Best Molotov Poems
If laughter's the best medicine
I think I've had an overdose
It's coursing through my body
From my head down to my toes
I'm worried about my Ass
They say you can laugh it off
I'm building up pressure
Like a giant Molotov
I am taken to the funny farm
They think I've gone nuts
I started seeing animals
Walking around without butts
How is it possible
It seems like a bad joke
I'm laughing so hard
I start to cough and choke
I guess in the end
I really did overdose
It didn't quite kill me
But it really came close
So control your laughter
Maybe one chuckle's enough
That dang old funny
is powerful stuff
written by: Richard Lamoureux
Smile you're on Candid Camera Contest
His grandfather attacked mine
to remove him from land that grandpa had bought
Oozing hatred from deep in his gut
he'd force grandpa off of land that he sought
Then his father attacked mine
with molotov cocktails, homemade bombs
I asked my father, why not strike back
my dad was silent, a good answer he lacked
Now the grandson attacks me, ever more viciously
Yet the world shrugs it off, doesn't seem to see...
But when my family's attacked, when I strike back at terror
~ Why is it I, the Israeli, who's always in error?!
Off to college he'd gone
a cheerful, optimistic fellow
laidback, easygoing, mellow
not one to boom or to bellow
But the folks there taught him
to be ashamed of his privilege
That due to his fair white skin
the college had let him in
They told him that his part-time job
served the corrupt capitalist mob
that he should get out there and protest
with all the strength he possessed
So he turned against the 'system'
rejected those who would kiss him
learned to make a Molotov cocktail
targeted a cop; now he's in jail
Yes, off to college he'd gone
a cheerful, optimistic fellow
He'll return home a bitter young man
robbed of hope ~ no future, no plan
Some say don't fear while others fret
On all of the happenings
We've struck a match to our past
"Now the house we've built is burning"
Our forefathers built with blood, sweat, and tears
The foundation we have here
Well into two hundred years
"What lessons are we learning"
The contract in which they wrote down
Constitutes sacred ground
Flick the Bic and burn it down
"Not worried over who we're hurting"
Generations yet to come
What will we be teaching them
That hard work makes great kindling
"Does anyone else find that disturbing"
Overtime it was bound to run its course
Now we know why Miss Liberty carries a torch
We tossed a molotov cocktail onto our own front porch
"Now the house we've built is burning
King Vlad is anything but Democracy’s man of the hour.
Rather, à coup sûr, he’s really Stalin’s nasty little boy
who ironically parades "svoboda" and "glasnost" like
he really means them—actually he means them not.
King Vlad’s political traditions and pronouncements
are well-known among those who are sadly aware
of his tapestry of treachery and deceit—oh so slovenly woven
for all to see, just like some of his fellow-gangster favorites:
Lenin, Stalin, Beria, Molotov, Brezhnev, and Andropov.
King Vlad is anything but a real world leader . . .
His "Kind" are an open book for all to see and understand
what they are and what they mean for all who strive
for openness, decency, and real compassion in the
twenty-first century world order.
King Vlad—just like his Dracula name sake,
is a man without a soul, without a conscience,
who shall never shudder, wince or cry
at the piercing death rattle of a Kalashnikov.
King Vlad is truly no friend of Democracy,
sounding even at times not unlike Hitler;
he’s a demon leader with innocent blood on his hands,
always quick with the old Soviet reply:
Lie . . . Deny . . . Accuse . . . Reject . . . Criticize . . .
all tools of this redoubtable master of prevarication.
King Vlad should know that the Heavenly Souls
of flight MH17 know the "bitter truth," gorkaya pravda,
surrounding his lies, treachery, and deceit—all pejorative
attributes to a man with the mask of a real monster who
had the very best Soviet teachers.
And so Generalissimo Stalin . . .
How do you like your nasty little boy now???
He’s right up your alley, right???
“Putin” has five letters just like “Devil.”
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (August 9, 2014)
(Free Verse)
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Described as “patriot of patriots” by Mahatma Gandhi
His Words, ‘Give me blood and I shall give you freedom’
Are still ringing in the minds of each and every Indian.
He stood for unqualified Freedom with the use of force
Meaning quite against with Gandhi’s non-violent ways.
Subhas Bose presumed to have died on 18 August 1945
On Taipei Airport in a plane crash but with no evidence.
The mystery of his death and survival haunts the Indians.
The inability of the three commissions to unravel the truth
Spawned umpteen conspiracy theories left people in awe.
First commission visited Japan in 1956 and got testimonies
From army surgeons conducting blood transfusion to Bose
But he succumbed to death on August 18, 1945, at Taipei.
Second commission carried its probe from 1974-78 and
Declared its inability to arrive on any definite conclusion.
The verdict of the third commission was quite amazing
It simply said Bose was dead, but didn’t die in plane crash
How and when? No answer in the absence of any proof.
Concluding report tabled in parliament in May 2006
Declaring that death was staged to facilitate his escape.
And there are lots of evidences showing that he was alive
The first being the soviet angle of Stalin and Molotov
Discussing as to whether Bose should remain in the country.
