Best Chumps Poems
Somedays I feel like I'm surrounded by bars and bricks
encaged on a stage in tar that sticks.
There's an agonisingly unfamiliar reflection in the mirror,
as my eyes detect an unrecognisable inferior figure.
I can't see the stars in the sky at night,
and the sun doesn't rise to provide daylight,
creating days filled with unpleasant darkness,
feeling the hate, I will for heaven sent brightness.
It would be nice to see a flicker,
a shooting star or something quicker,
as my impaired eyes see unseeingly at paradise.
It seems these days have perfected imperfection and sadness,
as though infected but immune to antidote injections that stop madness,
and the bad feel projecting out onto these days seemingly disastrous.
So I turn to alcohol and slowly increase the dose
and down the booze until I doze,
to awake with the shakes that alcohol creates,
reaching straight for the glass of straight voddy,
drowning myself down in hate toward the junkie category.
A way I find carries me through this hell that flattens me,
clouding my mind, shielding hurt that comes with thinking clarity.
Leaving me imprisoned and unable to escape this reality.
………………………………………………………………………….
Somedays I feel like I'm surrounded by bars and bricks,
so I drink water and take vitamins to get far from my minds tricks.
My mind digs up thoughts sick and twisted
from the ditches of the mental scars life inflicted.
I see a full moon but no stars in the sky at night.
There must be a faint cloud blocking that far travelled light.
Throughout the day I stay active as it distracts the gloom
and subtracts it until a world seemingly more attractive resumes.
I shrug off the booze and don't meet the thugs
that deal drugs and rise above a life for chumps.
I start these days feeling down in the dumps,
but if I live the right way I move passed the grumps.
I feel that just the moonlight moves me to comfort,
I perk as I forget today and all that work.
Tomorrow is another first,
I think life offers more than I deserve.
The warlock said to the witch,
Man, ain't it grand living large like Oz,
being bigly Emerald City rich
The witch crowed back,
I get paid good for giving speeches
that have no policy incantation glitch
The warlock laughed hard and long,
then chortled with maniacal glee:
I like the way you got a huge fee
for selling that "Deal Me In" dirge song
The witch returned the faint praise
with a piercing scowl and a sinister smile
You got those lemmings running thru a maze,
chasing your tale that it's all rigged anyhow
The warlock started getting miffed,
and his hair began to burn with an orange glow
He mockingly said, Endora, all the polls show
that you're a walking political gift
The witch angrily retorted: What spell did you use
to make yourself become 50 feet tall
Oh yeah, that's right. Should Humpty Dumpty lose,
it won't be much of a fall off that stupid wall
The warlock let out a sigh, and said:
You know we have to spit venom
at each other on the campaign stump
That's just how it is, and has to be
The witch let out a sigh too, and said:
Since our youthful days of wearing denim,
it's something we can't tell the voting chumps
That we're really friends, you and me
Then they both hugged each other,
and said goodbye to one another privately
The witch winked at the warlock, and cackled this:
No matter who wins,
I'm offering well wishes to you
So don't forget to send me a mean tweet
The warlock nodded back at the witch, and bellowed this:
Once the results are in,
I'll reply with well wishes too
But of course, don't you forget to delete
6/8/17
Coming in faster than speed racer
Heart colder than a glacier
Trying to duplicate the flavor
Another clout chaser
With or without a pace maker
And bracers
Soft as a wafer
Yet another copy cat
You're wrong for that
Going to one up you chumps, with or without a hockey mask
For ages I've been at the bottom, reaching for the top
More than a lot
Attempting to plot and stir up the pot
Whether the temperature cold or hot
Like it or not
They'll get caught
And put on the spot
Having to pay the cost
For such foolish talk
Regarding any parameters
Days and nights may or may have not been spectacular
I guess there's always been scavengers
And bandwagoners
As well as opposition and challengers
Whether or not their ambassadors
During any date on the calendar
It was either solved or obscure, by any medical examiner
Above and below any fields with or without lavender
Government policies that toilet stink
Presidentially approved
by a potty-mouth politrician rat-fink
Give the progressive town halls
more executive bathroom stalls
Read the foul language scrawls
on the Oval Office latrine
dollar-bill green painted walls
Flush the rank noise
with a few
smelly issue tissue tweet bawls
That dung aroma gon make your nose blink,
bowel vapors
will have your thoughts vomiting in the sink
Get the voting public
standing at nausea attention
Prep the ballot masses of breathy dissension
with sound bytes
of bitter chocolate bung mint,
duly veto sent
Tell ‘em it’s their sworn patriotic duty
to greedily eat the excrement
Taste the butt-hole flavor
of nasty worded inhalation torment
Truth got swallowed whole ... intestinal sold
Filthy lucre lips
do love the ruble con savor
Condition the brownie-nose party bound chumps
to double dip the cow chips
into the raw sewage salsa with the brown lumps
Be stricken by the loose tongue,
back-end diet
of diarrhea verbose crying
A cheeky butt buffet ...
