Long Dossier Poems
Long Dossier Poems. Below are the most popular long Dossier by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dossier poems by poem length and keyword.
Government uses foreign gov-loophole
and harlots by proxies geo-fence by proximity.
Old bedfellow with Politicians and 3 letter agency,
no surprise there.
Garland and Wray want your push notifications
to complete your dossier profile picture,
wants FEMA camp for detention, el Permanente, Draconian Fair for opposers no expense spared.
In this world of shadows and gray,
Find no solace in bad actors that fray, that "go there". Reward your California delusionals to higher Office.
The cocaine White House likes your way,
and cocaine and curriculum de orifices and cocaine
(yes, I went there).
Newsome; Your state has run out of U-Hauls to leave.
Maybe parents are tired of your oprn-wife stalking their children with innocence killer-materials or "The Hood" curriculum deputy of the Interior. You have the worst education results in the entire World, Pizza Steve!
Maybe just this one addition/critique, add a syringe to the school/library books cover sleeve?
You certainly are bold.
Your intent is obvious to me.
You want Americans out, for China to No Vacancy.
World's largest real estate broker, licensed by DNC.
Most brilliant masterminds could not destroy
what you destroyed, and they work for the DNC!
That is why you are their candidate, confidentiality.
"Despicable Me" may just use your exploits
in their next movie.
But Mayorkas, M-Vanilli, Garland, Biden and Cortez are still building their destruction resumes.
But watch out ! Biden has sold out our entire Country! Is that why you are running for President?!
Ah yes, I see.
And you know what? This was supposed to be about Push Notifications and Warrants of Geo-Fencing !
Russia pays 500K for a Hillary exhortation
Unknown millions to the Clinton Foundation
Russia bought 20% uranium from our nation
Both Clinton/Obama in Federal occupation
Deals with Russia - no MSM revelation
Clinton is caught rigging DNC nomination
Stealing it from Sanders at the DNC convention
Russia/DNC/Clinton with dossier summation
Continue their Trump campaign vilification
Media does Clinton's bidding loud and clear
Daily Trump/Russia collusion is all we hear
Funny no action by Pres.Obama that year
Loser Clinton tells anti-Trumpers far and near
Unstable Trump with button is what to fear
Clinton's emails lost for years, server disappears
Trump not Clinton investigation Mueller steers
Comey says Clinton guilty - couldn't find intent
Hiliary never lies except when its convenient
Liberals start talking about Trump impeachment
How could anyone ever want her to be president?
“The Burning Bush”
At the Burning Bush
the dance cards
were passed
from palm to palm
the flowers plucked
from the wall by green
lounge lizards grinning
“music saved my life”, she said
“poetic”, the Comme des Garçons
like a boy on roller skates said
circling like a shark with
two in hand for what it’s worth
the Burning Bush girl remonstrates
she understands,
“Tango Down?
That’s not a question.
Now.” she demands
“It’s a right Charlie Foxtrot,”
he says skating backwards,
“Look at all that Chest Candy,
it’s enough to make you
want to put on your
Jesus Slippers.” Front on
she bats her eyes, like
its a home run, she replies,
“It’s a real Soup Sandwich
out there Oscar Tango Mike
the Alpha Charlie Ate-up Bravo Zulu
deploy your Sky Blossom,”
she says, back to the wall,
“Tango Uniform
Delta,
Tango Down
Charlie Mike
Oscar Mike
Kaos captive,
Agt 99, H.Q.
holding Control
down”
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush"
codes embedded in dossier boxes, below
Though discriminatory asper discerning
legitimate information TIME
Magazine considered
a reliable trustworthy,
and valuable source to this rhyme
stir, who perused cover story, sans
January 28th, 2019 issue as prime
material to concoct
more serious than amusing
poem mindful not to spoil mealtime
sharing insightful ruses not so sublime
utilizing underhanded tactics that chime
with markedly innocuous discordant
undertones for longtime
(within realm of information technology)
garnering bajillion zeroes
after face value of dime
(I chose that denomination...
just book haws), suit clime
mate here, plus yours truly
aspired to fuel inquisitiveness,
since text unable to display mime
relayed by this messenger,
who questions gravity of crime
head honcho blithely
involving selling personal data
thus affecting prospects of incipient wartime.
