Best Yuppie Poems
This very morning when I awoke, I thought someone had played a joke. I checked the pot, it was bone dry. I checked the pantry and started to cry - no coffee!
So, I got dressed for work...real slow. I had no drive, no pep, no go. I drove to work, barely awake - I wanted to stop but I was already late - no coffee!
I parked the car and walked inside, but when I heard the news I almost died. The vendor took the machine away, and it damned sure won't be back today - no coffee!
The boss said that we should not worry, he'd send for caffeine in a hurry. But when it arrived, in thermos bright, it seemed to lack the usual bite of coffee.
No Columbian or Kona blend, nor even French roast dwelt within. It was a mix, exotic flavors, that only yuppie scum could savor - not coffee!
A mocha-chino-berry stink that no one in that crowd would drink. That morning dragged incessantly, and no one acted pleasantly - no coffee!
When lunch time came we fled the scene of the luke-warm, slurpy, berry thing. We marched down to the restaurant and told the waitress, "All we want is coffee"!
By end of day no one was tired. The caffeine high had everyone wired. I've learned my lesson, oh so well, that without coffee life is hell. And I'm an addict, monster, fiend, and slave unto the coffee bean - yeah, coffee.
Sniper hid vapors
tend to always bullet strike
with stealth air carrier accuracy
Silent noxious assault
pierced the nostrils
with oxy painful inhalation,
of the non-ventilated third degree
Deadly gaseous arrows
hit the overcrowded banquet room target;
and killed a-many healthy appetites,
with an alarming,
depressed tongue rate-of-mortality
Hurried footsteps exiting
is all the flatulent evidence I would need
to likewise proceed ... very quickly
Some intestinal terrorist
was dropping
lite ranch dressing bowel bombs,
most heavily
And the near-suicidal rush to escape
has gag damaged many throats,
most indiscriminately
I don’t cruelly mean to turbo fan
butt-of-joke rumors
with word-of-mouth rapidity
But ... it really was
a silent butt deadly graduation affair
And I say this,
with the utmost, stiff upper-lip respect:
Scented air peace
from an anonymous tip identity
This upwardly mobile yuppie —
Troll emoji catphish-ing bottom feeder
harbors no low-brow,
high school dropout insensitivity
WHEELIE BIN JOE
On the north side of Brisbane lives a man who does no wrong,
He pongs a bit, he's grubby and his beard and hair are long,
He sits upon the footpath mid plastic bags all sorts,
Black garbage round his shoulders and white ones on for shorts,
A yuppie down the footpath tripped,
and soon fell over Joe,
Recoiled in shock as horror gripped,
climbed off the "so and so."
So now they leave him on his throne,
cross the street to the other side,
From his house front boards, the nails have flown,
weather boards have gone to hide.
The prophet peers from neath his robes,
bags plastic shuffled flies,
In trance the seer discards his clothes,
as fresh plastic he applies,
Oh he'd tell us all of what he knows,
If he perchance did speak,
But plastic fumes get up his nose,
and cause his brain to squeak.
So if you pass the prophet there,
do spare a thought for him,
see his waiscoat's very shiny glare,
but the plastics getting thin.
The winter wind it whistles but Joe has cause to grin,
for the masters call, he's waiting to right some deadly sin.
Sponsor Paula Swanson
Contest Name Do You Know The Cardboard Man?
The Apple of my Eye
**Quintuple Acrostic**
Tempting me to steal her
Heart. I yearn for her much, yet not
Enough.
Ample
Positives, no glaring weaknesses.
Peaceful, charming, witty. I'm
Lusting for her
Embrace.
Olive skin, long toned
Fluorescent legs.
Mischievous with much influence I
Yearn for her much!!!
Enchantingly poetic, the
Yuppie of my dreams. I feel
Exploited by her charm
This thought inspired by Sara Kendrick....
Responding to her comment on my poem:
"Outside Her Window"
Jared Pickett
9/26/09
Asavvy1
Beggars of California
With their tattoos and their piercings, I don’t give money to beggars in California. Up on the Haight with his honey, not really in need, this beggar of California.
