"yuppies" poems
West reality made so
that people forced to consume
whatever material or unmaterial goods
here any protest is legalised
in form of demo
which is necessary surround by police
northeless there are people exist who are illegal
beside of refugees from east lands
there also socalled insane people
who are locked in closed loony bin
or hunted like amok
untill they really get insane
if you take separately each after other
their fate and observe it precise
you will find there all the evil of
patriarchal repression
what is the consequence of capitalism
patriarchal repression
which is so masterfully comuflaged in west
but since the victims, the renegades live on rand of society
no one ever take their lifes and deaths under lenses
just example:
feminists dont fight for the rights of the debased woman
in their neigbourhood
but just speculate about arbitrageness in Iran
not ever able to change something in afar lands
they simply ignore evil which happens beside them
every day, every night
there is pseudo-publicity in capitalism
since those who rebel against
become mostly so oppressed
that they never ever get any chance to
speak out loud
and revenge!
While those anarchists and punks
who squats in city and towns
will never give political asylum
to the one who's life circumtances
penetrate to be betrayed by friends
living on the streets and parks
and hunted by psychiatry
during anarchists and punks are not
real activists of underground
but just kind of subculture
which live quite comfortably in capitalism
it just funky to be anarchist or punk
and nobody knows how they will act
in critical situation
I lost my believe on socalled leftists
in fact they are same equal part of society
like bankers or yuppies
with a difference that they
pretend they still had some ideals!
known to many
believed by the few as
the truth
Accordingly my individual struggle their claim
is nothing as fallacy
whom believe? Whom with resist in action?
Where hides real iconoclasts?
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 6:04 AM UTC
tired, tired of being alive. tired of breathing disgusting air and the lies the world spews forth from its idiotic bowels. tired of picking up trash and squeezing through the crowds of happy-go lucky yuppies and their screaming chocolate covered children. tired of seeing you every ******* Sunday. tired of shedding tears for constantly thinking about someone who doesn't think of me anymore. tired of the realization that having thoughts means nothing and they are but silent deceivers of what could happen only in my deepest heart wrenching dreams.
just plain tired.
i guess it's time to do as the doctor ordered and pop another klonopin.
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 6:26 AM UTC
Scholar gypsies are wandering as nomads
Like the yuppies of 1960s with guitars....
Singing as romantic heroes and heroines!
Men and women are living in singles......
With children too fostering like the birds
Learning about life seeing various cultures!
Gypsy life is a free life they feel in world
Having education but loving freedom more
To live independent life ever till the end...!
What a life this scholar gypsy life to live
Sans a family as even the animals like
Elephants and lions too like to live in forest!
Independence is needed to stand alone in life;
But can one live a complete life sans culture?
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC
Back by popular demand
being a ***** persisted.
I'm sick of yuppies in BMWs
that glitter the highway like cheap tinsel
and ruin my view of sunset on Sunset Blvd.
On top of that,
gift cards mixed up with chopped up plastic credit
rattle at the insides of my plump little belly,
and I don’t think its going anywhere.
*Although, I'm getting nauseous,
I wont ***** until the fat lady sings.
And if that's not long enough for you then,
I'll just see you in hell.*
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
The yuppies are by the
Cotto Café, asking those
not to call them hipsters.
An auburn feminist drinks
Mexican blend, black, while
reading Margaret Atwood.
I gave up smoking, I say,
about a month ago.
No one really listens, which
I sometimes find comforting.
After I walk my isolation off,
I stumble into a Taco Bell;
one of those hybrids: this time
KFC. The cashier is curly in the
way that broken legs are curly.
Her eyes are green but I dare
not objectify her, I hope I don't
say out loud, because I fear
nothing more than being
patronizing.
Construction loudly stutters
and cars squeak and shush.
On this griddle of a sidewalk,
I feel alone. Vehicles vroom
while I stand silent, a monument
to my generation.
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 9:56 PM UTC
I know your wishing to do the things you once were itching.
Some words of wisdom would help you body stop the itching.
This chair of lies declines, your track of life.
Overflows the light, and withstanding might.
Stepping stones they broke into small sheets of ice.