odious motives with odoriferous intent
Buy the all-you-can-eat lying,
go feast on the swirling fear excrement
Beatnik Snaps
Onomatopoeia-topia
(poet sits on a stool in the café and begins)
I could onomatopoeia all day daddio
With cool sounds in the iambic pandemics sphere out there.
“Far out man…far out… Onomatopoeia all the way” (The crowd shouts and snaps fingers in approval.)
On the down winds jive below slow jazz notes I go
Goatee Joe eats the avocado on the down and low
Basements bottomless souls measured tuna outlet cries out
The bongo boys drag on the joint while munching on the tacos loco
Cigarette smoke lays down a cloud…talks to the humming bird
Laying down some heavy tones to the bones with the smooth sax
Cats calling in the alley way cruising on the cat nip trip
Waiting on a little miss kitty called Pussy Meow
She’s a no show Joe. Man, that’s no way to go.
In the wild thick woods of words working on his behalf
The half past 1952 Johnny, goes marching home
Alone down Bluesville Avenue in a zoot suit out back Jack
Slick black jacket looking for some chicks on the beatnik clicks
Snap!
Notes raining down on the sax as some jive time chumps
Get busted by some jive time cop
Flat foot flopping down the street with some flat foot beef to pound
Drowned on pounding grounds outside
Down in the drip drop flop of day….Grazing on the rain.
“Shows over Jack and Jill.”
“It’s been a thrill.” (More finger snaps from the beatnik crowd)
Debaucheries Departure
Sooner or later we gotta blow this café gig…..Dig?
Slurred speech measured beats by bongo boys bid a retreat
In matters like this …..tipping matters….and meter matters…My meters dry man.
We tapped out our tab long ago so….One last drink!
What’s your poison my onomatopoeia friend?…He retorts; “You’re right.”
“ I don’t want to pay it either”…. but we gotta get out of this joint.
What kind of iambic pandemics beatnik friend do you think I am?
In deed briated with liquid libations I guess….. (Snaps)
We’re gonna grow you,
slop you and slow you...
Just as the moles do-
in and out of holes,
in and out of food.
What did I just brew?
Where are my hands on the shelf?
Clearing out the pastries like the little people’s elf’s-
jumping and cheering like we’ve got nobody else-
to sell,
to weld,
or baby... to be held.
I race the reaper to the melt,
let mush and mash and safety nets blast!
Get common,
get into a mass!
Why are you so fast!?
Why am I not on a mast?
Sailing this ship is why I take the past to my ass!?
**** you history!
**** you lazy lizardry!
I am misleading,
I am blistering!
What a fake **** you take to the depot truck!
Dump dump,
dump dump!
I hate that chump!
I hate fake trucks!
**** you man on top!!!!!
**** you Eminem bump!
Dizzy dazzy in a laugh,
dizzy Dazzy in a blast from ya past,
come and getta' pass,
free face flex,
and you know you’ll tap that ass.