every keystroke action typed by me,
and everybody else linkedin into web
foregoes their life details free
for selling treasured binary binded bits we
bull leave tubby encrypted, yet algorithms
invested with secret electron size key
sophisticated to sniff out valuable trove
within every pixel typed into ever re:
screen of every Internet app pre
pair ring the equivalent
of voluminous dossier lee
ving nary a trace, yet data packets
more precious than fine spun gold,
invisible electronic bursts glee
fully swept up like nobody's business – see
ming to provide a wellspring
of many a cottage industry
similar to a pugilist on par with Muhammad Ali
generating revenue, and
driving profits with accessory
trinkets or gewgaws hyped up as de
facto plum purchases, perhaps purchased online
whereat vendor (unbeknownst to patron) sells
vital transaction information to data broker he
or she obviously for a price - yes our SECURITY!
Words would fail me if I might assay
To articulate the courage of this man.
The numerous facets of his dossier
Are subject for song in a distant land.
Awakened in youth from serene dreams
By the melodious blast of Israel’s horn.
Tall standing received earth’s esteems,
Accepting God’s charge wherefore he was born.
His marble image cleaves the bluest sky,
And his halo is now a crown about his brow.
His peace of mind earth can no longer deny,
For he has now fulfilled his earthly vow.
It can only suppose with the midnight of the mind,
What may be reason’s welcome morning star.
One day he may return even more divine,
With a holier task from God who reigns from afar.
There’s no thunder heard from Sinai’s height,
And we see no parting waves at Jordan’s bank.
We have followed no truer soldier in our darkest night,
And now are marching on bravely in file and rank.
Rolling on in faith toward the welcome dawn,
The good fight won he’s earned the honor of Moses.
Now trekking the soul’s desert to the divine throne,
He follows God’s light up the street of yellow roses.
Dossier (doze heir) About This Sleepy Head
Unable to shake off drowsiness
iz not ease zee,
hence, as a night owl, no
(not that you
give a hoot) ye
may be share compatible
(i.e. nocturnal) circadian
rhythm with this wee
Willy Weber,
but more particularly
one po' somnambulant,
whose square noggin resembles
a flat screen tee vee
actually receiving signals
from the outer limits
of the twilight zone
quite clear reception,
especially after three
o'clock in the morning
slightly before scree
ching roosters announce,
the break of dawn re
lush hing, the
poignant hush pre
seeding the sudden
onset of que
kin ning hullaballoo
amidst hectic pre
dominant hustle,
and bustle to and fro,
hither and yon nee
sis aery frantic
pace to maintain
21st century
technological light
(reo speed wagon) rush,
this lifestyle not for me,
hence I favor
knuckle scraping,
bloodied hand to mouth,
bare subsistence
existence my lee
ving no wiggle room
for adverse sit tee,
thus very mindful to maintain
laser focus key
ping astutely attentive visa
vis discover ring je
nais sais quois,
(the only French I know)
hee...hee...hee
well nigh conk
clue ding goofy
dwarfed poem (compared
to the Iliad,
or Odyssey), now
time to put this old
Scottish matted
(swiftly tailored,
haired styled)
puppy (i.e. me)
to the land without
my wordy wizard - Doctor dre,
but alive with
a Rob'n Zombie!
Seven minutes lingered, an interim of residue,
a trembling partition between continuance and conclusion.
The body rehearsed survival, a theatre of reflex and delay.
Then the stage went silent,
a horizon drawn flat, an axis without a pulse,
and the world sank into a white silence.
Afterward, an emergence.
Not awakening, but reclassification.
not darkness, but a chamber of neutrality,
where remnants of existence drifted in an ordered abyss.
No faces, only the abstraction of record:
gestures catalogued, errors weighed beside their opposites,
the arithmetic of a lifetime balanced without judgment.
No weeping, no pleading, just the hollow patience of cattle.
An attendant present neither stern nor merciful, only procedural,
spoke as if reading an inventory.
Then a designation was issued.
At first numerical, then nominal.
Identification persisted, even as the self no longer did.