At least in New York you get some song and dance, perhaps the tickle of a tenor sax ?and they’re out in the rain, not just when it’s sunny, like those beggars in California.
Near my apartment in Pacific Heights, know them by name. It’s funny; frown when they see me: two brothers, one on either side of the street, these yuppie beggars of California.
I offered to pay the pawn on Runny Nose’s instruments out of hock, but his sign was a true ploy. Another’s sign: “Sailor needs a ship”; it’s war time!? Beggar of California!
I offered one a berth and a meal of tunny. I still see him, but he begs no more.
I think he’s on the dole with a cot. His words were foggy, this beggar of California.
I begged Jackie Paper, since the eighth grade: run for California, head west young man.Education was free. Was I cunning or just another beggar in California?
You marketing types love us.
Blue all over, fear of nothing a man can throw,
Quick to bow down when the boss come by...
not the one paying me....,
but the one who rules my roost.
Day breaks looks nice,
especially because the roads aren't covered and filled with the yuppie douche bag lawyers, bankers and brokers all on phones missing the opening of the days first gift.
you know these soft handed men!
Your commercials applaud our ethic,
our muscles,
our attitudes,
our jacked up 4 X 4
Our dick swinging genuflection to manhood's blue collar ways.
Toughness is forged by the cold weather winds,
Sun baked and burned backs,
Red tipped noses from over drinking the days end the night before
while being educated at H.K.U.
Not Hong Kong University...its Hard-Knock University
We learned in fields where sweat meets will
'cuz you cant fail.
Blood and callused hands complete the job,
the well,
the pipeline,
the boat,
the building,
Grown in fields of corn,
on oil rigs surrounded by the deepest blue oceans,
as blue as the collar around the neck.
tight, knowing there is nowhere else to go
and nowhere you would rather be.
Women feel the attraction, and we see it in your eyes...
Awakening the primal sense in you. The roughnecks and dirt covered crew.
You know your manicured husband just don't have this....or could do that!
You may want a well put together,
prepared and pampered over,
buffed and polished man,
but your desire fixates on men in blue who can do it all,
from fixes of the sink,
to kissing you tender pillow top lip,
Big and small, blue collard boys do it all!
I should have been a Beat Poet
I should have been a Beat Poet
Like Ginsberg or Ferlinghetti
They were good but not that great
Oh, maybe I'm being petty.
I could have driven across the States
Like Cassady and Kerouac
But couldn’t bear weeks on end
Jammed in battered Cadillac
Living on beer and cigarettes
Sleeping under a hedge,
I really prefer a comfy bed
And I need my meat and veg.
I don’t smoke much or really drink
A lot of alcohol
And drugs, well I am worried
That they would take their toll.
So, although the idea of dropping out
Is one with real appeal,
Is all that existential angst
Essential to the deal?
I have a beard so that’s a start
And a denim shirt or two
A pair of worn out 501s
In that stylish, vintage blue.
But is it really necessary
To embrace the seamier side?
Couldn’t one write poetry
Having had an easier ride?
I’ve seen the films and read the books
Surely that’s enough
Research for a verse or two
It shouldn’t be that tough
I could have been a Bahai,
I listen to “Thought for the Day”
Or a Catholic, Jew or Vishnu,
Well what I’m trying to say
Is, that faith is now a lifestyle choice
Like a car or mobile phone;
A tribal badge to identify
You’re a yuppie, punk, or sloane
For as we strut Life's High Street
Consumed by rampant consumerism,
Is it a socialist lack of pies
Signifying nothing, a mere spoonerism,
Or a repressive Capitalist Plot;
A new opiate of the masses
To avoid the inevitable truth
That we're wading through molasses?
Now I didn’t have to blow my brain
With mind expanding drugs,
Or travel to a sink estate
And live among the thugs
To pose these twenty-first-century woes
Or postulate their cause;
I managed sitting home in comfort
It flowed without a pause.
But really I’m just kidding
This is pseudo psycho-babble
No more intellectual
Than a game of junior scrabble
So no, I couldn’t be a Beat Poet
Like Ginsberg or Ferlinghetti.