Drenched and cold the frost bite will take your life.
Magic making the fancy wound is the tool for taking.
Your head is flaking mistakes that you had started making.
(You cry)
Princess princess please don't take away my wound.
You stupid full ill drowned you in a 6 foot pound.
And I'll count the bubbles as they begin to surface.
With my endurance Insurgence they won't need insurance.
So take a minute to sit down and grab some courage.
Your gonna need it the fenex is coming out of storage.
To burn to ash the cowards and all the Allen Howard's
Copenhagen I ran again in a grizzly pouch.
It was plenty so many who was the one keeping count.
Distinguished persons your yuppies just using daddy's checks
Your dicusting just buying things with no intent.
Plant water a Yankee Candle is a perfect date
Perfect smile pretty eyes is a perfect trait.. Wait
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
So I’m sitting in this dark room, smoking cigarette after cigarette after cigarette. Staring at the pile of mail on the table. Left behind junkmail, junk that I have to answer, his junk. But then again I am wearing his clothes, his shoes, Christ, This might even be his bathrobe. Moved in on another mans turf, or am I just keeping the seat warm? So he can go sow his oats, sleep with some secretary or ****** do fat lines of whatever, never having to check in while checking out . I remember I think , what that used to be like, to be free of things, things like commitment, things like meeting your obnoxious co workers at the bar, And not the cool downtown bar with its dim light, backbooths and jukebox full of blues, The uptown one with the yuppies and their bluetooths and never ending vain chatter. Things like love, things like forgetting that your favorite color is yellow, not mustard yellow but bright ******* canary yellow. The yellow that reminds me of bathroom stalls and jailhouse walls, and all those, late late night trips to the E.R.. Things like time , Remember that time when You said “lets take it slow “ Then the next morning you wrote I love you on the mirror in Red lipstick. Should have been a stop sign, a flag ,god **** warning, right there. Things like Freedom, The freedom to fly away, To escape, to set sail. To be free like that B.M.W. on the autobahn, in the commercial, aimed at the friends, with the Bluetooth surrounded by yellow walls that sing those blues, To be free But then who would be wearing our clothes ,our shoes ,Christ, even our bathrobe, Hell who would even answer the mail.
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
I attract artsy people! 78%
Those free spirited artists with great imaginations find you interesting. They are usually interesting themselves, so its not a bad thing, but they CAN be a bit wifty and choose odd goals. If you like life to always be a bit 'different' from the norm, but not too extreme in any one direction, these are the people for you. If you seek logical decision making skills and good money management, you may want to change something in the way you appear. Artsy people are fun for adventure and exploring, so, have fun! (smoking **** helps too)
58% You attract geeks! (<My comment: Some are cute tbh)
54% You attract Yuppies! (<My comment: ''Young urban professional" or "young upwardly-mobile professional.'' Not bad)
54% You attract models! (<My comment: They're fine)
46% You attract unstable people! (<My comment: To true. It never fails)
14% You attract rednecks! (<My comment: I'm black! Aren't rednecks racist?)
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 10:01 PM UTC
The late hours fluorescent light flicker
From the moon to the neon red lights
The scars of our fathers written on our thighs
Scared to be seen in the imminent daylight
Freelance extortionists and racketeering blacklist
Black market, black cats, capitalizing on rats
The rat race is being run by yuppies in ties
With lies and cries of spies in in the skies
Confusing their faces with ones that I like
Indecisive for lack of a vice at the peak
I scrape together letters from the people I fight
Where notes are written about the upcoming week
The world's on fire and I hold it trembling
My fingers are burning and my shoulders broken
I buckle but seconds before I go down
The world breaks open upon the cold ground
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
Tick tock went the clock,
echoing
through monastery halls,
synchronizing the actions of men,
building up modernity’s walls.
Creatively destructive,
eternal
yet fleeting,
modernity was paradoxical,
according to the Harvey reading.
Art had expanded,
abstraction arises,
and Sigmund loves his mom,
more than anyone realizes.
Our friends the id,
the ego and its super,
tell us who we are,
Freud has the world in a stupor.