Beattin’ in a bump,
we all take some chumps,
pull um down,
pull um down,
we gotta frown to the man who puts us down...
Whata fake stroke a’ luck to the beater of the buck!
Spit it out!
Give us hugs!
Give us hugs!
Give us hugs!
Give us hugs!
We’ve gotta love too young to bus-
transfer,
fudge,
or even lust,
we’ve gotta trust in each other when we must,
hit hard against the repeater even if we’re dust!
The steely-eyed hombre stepped down from the stage that sultry afternoon.
He looked about with disdain, then swaggered to the Cripple Creek Saloon.
His hat lay low upon his brow and swung low was a pair of 44's on his hips.
He sported fancy duds and greeted a few loafers with a snarl on his lips.
Jeremiah Slade was the feller's name and gamblin' was his trade.
He sauntered up to the bar and stunned the bartend by orderin' a lemonade!
Then he strolled to a table in the back of the room with his back to the wall.
(This was his usual modus operandi just in case there was a free-fer-all!)
He announced, "Boy's, my name's Jeremiah Slade and gamblin' is my game;
Join me and ante up fer a round of poker, but, boys let's keep it tame!"
Three chumps took the bait and scurried fer Jeremiah's table to grab a chair!
He let the dudes win a game or so to assure that things were fair and square.
Now, unknown to the three suckers, Slade was a professional gyp!
The scoundrel was invited to leave umpteen towns west of the Mississip!
Slade had a few tricks up a sleeve that he soon entered into play.
Mysteriously, numerous aces appeared in his draws and were on display!
The trio got wise to his game and jammed three rods in Jeremiah's face!
He was quickly consigned to eternity fer playin' too many an ace!
Jeremiah was conveyed out of town, that no-good cunnin' knave,
And now lies at the foot of Mount Pisgah a-molderin' in his grave!
you gotta join in the struggle for the ill-gotten gains
of the movers and the shakers on the streets Wall and Main
we will take what we are due like the Sioux we'll count coup
on the heads of the masters and their double-talkin pastors
on the bankers and their chumps and the phonies on the stumps
on the bosses in their offas and the supers in the sweats
no more settlin for the scraps at the foot of the table
no more truck-wide income gaps ablin biddies to wear sable
at the time that we have won they will know that they are done
and we'll be sittin pretty like Scarface own the city
and the ones who called us chums they'll be fightin for our crumbs
wonderin how the heck that happened while they're suckin on their thumbs
(chorus)
first restitution
then redistribution
sweet retribution
if we don't stick together like those birds of a feather
we will never take our place on the seat of the throne
where who you want you can punish and the rest throw a bone
A decade of growth and decadent boom
People didn't mention the debt elephant in the room
It was the charge of the bull
Many pockets were full
The search for a higher return was the motivational pull.
But whilst stocks and shares rocked and flared
Investors held their breath in shock and fear
They seemed to forget that markets go up and markets go down
Because as long as uncertainty shows up, the cycle goes round
But to be fair the times were good, and returns seemed sure
The earnings of many corporations, continued to soar
The zeitgeist was the age of prosperity, profit and greed
It wasn't the time to question sustainability or question the need
Many financial advisers advised that it was the right way to go
"You should take advantage now, while all these rates of interest are low"
So many consumers took out mortgages, that they just couldn't afford
Including the 'sub prime', with bad credit, and of course the poor
But let's not forget, that the consumer went along, and played ball
Creatures of habit responding to the mating call, that beckoned us all
Deposits levels came down, loan-to-value went up
House prices bubbled and brimmed and we all drank from the cup.
Now the banks merged all of these mortgages together in lumps
Sold them as safe bets to investors, who were taken for chumps
Then the US housing market crashed
Now comes the the consequences
Unsurprisingly mortgage repayments started to slump
So called safe investments soon became worthless as junk
Families who had homes repossessed now facing the funk
Securitisation of mortgages now seemed so dumb
Regulators appeared powerless, dozing and numb
Lehman Brothers collapsed. America sneezed
The world became infected. Financial markets siezed
Governments and Central Banks now stepped into the fray
To prop up a system, that should have been reconfigured that day
Many banks were bailed; too big to fail.