Even the very thought of it
Makes me feel all hot and sweaty.
I’ll stick to writing doggerel
From the comfort of my home
And you never know one day
It may form an amusing tome.
When the president said ‘misunderestimated’
Everybody wondered, ‘was he ever educated’
But I forgive him that, for the thing that makes me ‘EEK!’
Is the mad proliferation of Corporation Speak…
For thirteen years a desk paid my rent
As I gave a hundred and ten percent
While progress chasing, the big knobs suggested
I could perhaps be more invested
They said action that
And try blue sky thinking
Let’s square the circle
Cos floating ain’t sinking
So pick it up and run with it
But bring it to the table
And hit the ground running
Don’t smoke in the stable
Scare the ghost
Feel the commotion
Peel the onion
Boil the ocean
If you’re out of the loop
Go punch the puppy
We’ll take it on board
(While I punch the yuppie)
So here’s the game changer
Think outside the box
We need joined up thinking
Heads up, shoot the fox
It’s a no brainer, for it’s got legs
The tastiest coffee still has dregs
So find a window, bump some heads
You can’t make an omelette without cracking eggs
So let’s all sing from the same hymn sheet
For we live in a world full of corporate speak
"when the Gods want to punish you, they answer your prayers"
--line from the film "Out of Africa"
She stopped, transfixed, a breathless
butterfly pinned to a board, and she said,
"That is So beautiful!" Then, turning
to her husband as they stood in my kitchen
before an aerial photograph of L'Ile de la Cite'
shaped like a ship in the beating heart of Paris,
(young Yuppie wife of entrepreneurial architect
who owned half the houses on the street
where I lived), she asked with pleading eyes,
"Could we go someday?" Knowing the appetite
for that which lies beyond Beyond: Paris,
La Cite' Emeraude, or wherever is the personal
Shangri La, I wished I could have shared
what I've known: a second floor apartment
in an historic building in the 12th--its
circular staircase royally carpeted in red,
enclosing a tiny lift, depositing us
to a storied paradise, its rooms extending
beyond glass doors of an antechamber into
a formal salon, two stately bedrooms
with balconies, and a "bureau," birthplace
of poems, diaries of dreams, and in the interior
courtyard beneath our common windows,
open to the Paris bleu, a caged canary sang,
lusting for open sky in mornings filled
with the perfume of freshly baked pastries
and baguettes from the patisserie below.
Once, I was besotted with a man who told me
after lovemaking, "I never knew how
much yearning you needed." He divined this,
and for a time he fed that soul hunger in me, so
that it was hard when he left, and they always leave.
Ships seeking harbor, leave in their wake
a yearning in the corners of your life, which will
surely bring back Paris and everyone you have ever
loved, which will somehow, somehow, against
all odds, satiate the supplicant heart.
L is for Laughter, we share Lavishly.
O is for the fights that explode Occasionally
V is for the insurmountable Vastness of us.
E is love Eternity that is so much more than lust
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P is for Pacifism, to settle without a fight.
E is Everlasting peace, wouldn't that be a sight.
A is for Amnesty, to forgive an opposing threat.
C is for our troops, waiting for this war to Cease.
E is for Everyone, I wish all world peace.
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T is for the way she Tastes, and her Tantalizing ways.
R is for our late night Rendezvous after work each day.
A is our Attraction, Absolute for all our lives
N is for the Nifty way I asked her to be my wife.
Q is for her Quintessential fashion
U is for our Unadulterated passion
I is her deep blue, Indigo eyes
L is for her Loud teasing cries.
I is not just I, but for both of us
T is for her undisputed Trust in me
Y is meant for her, my gorgeous Yuppie queen...
Jared Pickett
10/24/09
Asavvy1
No Matter The Floor You Pass Out On
I awake as any other madman slash poet.
Apon the floor naked pizza box for pillow a members only jacket for a blanket.
yes the libary sure has changed over the years.
less and less people were reading buggets were cut meaning
libraryies were under staffed and rarely did anyone dare venture into
the stacks and thank good for that. Cause being i preffered free sleeping
it was probaly for the best.
but no matter the the floor you pass out on most all fine
american men wake up with are god given birth rite.