A catch-22 for dear Pablo,
who will sleep with a ****
but is terrified of syphilis,
as is seen in his art.
There was power and truth,
and Foucault says we’re repressive,
but suddenly things change,
Postmodernity becomes quite impressive.
PoMo cares not for beauty,
or what pleases the public eye.
It’s style for style’s sake,
in the buildings stretching toward the sky.
Uma dances with John,
a young boy finds a severed ear,
Joaquin loves his OS,
PoMo film is, well,
Queer.
Yuppies love pastiche,
their lofts were once a workplace,
they’ve coated them with chrome,
they’ve gentrified the space.
Unlimited breadsticks
have soiled the very Italian name,
Baudrillard says it’s simulacrum,
there is no truth, it’s all the same.
We traipse through this
postmodern world,
not knowing postmodernity
is where we are.
We wear workboots to fashion shows,
we worship that reality star.
We think we’re special snowflakes,
and skinny jeans make us cool,
and media exposure’s made us cynics,
quite impossible to fool.
What we don’t realize is that
we are not our own,
we are pseudo individuals,
through PoMo we have grown.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
I like to drink in taverns
Where you get beers and a shot
Where the glasses all are *****
And the women all are hot
Where there's blood stains on the dance floor
From a brawl the night before
And you know there'll be some more there
Before they close the doors at four
Line Dancin' Badonkadonks
or Boot Scootin' Prima Donnas
Are never on our floor
There's none of them among us
The good ol' Texas two step
Is all you'll find round here
With both dancers smokin' smokes
and both holding a beer
We're not a bar for yuppies
We're a bar your dad would go
We're a bar with old time music
We're a bar you all should know
We're a bar with old time values
We're a bar with out a name
We're your bar son, your bar
We're your bar son, your bar
Umbrella drinks and blue lagoons
They can keep them in the city
For any guy who drinks that stuff
Well...to me...he's too **** pretty
A shot of Beam, a glass of draft
Waylon on the old juke box
Another shot, a few more beer
And this place really rocks
We don't serve drinks you can't pronounce
Or that take too long to pour
We like our music really loud
Hell...that's what country's for
You don't come here to sit and talk
You come to have a party
So, barkeep...one more time around
And lets start drinking hearty
We're not a bar for yuppies
We're a bar your dad would go
We're a bar with old time music
We're a bar you all should know
We're a bar with old time values
We're a bar with out a name
We're your bar son, your bar
We're your bar son, your bar
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
I'm tired of relentlessly digging up my own guts.
Insides wrenching until I feel something close to empty.
Empty.
Sometimes empty seems so loud.
To escape the confines of my hollow silence,
I plead with my whirlwinds to redirect my madness.
Madness strung hand in hand with the outlawed 40,
and over rowdy yuppies that are too old to illegally sketch their rebellious spirits on ads that taunt them with their own insufficiency.
The sounds of smashing glass invite me to **** up my blackness into the midnight hours.
The smell of defacement summons me to heave my loneliness onto someone else's tangible reality.
But even in the electrifying twilight, I can't help but feel tired of digging up my own guts.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
frankly the frankincense is funky
and the sweet jasmine burns my nostrils
jamaican vanilla is ungodly overpowering
and the desert sage smells like an ***
mountain violet makes me violently ill
and aspen rose blows
give me a stick of Nag Champa any day –
green tea and cinnamon don’t have any weight
while sunset on the lilly is far too heavy
my mind can’t reconcile mint
and fruity candy flavors are for children of yuppies
I can’t stand being inundated with gardenias
and I don’t even eat fresh baked bread,
no, just give me a stick of Nag Champa –
moonlight in Senora is not a smell
morning dew on the Rockies is faint at best
I am pretty sure patchouli is **** water and cat ***
amber is petrified tree sap
and who wants to sniff dragon’s blood
nah, just give me a stick of Nag Champa –
I knew an egyptian once, and his musk stunk
and voodoo is a cultish religion
harmony should not even be on a shelf
lavender citronella might slow mosquitos,
but should we be breathing in pesticides?
