Tuesday, October 24, 2017

It is OK to be wrong even if you think you're right...vice a versa.

I know that I am right when left or so I thought.

Sooo when a former lefty louie lousy teamed up
with a rigged and rowdy right winged loosey...

well, I was amused and flummoxed. Goosey.

Diarrhea poetry is the bomb, dirty diatribes are the song.

Smoke a bong and I could be wrong... Wen dynasty?

What went wrong? Everything. Kaboom as a victory song.

But out of the mayhem, and out of a date anthem, about what
people care for as what once was a therefore...

We can't go on in polarity, when the stakes are high for
our progeny... but if we can all agree that the current
apogee is an old and dying apology... to a god no longer
in our linear space except as the wurst of a he-man, not human.

I'm not laughing, as I heard a man that spoke in the voice of a human.

There is hope in dissent, the race is too important to be spent.

I acquiesce without repent. I have hope without consent.

Well met... we meet and start anew. I see the me who resides in you.
A-hem and A-choo. I think again what I thought I knew. Who knew?

I don't, but I feel that I do. (there is no boo-hoo).

It's a circle of life, and the spiral is true.


Wednesday, September 13, 2017

Yappi issues are not sport

So, dude, you egotistical genius of sport,
mmmnnn, yea you're fucked. You lied an
cheated to the little people that you hate,
and now you are a dead giant beached.

Gabby squealed... (yappi if you're indigenous).

There is nowhere to run and hide, the caverns
are empty and champagne is nowhere to be found.
Your fancy yacht has run aground. Dratzo, ratzo.

So, have you thought about living amongst the riff-raff?
We have ropes hanging from our windows, slanted in tandem.
Oh, don't you love a good noose... crazy goose. Soggy
bottom boys are sleepy in the galleys, Mayhem is mayday
with no man at the helm. What? you gonna cry now?
Sail on sailor... Celon is waiting for the Sri Lanka version.

That your mama should slap you coward of The Sport.
Be a good sport... no, be a good egg. Fragile. Question,
Challenge, and Wonder... the ropes are slanted outside my
vision, two in tandem... I could pull you down easily.

I'd rather smirk and watch... as you assess the window damage
you created. You know me... i'll not be a sore loser. Dude, my
yap will not cease. Your ropes are a long lost metaphor of
the sinking ship. Man overboard... mer-people gaze as the
innocent dance and sing, hitching a ride on the cloud passing by.

The meek will inherit the earth, the worms will dig deep
in their unearthly mirth. Life carries on for life's little sport.

Yappi's throw words like sand in the face of life's meaning...
a rope thrower ship that's a sinking disgrace. Dis-Cern,
yea it's bleeding all over the place. God-spark is Unity
all over your face. Like a good egg. Not easily erased.

I rest my yap issued case.

Thursday, September 7, 2017

A strong woman is not a wimpy man

...here comes Irma, hot off the press. packing a mean and mighty wind
185, can you give me a 185, yes, devastating and heading for the mainline,
like a hot load of junk.

she's a doozy before she ever got started, drying up the water supplies, and ply wood and things of the trade... for gruff men who know how to secure the
borders of this land ... Merica, sounds foreign and feminine, but whatever dude.

She's coming like the devastation that is the female ilk... and she's the enemy.
Isis, and hurricanes and wimpy men hurrihims... like andrew, and harvey. Member floyd? not manly enough. Not a mention.

Now Irene I remember,  as the tennis courts became my water front Venice
thanks to a river named Raritan. And Sandy, wow, what a blowout... the winds were as evil as a crazy bat blowing a cigar from hell. There was praying for the
sport of that one. The boardwalk was ruined... but hey, we still got Ice Capades in Jersey.

No, those were true rages and here she comes again. I am watching the warriors and the hype, and weary weather girl who has seen enough and will not comply. The men are bringing it home, like a sporting event. Water in bottles everywhere, but  not a drop to drink on grocery shelves for the riff raff. Moms are pissed. We see the manipulation. Not on our watch soldier... she would slap her own son
for such a perversion of justice. Yea, she would.

Irmageddon is coming all ye of little faith, God is pissed off again and having
another tantrum. Please ladies, stifle your giggles, it's not funny. No it's not.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Our children are watching, and it really isn't nice to try and fool Mother Nature. Fool. Take off your wimple... you look ridiculous poser man.