In 1991 a letter written by him found in the KGB archive
dated 1946 that he had safely reached the then Soviet Union.
And there are conspiracy theories abound on Bose’s death
Allegedly both the Congress leadership and the Government
Afraid of Bose’s possible return to India and his impact
None to stop him to come to power as worshipped by people.
He was posthumously awarded Bharat Ratna in 1992,
A highest civilian award but later withdrawn on the ground
As the Award committee failed to give evidence of his death.
Even the Taiwan Government confirmed of no plane accident
And U.S. Department of State supported the claim of Taiwan.
=====================================================
Second Place win:
Contest: Unsolved Mysteries by Carolyn Deveonshire
*Inspired and credits to the reports published on the web*
Between The Devil and The Sea
( Scylla and Charybdis )
Cosmetic the creature cover girl
is accessible only at night
a picture female in her temple
laying askew on an alter ego
A de lux harlot in romantic rough house
a fetish target
frivolous nymphet with a rampant phallus
And the sinister will follow strictly incognito
In her sticky sexual paradise
blond peroxide sensuality comes by proxy
No virtues abashed
a blow up doll as she lays in prostrate sultry action
her deflowering for titillation
she is said to have a thing for perversion
this ageless angelica this strip teaser
the Molotov cocktail of her own euphoria
Down in the bawdy boulevard men ape their ardour
all mouth to mouth with the call girl
a fondle or a blatant grope
She’s a clock work courtesan to keep her from destitution
to feed the kids she considers herself to be an acquisition
smiling for the gratuitous exhilaration of playing the other woman
vogue with her etiquette indiscreet in the burlesque
self esteem is held between the food the warmth
and not much else
I am not the girl for you,
I will destroy you, she promises.
Man undettered waits for perfection
To get her head straight, but too late
She still doesn’t find you appealing
So stop squealling about her disgust
For you and play a russian
Roulette of dating big city dames. again
You will find that special someone who
Suprises you like Molotov coctails spew
Flames over broken heart. Shame
She can’t turn and yearn for you,
tomorrow, maybe baby, but today
Stay away.
This happens so save it don’t pray
It will be a happy ending
Spending days under rays
of glazed eyes her feelings ice
your thirst becomes worst but
Fine wine and her cuisine yet tasted
Sweetly your energy well wasted
My elementary school was a box full of broken crayons.
You know, the kind that no one likes to use because they fit inside your hands like a hug that lasts three seconds too long.
Me and my classmates wore
hand-me-down smiles.
They were too big for our faces. We figured that eventually we would somehow grow into the sound of our own laughter, put on our happiness like gloves and wear our skin as if our bodies were made by Louie Vuitton, just hoping to be more than tattered pages ripped from the torso of coloring books.
More than the aftermath of two runaway trains headed to the same direction. Our parents drove their affection without insurance, and we are just head on collisions with no coverage. We got shattered windshields for eyes, and tongues made out of safely glass held together by super glue. It’s no wonder we spoke broken English.
With an entire orchestra drowning inside our throats, veins like guitar strings, our voices cracked like the self esteem of single mothers who carried us in their wombs like Molotov cocktails, and prayed that we would somehow find a way to mature into land mines
exploding underneath the feet that have trampled them for too long. These women, they dream in a language only fully understood by the tiles of an abortion clinic on a busy afternoon.
They raised us on top of broken promises made by men with grape jelly in their spines who were too busy jamming to their own
two-cent mix tape that they chose over their priceless women.
We didn’t come with a screwdriver. There is no picture on our box to show you what we should look like when this all is over.
We were just put into this world with a note that read
“Some assembly required.”
We were built inside of a neighborhood that looked as though it was slowly loosing a fist fight to cancer and kemotherapy claimed all of it’s dreams.
You see at a young age I was told that no matter how much furniture you move with a Honda Civic, it’ll never be a pick up truck
but have you ever wanted to be more than what you were made for?
Was there ever moment in your life when all you wanted was to be more than the wounded options that circumstance has nailed to your shoulders?
People question why we even have the audacity to breathe. That’s why when we walk it looks as though we are apologizing for our lungs.
But we ate not sorry for living this loudly.
It’s the only way we know how.