I will never go ‘round a mulberry bush
and my history with ****** keeps me from trying
an ***** scent…
I would rather a nice stick of Nag Chanmpa
anytime –
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 1:23 PM UTC
Paleo-Yuppies at Work and Play
Fading slowly from the existential struggle,
Waving their MePhones about in protest,
They swarm to Starbuck’s for adjective coffees,
Uniformed in knee-pants and bulbous sneaks
And Chinese soccer tops with little checkmarks,
Their graduate degrees at parade rest,
And in confusion, suddenly-stalled careers
Raging against the thirty-something machine.
Not trusting anyone under forty,
They rustle their foam cups and resumes’
Instead of suspicious Democrats,
And demand promotions and Perrier.
They mourn pinstripes and leather briefcases,
And the old floppy disc of yesteryear,
And fumble their PowerPoint Presentations
Tho’ once they illuminated the world
With colored markers on glossy whiteboard.
They no longer play games on a Commodore
Or rock to neo-Carib fusion jazz;
Their Rush is Right baseball caps are now filed
In trays of antique curiosities
Beside the moldering hippie stuff shelved
In an adjunct of the Smithsonian
Where curricula vitae go to be eaten
By a computer virus named Vlad.
Now, as the sun sets on Ferris Bueller’s day
They count and verify their MeBook friends -
They did not change the world, not at all, but
The world changed anyway, and without them,
And in the end they love neither Jesus
Nor The Force; like Eve, they bow to an Apple.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 3:24 PM UTC
there are certain days on the EL
Saturday or Sunday
and the sky is orange and different clouds
and airplane streaks glowing
and all above the city
Everyone is calm
And I look blank
and I feel weeping
For the fat black woman waiting by the doors
never took a seat
her eyes are skittish
like a doe
alert for insults
she shrinks her shoulders
when people enter
or when they leave
For the older white woman across from me
pills **** alchohol something
heavy mascara eyes resigned
seeing yuppies entering at Girard
feeling the contrast
thinking what could have been
croaky voiced and thin
For children laying on seats
staring at ceilings
or plastic windows
white hair beads clacking
eyes like rocks
parent clicking at phone
yelling at phone
all pushed in an EL car
and I love them all
and together we ride
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 8:29 PM UTC
*tonight
the wailing wind
is my bane
as i look through the pane
of the hard crust of my pain
and wonder how i got to be this way
a homeless drifter on an elite highway
exhaling cigarrette smoke like a chimney
in the numbness of a freezing winter spell
selling a dozen crabby tales for a quarter
to bored yuppies aching for kicks
along the stiff terrain they must negotiate
to reach the peaks i scaled before i fell from grace
the whispering breeze tonight
is my lullaby as i struggle to sleep on my feet
and capture these rare moments of life in heat
on a day when a girl's smile is everything
and a stale slice of bread makes me a gourmet
dining on the rancid cast-aways of a third rate cafe
the twinkling stars tonight
are my peers as we help each other through the night
and a call-of-the wild song keeps playing in my heart;
it says classics are melodies woven in moments of adversity
and that i must continue to hog the fringes of society
and willy-nilly help salve the consciences of those who need someone
to throw the rich crumbs of their excesses at*
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 6:41 PM UTC
*** drugs, and rock and roll
Keep out an eye for the pesky patrol
Pack your shoes and pack a bowl
Let’s pretend once more that I have a soul
I’m always up so I never come down
Curse the yuppies taking over this town
Laugh as the ceiling becomes part of the ground
And my skin turns into a greyish brown
My mind needs no cultivation
Nothing is worth the contemplation
Phony love, pills, and radio stations
Are all I need in this civilization
Come on, join the dark side
Lose yourself and line your eyes
Empty your head and fill it with lies
Of our fabricated, forced uniqueness enterprise
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
i tore down the blanket you had stapled to the wall
when i got too cold in the middle of the night.
you had put it there to block the light from the window,
but when morning sent sunshine streaming in,
you didn't seem to mind.
i was glad to wake up to the sun
because when she kissed my eyelids
and lifted me from sleep,
i realized that,
for the first time in a long time,
i was glad to wake up.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
As I lie past midnight
I watch fireflies signal urgently
green-white in the night
"I am here
have *** with me."