The bankers who were at the wheel, too big to jail.
The humble tax payer was forced to post the cash
And many years later many banks still owe this cash
So the world was saved but here's the 'but'
The pubic purse was utilised, to escape the rut
Now all society must pay the price; take a hit to the gut
And suffer the pain, of historic public services cuts.
Mike Concise © 2015
www.mikeconcise.com
Listen to the chumps,
listen to the rubes,
screaming that democracy
is going down the tubes
But every wise guy knows
when the fix is in
To put all their money down
on the one who has no chance to win
It's the art of the con,
art of the con
Guess your vote didn't matter much,
now did it son
It's the art of the con,
art of the con
Getting out the vote don't matter much,
canvassing woman
Seems like all the talking heads
got it wrong from day one
Not just another election cycle
with politricks being done
How does a populist person,
who doesn't win the popular vote,
win the presidential election?
It's the electoral college, you dolt!
It's an old arcane system,
set up way back when
by rich landowners putting
their thumbs on the scale back then
They couldn't let the peasants dictate
all of those really important policies
Just counter balance the popular vote,
always keep an ace up your sleeve
It's the art of the con,
art of the con
Guess your vote didn't matter much,
now did it son
It's the art of the con,
art of the con
Getting out the vote don't matter much,
canvassing woman
When the man of the people
doesn't win the popular vote,
it's good to have a sure backup plan
Don't you get it by now people,
or are you still missing the boat
Power was never placed in your hand
It's the art of the con,
the art of the con
Where less popular is more,
and vote shortfall comes up tall
It's the art of the con,
the art of the con
Guess it really wasn't rigged after all
Once, long distant calls would cost
You, your friends and family so many voices
had to wait, anticipate the budget and the worth
of words said out loud to ride rapid electric lines.
Still sentiments of love freely fly on telepathic planes
while prose and poetry remain yours truly.
When present face to face do you speak truly?
Conversations branch out, chip, splinter into stories, that's the cost.
Fish stretch past arms' length and record breaking climbs pass clouds and planes.
Tell me again how it all began, how many voices
sang out from heaven: Forgiveness for sale! Limited supply, form lines.
Greedy practice, selling soul's salvation, who figures out what it's worth?
Fear can make us pay the selfish who decide our worth.
Are our souls and spirits make-believe, a magician's trick or God's, truly?
Conversations of belief from heart or scripted lines
brainwashed or sincerely swayed, choice has a cost---
Cross your fingers, chant the scriptures, sing with all your voices
until it's real or a lie you can live with, insured for your departure in heaven's plane.
If a soldier's plane crashes, angelic eagles soar, swoop like planes,
nose dive to every soldier because lives are worth
remembering. Telephones shoot words-- bam, bam, bam, fire voices
on ears that bleed worst fears, shattering those who love them truly.
Nothing will ever be sweet or innocent again, this is an impossible cost.
War kills conversations, steals final farewell lines.
Songs please draw forgiving lines,
to rise over hatred in unarmed planes
for a bird's eye perspective to consider the cost
of love lost in doubt, its worth.
Love lights up any sort of soul, truly.
It's power hurls bolts through nerves that revive the mystic voices...
Devils, misfits, do-gooders, cherubs and chumps-- let's hear all your voices!
Call out to love, it won't resist, will cross any line
to save who is good or bad-- it desires everyone, truly
Here comes the light, hear comes our flight, listen for the plane
Remember it's insane to worry about your worth,
to be, to be, is miracle enough, we can't comprehend the cost.
Solo fly or get in line formation with you plane
Lift off, blast past hatred to reach Love's treasure of unimaginable worth.