Congressman and senators forewent
all manner of civility, fidelity and integrity wii
hull ding broadswords, derringers
and firearms as all hell broke loose as testimony
to the dire prognostication foretold
more than saber rattling and Gatling guns que
kind from lambastes, fisticuffs
and brickbats ratcheted up as agents provocateurs nee
said obedience to semper fidelis credo, coda and cock knee
stance when dire straits called for restraint
against excess versus raising cane old hickory
i.e. Andrew Jackson latched onto when opposing with energy
and verve espoused by fellow delegates, and his hologram ghost bloody
from battle scars outside and/or inside
the halls of government where blows bashed
dovetailed elected legislators to officiate
as angry birds viz brouhaha clashed
Federalist against their nemesis
of the twenty first century
during the term of Donald Trump
who throve on the cutthroat frenzied
internecine lawlessness dashed
to and fro, hither and yon any hope for civilians to escape bloodshed
spilled from without vaunted halls of justice,
the approach of doomsday
writ large as anarchy and mayhem flashed
with uproarious coup d’etat,
when Democrats outliers gnashed
teeth, and nonestablishmentarian outlaws
pistol whipped and hashed
tagged traitors who roared America
went bankrupt at sold at fire sale price slashed
when Donald Trump ran the country
into the ground evidenced by Molotov Cocktails residue
in concert with the sulfuric odor of hand grenades trashed
She had serious anger issues,
a walking time-bomb set to explode
Only took one untoward look
to make her lose all self-control
Sent her careening down the path
of a bleak penitentiary life
Another not-at-home mother
Another absentee wife
So what became of the husband you ask
Her ten-year sparring partner
On the first anniversary of
when her fiery blast went off
He was drunk driving ninety —
a blazing vehicular Molotov
Crash ... burn ... black hearst
When she heard news of his death,
she mourned him with a curse
So what became of the kids you ask
Five children left home alone
Got buried beneath the emotional rubble,
their innocence vaporized ... pppfftt!! ... gone
They were children conceived in make-up lust,
between rounds of fights royale
They were children raised in abject neglect,
destined to only experience living hell
They were children born without hope,
they were children born in the graveyard cell
They were children already dead,
lo, before their first breath was ever exhaled
The Day the Drum Died/Dedicated to The Watts Drum Circle
It's festival time!...Congeros!...Timbaleros!...Same place same time
The Villager Caller is on the scene looking and waiting to do his thing
Start with a calypso rhythm...tap... tap...tap..tap...tap...tap...
One arrives with nothing but his pride
Another one comes with no drum...Then another but his ego won't let him
inside
The sacred drum circle in Watts once thrived...Every drum every color and
size...
Tumbas...Quintos...Djembes and Talking Drums too!!
What caused all this creative energy to subside?
Why slap these drums anyway?
This is a legacy of our African Ancestors
A commemoration of 1965 when Molotov cocktails flew by
Not Mongo! Not Berretto!...Get real and get down...
Otherwise, the generation to come will remember us and sing a sad song
called...The Day the Drum Died
Check out our library of thrilling e-books @ amazon.com in the kindle store, or
visit:www.booktango.com
authors website:apluszips.com
Thanks and pass it forward!
A tale of two twins ...
Kit: That sure was a mean swing, Dottie. You knocked it out of the park. You’re the Sultana of Swat. I love the way you ‘round the bases doing your cute duckie trot. I love how you stand on home plate, kissing off the booing fans with your sour whispering asinine talk. You sho’ can swat high nonsense spitballs a lot.
Dot: Aw shucks, Kit, you Putin a smile on my face. But it ain’t me really. I just do what you coached me to do. Follow your lead like a good sibling pup pet is suppose to. I can’t help but wag the pig tale. Everybody knows that bare bosom greed sells. Now sis, you know I never vote swing and miss. I just love lip-crushing abetted ayes. Sending those lying spitball kisses flying high. But half-truthfully, girl I love the wet way you dry hurl. Such vomit velocity ... sending that propaganda puke spinning thru the air with such speed. You’re so lassie Vladdie bad amazing.
Kit: Yeah, twin ... we in a beleagued of our own. We don’t never do no wrong, at least none that we personally have to disown. And the Lady Bolshevik tag-team pocket profits are gonna stay kompromat strong. As long as the I-scream flag vendors keep selling the popular patriotic yellow snow cones. I love hearing the synthesized, trumpy anthem blaring sound, when the seventh-inning ruble donation rally hats are being passed around. It jacks me up, to the Nth lobby Molotov degree. My oligarch strong arm do a Siberian burn meddle poll vault sales pitch; delivered decibel stealth low, and so slow curve icily.
Dot: Serve ‘em up good, twin. Twist the grin like Papa Lenin said: “Never let a capitalist sucker get a free lick. Always snatch the purse from a paper chasing hick. Always foxy scoop the golden laid eggs from a sleeping, loose-liberty chick.” All bad things come in good corrupt Communist time. This czar fate injustice demands. I love the smell of democracy peanuts roasting in the ballot stands. I love hot, dog day debate fry cries doing the mustard squirt dance. So beleaguered and bland. I love the pretzel, fixed victory feel of cash register chance. I love being the pink champagne torch lady wearing no morality pants. Slyly, safely sliding home, skirt up ... silver tongue tush fanning kicked diamond sand. Giving a darkside-of-the-moon kiss to the loser Americans.
Greece you are waiting for me.
With white speechless marbles
within the August heat.
With sullen and loveless areopagites
carving my name on sea-shells.
Hypereides, you liar.
Praxiteles, oh so blind.
You Xenocrates, son of the *****.
And me that I was thought
I would return bearing banners
to rebuild your Thebes.
A roar under the earth.
Ashes in the wind.
Athens rises in the sky
and charges against me.
Why should I be afraid?
Why should I run for a shelter?
No!
I don’t want you to cover my eyes.
I want to see the terror in yours,
when after the execution
you’ll find me at the exit,
waiting for you
with a molotov cocktail in my hands.