As this room, Earth life's, dims more
Leaves us, piling up
With too much things boxed, besides
This, junked, abides
In the mind's own storage place.
Old. Wilted, washed out.
Sentiment! Flowery phrased.
Dream world's. Since rased.
There were times when I lost him
junked in a corporate race
the boy who climbed broke a limb,
once dressed in his mother's lace;
dreams of boundless innocence.
Yet he is still there, I swear;
grandson asked me; if I dare …
A font that deemed to have no voice,
That too little freedom enjoys,
Few give a second thought
In choosing-- if or not,
Whilst to some makes aesthetic choice.
For Times New Roman’s century,
Calibri’s not even twenty,
Is deemed as an upstart
To lack fine sense of art
And suffer some ‘wokeness’
When weighed against rightness
Where age defines personality.
To Marco Rubio
It is perhaps more so
Where old order out of way be.
_____________________
Happenings | 16.12.2025 | fonts, words, humour, political, USA, limerick
Note: US secretary of state Marco Rubio junked a typeface ‘coz it’s too PC (politically correct). Perhaps what he meant was: too Biden-faced!
Cohorts of suits distort
Court the last resort
Damnation of immigration
Onslaught in cahoots cavort
Pander to propaganda slander
Escort darker fraught faces
From other races caught
To starker places.. shunted
Hunted like a sort of sport
History debunked
“Before” skunked & kerplunked
Lore of Yore junked
Fossil fuel full sumps
Well More is More
Trees flump become clumps
Of gnarly snarly stumps
Petrol pumps pour
Sheriffs thumps any grumps
Tariffs Gazumps…prices soar
Ready for the final encore?
Why Care
Tears of joy
Replaced with pain
Chanced happiness
destroyed again
Just not good enough
To be more than a friend.
This is her life
Beginning to end.
Wanted as a lover
But never more
To chance more than that
Closed the door
Tears in the darkness
Tap the cold floor
Loneliness her partner
Forevermore.
Fought so hard,
for so long
I come to you again,
broken and forlorn.
Never did I weaken,
my fight always strong.
But now I crawl to you,
too tired to carry on.
Like a junked old car
Up on bricks,
She's been broken
More than she's been fixed
By her side when the weather was fair.
Now that she's down, nobody's there.
And that is life
When you decide to care.
Gruesome as Judas cradle growl,
I dabble in gore thereby.
Everyday Norse hannibalish,
so my ribs outward,
exposed flesh, gangrenous.
I beg water, I chew my tongue
Schwedentrunk painful,
Junked, revealed, confessed to.
The immense crux pain,
till my stomach bloated up.
I find that if I cut a lens-size whole
in a cardboard box then place that box
over my head the stars
arrange themselves
into, not the named constellations,
but ordinary oddments once lost then found
and eventually junked.
I find that if I see a dead raccoon
on the road I will automatically
recite the El Maleh Rachamim,
(the Jewish prayer for the dead),
maybe it’s the pajamas they wear,
they only wear half-pajamas, but then
I am only half-Jewish.
I find that most concentration camps
are left open, and you never know
which abandoned factory once was one.
Finding stuff keeps my mind from wandering
just long enough to find a hole in the sky
where lost things have fallen through.
Imbued rose colors
of birth. Sky tinted billowed
petals, junked. Florid
gardens, immaculate.
Scents of citrus heavens. Bloodshot
tinctured cotton
colors. Rubicund
chalk crumbles, powders highlands
thrusting. An ingress
kerfs a hyloid
barrier. Cruer clots. Spook.
Cimmeran smudges.
Marred and minced remnants pile high in a storm’s swarm
Yesterdays, hardened-soft, surface where sea’s warm…
Flotsam found, lays tales around, in frayed traces
Another shattered shell whimpers of graces
vying with the sea-swept sands: gloss embossed fades…
Ocean’s dead! These are castaways of Hades,
rid of depth, stranded upon the dry shallow
Interred where the sun bleaches out the shadows
till whitened ivory fills cavern’s echo:
enmeshed lime, crunching upon errors callow
Jazz died - June’s sun sank into august abyss…
Undertow currents ceased their torments of bliss
Nipped life, silenced like frothing foam vacuum-sealed,
kept smothered in an opaque ocean congealed…
Yard junked, Neptune’s home’s now a derelict mess
and yet he clings to the crap amassed, crownless
Right always, up to the end --------- that no return.
Death will erase the un-sunk bones when they burn
(10/3/2019: '90 Sea Ray DA 350; Discovery Park; ‘my favorite junkyard’)
I junked up my pretty kitchen.
I filled up my loveliest hall.
Dragged in filthy dirty boxes
And that is certainly not all.
Swiftly filled up our three car garage,
And demolished the living room.
Someone better try to stop me.
Frankly, they cannot come too soon.
Stop and think for a moment
about how it has creeped up.
Its a world of throw away.
Just trash you think; disposible.
Everything just junked
athough it has a use still.
Piles and piles of things
filling up the landfills.
And when it comes down to it
so are we disposible like trash.
The promotion promised gone
the excuse flimsy and week.
Because at the end of the day
we live in a disposible world!
With no or little value attached
to anything its all simply disposible!
Each dawn's debris sort
of wreckage from day before
yields jetsam just junked
and flotsam break-up relics.
On the beach who can tell which?
The light of his eyes are growing dim
He creaks across the hard floor
A mouth so large it holds a ton
No longer remains doors
Leaks and drips sometimes pour out fast
Loud noises as dinosaurs
But that mouth scoops up rank garbage
It's as if an amour
Soon retirement in the picture
He doesn't want to be junked
That yellow John Deere loader
Man! A great machine hunk
Every week day he is so busy
He doesn't want to rest
Up and going at six in the morn
That is when he does best
He's seen those loader graveyards
on the way to be repaired
If only they would oil and grease
him as if they did cared
He has been faithful to do his job
Even though neglected
Tears run down his radiator
His metal is affected
Sad to see the death of such a one
it pains to see him go
But life is short even in service
The graveyard such a blow
Inspired by contest:Garbage
I live amazed in an amphitheatre,
A huge red and white domed tent.
Working with actors and jesters,
Enduring a perpetual torment.
The crazies I know are the clowns,
Red nose and a big head of hair.
And the gym junkies, they’re the strongmen,
Wrestling each day with a junked up brown bear.
And the farmers are the animal acts,
Talking with elephants, lions and a monkey.
While the women down town, they’re the hula hoop spinners,
Forever looking so spunky.
Then there’s the boss in charge, she runs the sideshow,
With magic acts, rubber man and the pony.
She makes up the rules as she goes every day,
Turning up as the bearded lady.
My life is in the flying fruit fly circus,
Others, are they oblivious to sights I view.
Every day brings a new surprise, I see it, I wonder,
I’m curious, do you see it too?
Long live James Tate. :)
Dealers sell drugs not far from your door,
patiently waiting there in the dark.
And with cash in hand, you leave once more,
to troll back alleys: daunting and stark.
A storm-soaked sky spits pieces of grey,
hammering the ground with hail and rain.
And as you stumble along the way,
fear triggers jolts of remembered pain.
Junked up specters, these prophets of doom,
pimp their products with swagger and style.
And stake out recesses in the gloom,
where lies get exchanged: for denial.
Ignoring your pledges to abstain,
you renege on your vow to stay clean.
And stick a needle into your vein,
slipping right back to where you have been.
Just another monster to defeat,
Death bides its time, while watching you crawl.
And the consequences of deceit,
are: that no one will care when you fall.
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