Truly precious, so protect it, Love in all your actions no matter what the cost
COME ON DOWN TO THE GILDED AGE
By Roy Merritt
Come on down to the Gilded Age
We’ve crawled our way back
And we’re coming hard and heavy this time
So brace for the attack
Come on down to the Gilded Age
We got us a new status quo
Been wastin’ time for certain
Steal it all now and go
And it won’t be long
We’ll be takin’ your home
No it won’t be long
Before we take your home
Come on down to the Gilded Age
A new feller has made the scene
His appeal is rather uncanny
And downright obscene
Come on down to the Gilded Age
They love him north, and south
The Rust Belt for his promises
In Ole Dixie for his mouth
And it won’t be long
We’ll be takin’ your home
No it won’t be long
Before we take your home
Come on down to the Gilded Age
We got a reality show dictator
Whose toughest when he’s tweeting out
A big bad bully third grader
Come on down to the Gilded Age
No troublesome Mark Twain
To skewer us with his pen
The Fourth Estate is just inane
And it won’t be long
We’ll be takin’ your home
No it won’t be long
Before we take your home
Come on down to the Gilded Age
Hear the crazy see the snakes
But they give me a fearful image
Of the future United States
Come down to the Gilded Age
Your money or your life
We’ll be takin’ that money
The church be takin’ your wife
And it won’t be long
We’ll be takin’ your home
No it won’t be long
Before we take your home
Come on down to the Gilded Age
No Roosevelt but a Trump
But FDR he cared about us
Ole Donald knows we are chumps
Come on down to the Gilded Age
I hope you folks enjoy his games
As they’re about their looting
And settin’ us all up in flames
And it won’t be long
We’ll be takin’ your home
No it won’t be long
Before we take your home
Come on down to the Gilded Age
Stand up and deliver
For almost fifty years now
They’ve sold us down the river
Come on down to the Gilded Age
In history they’ll take note
On election day in 2016
We voted to cut our throat
And it won’t be long
We’ll be takin’ your home
No it won’t be long
Before we take your home
I talked and moved fast
I fought 'Uncle Sam ' and chumps
I'm still 'The Greatest. '
So I wrote this rhyme just for me
to ignite self belief
and get me out of this sea
I'm a swim the waves 'til I reach the sand
wet desert dirt 'til plants fill the land
'til the storm clears up
and the grass gleams up
I'm a march toward a life I succeed
Now this is a mission unlikely to end in success
but can't you see
while I mission succeed and fail are possibilities
so if I give it my all it might just plough me through
doing nothing don't make winners
I've started I'll continue
and meddle through the levels
towards the finish
I've got a flame that's too majestic for anyone to extinguish
feeding confidence that delivers
the live in doubt lay about a drought
I will recover
stronger from the struggle
adapt and compromise
rev the throttle 'til I fly high up where the sky stops
rise to where the prizes reside without the head drops
feel the passion that won't give up
cus I'm driven to not give a fook
when chumps say my lyrics suck
the power of mind to not destruct
to words that are unkind
I'm my own king
hungry to feast
on my own throne
you can corner the beast
but won't breathe when this beast strikes
and now this beast bites
to brave to see a grave
to brave to be afraid
A telepathic throat
gargles stories and
spits fables’ fish into a watery abyss.
The surface shimmer draws us in
to fall, dream, dive, swim
as the storyteller spins us.
We balk at the tales of winged-hearts.
Love doesn't exist.
We swear by this as God disappears,
erases slowly while we wake up in season.
Love drops to the ground
with winter all around.
Snow covers and closes our eyes.
Pronounces what has died.
In the lens the pupil frames
a frozen image of my flame.
Could it possibly survive?
Rise up and be alive?
The same old story persists
where we make the same old wish.
Devils, misfits, do-gooders, cherubs and chumps,
wonder if God is make-believe, a dream or a magician's trick.
We cross our fingers and chant the scriptures
until The Almighty is real or a lie we can live with.
To be, to be, is miracle enough for me.
My cat chews on this paper—naps on every draft of this poem.
I worship her.