Wednesday, August 30, 2017

How you know when you're dying

There is a quiet realization that you have come for a purpose,
and missed the mark... so tragically that others have stolen
all your  dreams and have amassed a fortune in doing so.
What can be worse than dying in shame. Jesus Christ...

I would never call your name in vain.

There is a constant rolling of pebbles in the ceiling, and buzzing
in the ears, pain in the middle of the back like a stabbing, brought
to a mild hurt by love hands caressing. Grateful but it grates on
a mind set to madness.  I will never fit in, in a world where might
is right and the victor wins at all cost cuz it's just sport. No retort.

Silence is a retreat to things that cannot be said, said the lamb gone
to slaughter. The greatest love is not a man to a women... it's a women to a...

you know... and if you don't

the world will not make sense to you anymore.

Nevermore, said the raven. His blackness will not shut us up or out.

It will take a tough man to accept a mother's world.

Don't throw pearls to swine, war to the loving is still a crime.

Peace is never won. Lightheartedness is never wrong. Giggles.

I came, I saw, I lived and I loved. I die when i will not be understood.

There is no animosity deep in the wood. A Fairy tale... misunderstood.

Monday, August 28, 2017


ALL CAPS?! MERCY ME... let's take this down a peg.
Cleansing breath ... like a yoga mantra for the young
and indoctrinated. A maat, a mat, like a door mat or a
church mouse... little, scared, and willing to snatch crumbs
for sport and sustenance. A small life... getting by. Waiting for
the sleep where there is permission to dream, as a renegade.

Here we are, needs an escape hatch for the truth is too great
a burden to bear, sayeth the march of a crazy hare. So a tea
party was in order, eh? lip service and a milk mustache, life is hard
 so get a helmut... so the germans would have you believe.

Why can I quote TV and ad jingles better than hissstory. Who's story?

I heard the news of horror, but child heart of mine saw the bovine
quietly walking through the floods to higher ground. So silent, so
beautiful. Is there really any words that can make a horror right?

A silent walk of intuition to seek higher ground from the rising danger of flood waters needs no words. A beautiful testament that a child's heart
can fully understand. I bow to the bovine, in the back garden. Keep
moving forward... or drown in the pasture.

A lesson to stake what could not be herd or cowed. Mu knows water.

Sunday, August 27, 2017

Crooked style

The columns were carved with straight lines, and after the Dorrit, hiccupp,
I mean Doric, there were some curvy wavy leaves on high. Groovy and outrageous were those architects, or archetypes. Chez chic, or guevara, or whatever. Valley of the jolly green... Dolly. Move on wheels.

There was a dragon in the belly of a giant whale, hiccup... in the clouds.

I saw it like the rainbows that offer high hope to the hopeless who will look up but pray down where the humans dwell. in the darkness of a wishing well.

The price is always right to the highest bidder, you know... the one with with biggest cajones. Go figure and hide in the hedges and whimp whisper to the bully... bombastic plastic of the age of the war machine, hiccupp, I mean the washing machine to whitewash a wormwood world. Cern, we're looking at you...lol. Go find god, there is an infinite iteration of his Almighty Intent... Hiccup.

I live here and i search for answers amongst the silent sadness,
painting the sky with imagination to pique intuition. All logic has been
put in its place. robots safe in tacky, i mean techkki schemes, hiccup... techno
streams. life is a knot frayed under seems. So I sew, saw, sow. See?

Wanderers don't seek a straight and narrow path... art is a slippery slope to climb or fall. go ask a artist. there are no straight answers.

 "I'm down with that, said a crooked smile... from a lonesome learning crocodile.

The crocus is a light bulb flower... aha in the spring is its light-hearted power.


Wednesday, August 2, 2017

Chirping of the Raptor

i walk alone in nature, amongst the sorry of the sad.

humans glorious and intimidated by the cowardly bad.

as the ignominious leader would say, "sad".

The raptor chirps a scurrilous tune, always at the behest
of a surreptitious gloom. (an awakened thought by a waif
of the moon). Stone cold buffoon. Monsoon... said the rune.

The raptor raps his song to weaken his prey.
Talons are not cute, time is in disarray,
though there is much to weep for, i hold sentimental
reasons to keep those thoughts at bay.

Screeching silently at raptors is my night of the day,

they sound so pathetic

the raptor,

and the rapture of them

blew me far and fast away.

Oh happy day.