That which after a trip to the restroom like
that early morning madness that was christmas pressent openning
was over way to fast and was kinda disapointing.
Floors werent the best beds in the world in fact they
sucked altogather but drinking and common sense dont even
belong in the same room togather.
Portsmouth Va was a strange world indeed a place where upscale colided with skidrow.
Me I preffer the company of a outdoor sleeper to that of a
spoiled spoon fed yuppie turd.
the art school cranked out angst ridden buble people by the second.
They walked the street soaking in the pain of life.
there heads stuck so far up there asses I always felt compeled to trip them as they walked
by.
acting as though they were outsiders yerning to be mainstream
they'd rape there mothers on a mtv reality show as dad cried in the background.
Just for a taste of stardom.
True talent who needs that?
but no matter the floor you pass out on one
thing was clear.
In a world were you could have a bus load
of kids and get paid for it.
fame wasnt such a rare thing anymore.
The floor I passed out on was cold and cruel but surrounded
voices from the past.
the floor these hollow reallity show bottom feeders
passed out on. Had to besoft as there heads.
Otherwise there brains would splatter across the floor.
And some TV exect would have a brainstorm to have a show
were washed up celebrities would have a contest.
To see who could bore us the most with there sob story
Yes friends id rather have a pizza box for a pillow
than a reality show pillbox for a brain.
and the truth effectsus all form no matter
which floor so you do choose to pass out on.
As My Town Goes Sinking
My town goes sinking, sinking
Beneath a sea of shopping malls
As I sit and ponder, drinking
Staring into merchandise stalls.
Each mall boasts two dozen stores for shoes,
Providing fashion for Yuppie feet,
While all I can do is feel confused
As I watch the disappearance of my streets.
Now it's 300K for every tiny townhouse
For the foreign invader and his spouse
Come to commute, born to shop,
To drain the town's spirit to its last fatal drop.
Seems to me my memory of a nice little town
Used to exist here, before the glitterdomes;
A place where one felt up when things were down,
Sensible people in sensible homes.
Now I just sit sometimes, and watch it all sink
As I help myself to another drink.
Now Bart Simpson, over across the way,
Advises me, as he did yesterday
Not to get worked up, or "Have a cow";
But on reflection,
At the risk of rejection,
If I could, I would - right here and now.
60's Child
I found myself at the tail end of childhood then,
Coming out of its long sunny sleep;
The days and nights of pleasures, terrors, wonders
Strung together to make up the pitted landscape
Of being small
Still filled my world and made it whole.
Mostly i remember things like:
Summer crab feasts, "I Love Lucy" reruns
"Laugh-In" bits, the drone of ball games on t.v.,
Trips into town to my Grandfather's old store
For candy and comics
Back before my town became Yuppie Central.
Another child raised beneath the cathode rays' glow,
My mind absorbed images, words with only hinted meanings
- Like the smiling faces in the cigarette ads
The offhand reports of body counts
From a faraway, makebelive war,
i heard and felt the many signs of strain
Between the longhaired Bigger Kids and their parents;
But not for me their world of confused revolt.
That would come later, milder in my case
When I became one of their second, weaker, wave.
No, I stepped out of the close land of childhood
Just after it was all over;
Wondering ever since,
Just what it was I'd missed, or hadn't
By dint of being a kid of the fabled 60's.
Sixties Manson Beatles Connection
Helter
Skelter
Seventies Know it all
Lippy
Hippie
Eighties Favorite Pet
Yuppie
Puppy
Nineties Kyoto Protocol
Pollution
Solution
Two Thousand Twelve Election
Barrack
Back
Footle Fun Contest
First attempt at this form.
Thanks for not saying I'm an Alpaca!
Llama
Calmer
Kitten will only eat Kit-E cat
Fussy
Pussy
Tiddle's uses her litter tray
Tiddle's
Piddles
Eeyore had far too much to drink
Wonky
Donkey
Jockeying for position
Racehorse
Off course
Top dog
Yuppie
Puppy
Time for walkies
Shih-tzu
Needs pooh!
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06/18/21