i could do these
with my eyes closed...

i only love spelling mistakes
if they continue
and morph into google whacks...
e.g. coursosel...

in this instance?
  an umbrella carousel...
i'm getting dizzy...
   i finished my ciggie
    and i'm staring
into a fourth dimension...

funny that, opening an umbrella
while stretching yourself
out of the window...

they really start bewildering
themselves
when you have a chance
     to entertain
yourself:
  i.e. make yourself laugh,
i found that when you reach
this tier of "awareness"
   people are curious
      as if regarding
dorian gray...
  
         but it's not about
      keeping good looks
and youth...
   it's more about:
   how does he
       manage to laugh,
and at the same time:
keep no company?

    was stand-up comedy
  supposed to have
an "egalitarian"
purpose within
the framework of
  other trades?
           is there
       a cost-effectiveness
in the comic
          "job" description?
            plumber
        beneath the comic?
unless he does puppeteer
antics akin to lee evans...

they start to fear you
when they find you,
sheltering yourself under
an umbrella,
   peering out the window
perched on a windowsill,
rotating the umbrella
   at the same speed
as a moth flapping its wings
becoming dizzy...
laughing to / at yourself
in your own company...
       saying:
i'm only shaking off
the raindrops
               off the mushroom...

              people really have
forgotten to laugh,
i blame canned laughter
      in t.v. shows...
              i blame
      a loss of appreciation
for ridicule as a form
of humour...
                
     people are becoming more
demented day in, day out,
esp. in old age...
    since they've forgotten
how to be ridiculous when young...
i hate liars,
        but i'd pick
a ****** comic than a liar
to be friends with... count:
either monday, tuesday all the
way through to sunday...

still, that umbrella "pirouette"...
  dizzy dizzy dizzy...
ah... a spelling mistake that revealed
a google hack... ha... ha ha!

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