The chamber resembled judgment,
yet nothing of judgment occurred.
Records lay in sequence: notations, erasures, marginalia.
"An account, not a verdict." The clerk read,
Errors and kindnesses balanced in two columns.
The result: Passable.
A new dossier appeared.
Families arranged in archival order,
faces attached for reference.
Instruction: Choose.
The choice was not preference, but compliance
the necessity of continuation.
From abstraction into assignment,
from absence into recurrence.
Thus the cycle proceeds:
not reward, not punishment, but iteration.
Existence drafted again,
not as consequence but as mechanism.
The soul does not inherit.
The soul does not stumble.
The soul is allocated, reinserted,
until the ledger of moral requires no more.
The alleyways within the maze are paved with rats and mice.
Evangelists with moneyed fists collect the sacrifice
from losers scorned and rubes reborn, and promise paradise,
while in the back they cook some crack, inhale, and roll the dice.
A bum called Boe has stubbed his toe, he’s stumbled in the gutter;
with broken neck, he looks a wreck, the sparrows all aflutter,
the passers-by, they close an eye, and turn their heads and mutter:
“Let’s pray for rains to wash the lanes, to clear away the clutter.”
A river slows neath mountain snows, and leaves begin to shudder.
Though rip-off shops and crooked cops are paid not once but thrice,
the painted girl with flaxen curl is paring down her price
and loosely tempts cold hands unkempt to touch the merchandise.
A crazy guy cries “where am I”, a schizo titters twice,
and double quick a lunatic affects a fight with lice.
The jungle teems, a siren screams, the air is filled with meth.
The Reverent Priest and nuns unleash the Holy Shibboleth.
And Righteous Jane who is insane, as well as Sister Beth,
while telling tales to no avail of everlasting death,
at least imbue Hagg Avenue with whisky on their breath.
The Reverent Priest combats the Beast, they’re kneeling down to prey,
to fight the truth with fang and tooth, to toil for yesterday,
to etch their mark within the dark, to paint their résumé
on shrouds and sheets which then completes the devil’s dossier.
Old dan, he's drunk and in a funk, all mired in the mud.
A Monk begins to wash Dan’s sins, and asks “How are you, Bud?”
“I’m feeling pain and crying rain till soon there is a flood.
And no god’s there who seems to care I’m always coughing blood.”
The Monk, he turns, Dan’s words he spurns and lets the bible thud.
Well, Banjo Boy, he will annoy with jangled rhymes that fray:
“The clanging bells of carousels lead blind men’s minds astray
to rings of gold they’ll never hold in fingers made of clay.
But crest and crown will crumble down, when withered roots decay.”
Continued
"Crazy in the Time of Covid"
“You’re crazy” he said
“Is that code?” nonchalantly, she replied
“Not when you have your hands tied”, he cried
Cabin Fever had well and truly set in…
“If you are a good special agent”, she grinned
“I’ll untie your hands, you can do some callisthenics
and practice your covert moves on the floor
...with some smooth dancin’ “
Meanwhile, on the other side of the globe
at KAOS H.Q. in a room with spectacular views
99 was dispatching assignments to the very brave few
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
The Dossier:
"We ought to dance with rapture that we might be alive...
and part of the living, incarnate cosmos."
D. H. Lawrence
"Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically.
The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins,
we start to build up new little habitats,
to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work:
there is now no smooth road into the future:
but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles.
We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen."
D.H. Lawrence
....We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.
"Liaison"
All seeing,
one eye watching
isn’t blind
I close mine
then open them,
shut the mind
there’s a certain bad romance
in the all seeing
just being, drags you in
then you get tangled
up in the full clandestine tryst,
liaison with some nebulous King
covert,
the dossier opened
and read,
"la grande histoire d'amour
avec la recommencer étant,
je suis, celui"
an irregular puzzle,
the curious and
the curiouser;
a mystery;
the flirtatious mind
shut out, boggles
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
“It is by going down into the abyss
that we recover the treasures of life.
Where you stumble, there lies your treasure.
Whoever fights monsters
should see to it, that in the process,
he does not become a monster.
And if you gaze long enough into an abyss,
the abyss will gaze back into you.”