And think
of human courtship cries.
On Craigslist,
tentative men want to cuddle
and yuppies want to dine
(and much else besides).
At the milonga,
passion turns to counting steps
for some
(vice versa for others).
In parties, humor reigns.
Not always well.
Coquetry is a competition
and need is a sin...
except when it isn't.
(Someone somewhere's writing a poem
to keep hidden, yet irrationally
hoping to convince.)
I don't have a point.
Only that in our most simple instinct
we are so complicated.
And that despite our disenchantment, still,
it never ends.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 1:51 AM UTC
i'm telling you now, leave.
i'll give you this one warning
before
i pull out my remington and shoot my lucky bullet straight into your heart.
too late
my boy, you're a soon to be dead man.
and me
i'm your death sentence.
make your last wish with pursed lips now.
i will do whatever i need too, to get you out of this head of mine.
i own this brain as tortured and mushy as it is
and you're merely trespassing.
you're the kid they use to shove into lockers, gone rouge.
the kid who's now well, not really a kid at all.
you hangout with the jocks these days,
go to a school full of yuppies
yeah. we all know your type and what you've turned into.
your transparent
might as well be glass.
generic.
simple.
gross.
but that lifestyle changed you into something new
and you morphed into something without a name
you were weak and
this world broke you.
that boy i fell in love with all those moons ago is dead now.
**oh, well
time to go**
so
here's the door.
and
there's your shoes..
don't cut yourself too deep on the barbed wire
when you try to fit your pores through that fence
actually do
maybe then you won't come back and will have finally learned
not to fight
fire
with
fire
and fist with fist
maybe then you won't haunt the halls in my head or the walk back home
maybe then,
maybe.
maybe some day.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
**** the day! with it's brightness and everlasting sight. i hate the sun! how it gets in your eyes and burns you even when its cold. seattle can go **** it! with all it's insufferable yuppies and endless rain. just gimme a dark place and blanket with no one else around.
for that's my idea of heaven.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 6:44 AM UTC
when i was young, all i wanted
was to work in record shop,
i involved the nick hornby *high
fidelity* bug / virus and i was all set,
but them the music game changed,
it wasn't tagged as -sony, ******
or some other record company...
but entitled self-,
see the hyphen is historical residue
awareness... but there are a few music
outlets open, the h.m.v. on oxford street,
or the one at romford,
the ****** mega-store where classical
music was caged behind soundproof glass
doors is gone... i guess the owner of the h.m.v.
is a benevolent billionaire philanthropist...
we all know richie branson sent all the artists
to hell and actors to the stratosphere
with income from tubular bells by mike oldfield...
i get that... but what you miss with instant access
is the randomness of waling into a vinyl / sly mercury
(c.d. it has to be more than compact disk,
it has to have a status of a vinyl, it can't remain
an acronym... vinyl.... and... mercury, cosine it's
silver, the end, 80's rule, or rulebook,
brick sized mobile phones, it's part of history,
you ******* tartan yuppies),
well, as divergent as a tangent can be,
all i ever wanted was to imitate the high fidelity
case presented in fictional medium by nick hornby,
never got the chance, did work experience at
Burtons (a clothes outlet), even though
i wanted to sell music... the hamster napster beat me
on the treadmill... never got the fairytale godmother
to wish-blink wish-blink magic pogo stick makeover;
but h.m.v. is still open, and went in and played
the lottery genie, i got https://goo.gl/KdB7oY:
why do you why do you why do you voodoo?
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 7:49 AM UTC
.
Pure the child
Pure as the bright high moon in the sky
And the eye of god which is also there
•
Gun fire night
Police dogs unleashed
The yuppies are here
Little sons of the CEOs
Of our hedge funds and corporations
( our true masters )
See them over there
••
And the little girl is gone
And a tired old maid
Takes her place
Doing the housework
At the yuppie mansion
•
In the new fashion of yesterday's Slave
////
///
Little girl on the fire escape
Oh look !
She's here again
.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 4:36 AM UTC