No comfort for the stickler, sticking literary fixtures depicting conflicting inklings to their minds as perfect pictures.
With one stroke of my pen the standards rose again and damned be lesser men.
As the pros of prose impose and profess, chaos needs redress.
For I, who's distress you must address, now cower and cleanse this mess, confess my prowess only serves to impress all reason to, "stop the press".
Anachronistic the measure of their metric, imperialistic so the eccentric can spiral in tantric concentric circlejerks.
Central to themselves, it works.
The stench of sh!t, a rose by any other name, smeared with effluent smirks.
With all due respect you may cling to the historic.
If you wish to press/play, I will lay waste.
I'm not here to copy/paste.
The past won't be replaced, though clearly trampled and retraced.
Finding you're fittingly faced with chagrin laden grimace feeding bitter distaste.
Thou is to doth o'er and o'er, as men of the cloth in unrestrained glory.
Touting the gospel loudly and poorly, wholly unaware it's a fairytale story.
Categories:
imperialistic, poetry, writing,
Form: Free verse
Choices fall on chances,
Scratched hard on inner voices.
The, that proposes sacred lotuses,
In contentment, poised as rejoices,
Profoundly, altered the straits of moises,
And lavished, with own choicest decisions.
Of no imperialistic befitting,
The Mannered in contemptuous setting,
Mystifying, the paddles of uplifted sailing,
And begrudged, on own contents of failing.
The, that is not on ends yet,
The pinched on sides in a null set,
Regrettably, in the sweat beads of taunt,
And cornered, beaten by own away cast.
Chances on it that troubles,
The edged and resounding doubles,
The choiced, on it that rightly humbles,
And sided, fancied in unbounded struggles.
Categories:
imperialistic, 3rd grade, abuse, anxiety,
Form: Rhyme
Sold out history
Sold out memory
Sold out pride
Sold out heritage
Sold out lives.
Mounting pressure, financial strife.
Making life harder for people who already live harder lives.
Putting faith in some weakened, flawed historic way of life.
Built upon slavery, invasion and lies.
Longing for the rebirth of some colonial, elitist, conceited rule of life.
Going backwards all the time. Imperialistic minds listening in the wind for the empires cries.
The spoilt petulant English child who’ll destroy a nation before swallowing pride.
Categories:
imperialistic, abuse, anger, bereavement, betrayal,
Form: Free verse
I don't want Aliens
buying U.S. business,
but please stand back
while I buy up all your cheapest busyness
for International Made In America Trumpism.
Colonialism,
like Trumpism,
should work only one way,
which,
as everybody of importance knows,
is my imperialistic,
not much empirical,
Royal Way.
I also don't want your poor
and uneducated immigrants,
and certainly not their ungainly families,
but please keep your rabble back
while I visit your capital investments
to infest my glorious smog
embracing short-lived climates of pathology.
Enculturation,
like facts,
should only work
Made in Triumphalist U.S. way,
and if anything were ever true blue and White,
and not at all red, patriotic made,
it is my great transitional
ecopolitical
Trumpian UnHealthCare Way.
Categories:
imperialistic, caregiving, culture, destiny, health,
Form: Political Verse
I strike a blow,
To prove that gods can bleed,
When pierced by an arrow,
Tipped with a poison concocted from imperialistic greed,
Not a gaping wound,
Yet left alone to fester,
A bomb left primed and fused,
To end this world's helter skelter,
Inciting the death of a nation,
And the birth of a new world,
Free from patriotic prostration and international incineration,
Hark the combustion heralds as our new flag unfurls,
The white flag of surrender awash with a dynasty's blood,
Poised aloft a skeletal flagpole,
A worthy tapestry to depict our lives in the marshes' mud,
Behold our new dawning as the Red Sun sets,
Abandon your nuclear thrones and ivory decrees,
For we have relinquished our positions as inborn pets,
And seek retribution against your hereditary disease,
My death will mean nothing,
My dismembered body remains resolute,
My severed head will continue preaching,
Of a world ruled by us, the broken, and destitute.
Categories:
imperialistic, society,
Form: Rhyme