Long Gagging Poems
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....When she gets bored of Mr. Slick
and wants to have real fun.
You win some you lose some Newssome.
You abuse some,
misuse funds,
talk about appropriations,
self donations,
inappropriate grooming curriculum, son.
You have seen Mr. McDonald get his
unhappy meal on.
You aint seen nothing yet,
just sit down and getsome.
You are like flotsam and jetsam,
jetsetter for perverted UncleSam,
Vagabond salesman,
if you aint got none you createsome-
choreographer, Cartel Coyote's cartographer
peddling your routine up and down
the West Coasts like fentanyl was red rum.
Hey, I know, "Spirit fingers",
where they're not supposed to be.
In the mid-east they chop them off for thievery,
how much more for stolen innocence, blasphemy?
Sticking in your curacomb wand in
the young and gagging throats,
grooming them along,
suppress any dissenting tongue
till the vomit can be depressed no longer
going going along with Gomorrah
and your lot of Sodom.
Your Madame girl, casting plots,
creating poorn and connecting the buyer dots,
aqua on the tongue,
polka young one, right,
cross the cross, cross the border,
cross the line dot com.
You got sanctuary City,
plastic titties on Men and now want to
do children and throw your wrench in- Dodging balls Sporting Women.
Tale of two opposing campaign promises-City-
Destroyer,
mass exodus equity mis-opportunity
deployer
through L...... till your knuckles get bored .. ...,
off to other things like
vaccine Court Order,
New World Hoarders of rights,
food, travel, autonomy and speech.
Shadow candidacy come deadline
Dateline Promoter on August 18th.
El Presidente' can surely expand your groping reach.
For your band of pick-pockets
infantried by ordered unnational
exchange and securities.
The demon horde lackeys who have monopoly
on who can get impeached, beseeched, leeched
and teached or who can be seen
or breached.
Who is allowed to travel, unmask,
and pollute the jet-stream.
Soon, who will be allowed to eat or breathe.
I recall, to our life when she came—
In early nineties one unknown day,
Few did know for long years: who she was—
Her mission, and what she wished to do,
And someone called it an Info Age:
Internet, e-mails and e-media—
Some of them more social than are ants,
In tone and temper unfairly free—
And info-knowledge spread sans limit,
But in just two decades we feel drowned.
Overload of info, opinions:
Social sites tweeting, tubes, sundry sites,
Searching sites, kindling books, what not apps,
Bits and bytes gagging us over board!
An ocean of Info, every shade,
Informing less and confusing more,
Now telling, and contradicting then;
But time was we had next to nothing.
Bits, bytes, nor statistics info is,
Nor info knowledge is— never was.
News nigh fake, more of views than are news,
Far from truth, confuse more than give clues,
Verified by none but someone's whim,
Twenty four by seven, news and news!
Ignorance a maiden of pure bliss,
No one has questioned camouflaged views,
Neut media morphing unto sour dream,
Even views are now of varied hues—
Fruits of a fertile mind, partial pen,
Better was bliss of ignorant Zen!
Ere, soul of Info to inform was.
And inform it sure did without doubt,
Today it seems to drown us in doubt,
I doubt if the curious little bird,
Even if ravenous hungry is,
I f any a worm would ever catch!
Time was when info an asset was,
And people hungered for a bare byte.
From heaps of husk and shells, piles of chaff,
It is hard today to garner grain.
Maiden sure she’s no doubt, no more shy,
Like peels of onions she hides nigh!
______________________________________________________
Happenings | 16.03.2017 |
Poet’s note: This piece is not a typical ode. It is nine syllabic three feet anapaest, and largely a blank verse.
Automobile prohibitive maintenance costs
pitches me pitifully begging for alms
lamenting dog forsaken
melon collie unpleasant circumstances
pleading with outstretched palms
disgraced to beg, perhaps donate
major organ and/or entire body
to ease vehicular qualms
aha... methinks the missus could pose
as ventriloquist after mortician embalms
these lovely bones, but, hmm...
even then post mortem
agitation most likely becalms...
Straitjacketed impasse finds
yours truly going for broke
to nurse our 2009 Hyundai Sonata,
which monetary outlay doth yoke
mine fate heading, née accelerating
at ever increasing speed
emitting plume of smoke
which thick noxious exhaust
would immediately choke
any innocent wheel chaired,
or ambulatory pedestrian,
bicyclist (think Chernobyl),
a nightmare that did woke.
Mein kampf reduced between
a rock and hard place
analogous to trapped betwixt
Scylla and Charybdis
inadequate funds to purchase
newer preowned car,
nor paltry monies to erase
utter nightmare, yes
father did spring me
unexpected mullah, yet
the near future will menace
this dirt poor aging baby boomer,
and his moderately significant other,
she too needs more than solace
lacking gainful employment and
financial resources, maybe brazen
to broadcast such
amidst digital populace
such tsuris (Yiddish meaning
trouble or woe; aggravation)...
Just letting of figurative steam
emblematic of this easily
intimidated fellow with decent
original (long "e") meme
all throughout his life shouldered,
or voluntarily stationed to sidelines
courtesy crème de la crème
topnotch competitors within
human race attain the
supposed "American dream"
or similar facsimile thereof
finding one fool on the hill
gagging at extreme
pauperism, yes mainly linkedin
to series of unfortunate events
(Lemony Snicket would ogle,
envy chiefly hanker ring)
hashtagging me more supreme
regarding amassing adversity.
Thank you stranger near or afar
understanding how or why
Sylvia Plath crafted The Bell Jar
a cult classic, I would never
attempt to duplicate, my par
for the course literary contribution
might... humph earn me one lone star
if ever dabblings in scratching
out feeble efforts courtesy this word Tsar.
The Panic Tide
The pulse begins its frantic drum,
A breathless rising of the tide,
As all the silent terrors come
To strip the peace away inside.
The palms grow wet, the cold sweat breaks,
The color floods a flushing face,
And every tethered muscle aches
Locked deep within this sudden space.
A jaw is clenched, a lip is torn,
The desperate teeth bite down on nails,
As from the throat a gasp is born,
Where every steady sentence fails.
The fingers curl to tight-bound fists,
The hands fling upward from the fright,
While trembling through the limbs persists,
And knees will jerk against the night.
The breath comes shallow, hard, and fast,
A heavy gagging stalls the air,
The body tenses to the last,
And screams aloud in its despair.
In reaching through the blinding storm,
The frantic fingers stretch to find
The safety of another form,
To anchor what is left behind.
I have had this question
That's been bouncing in my head for quite some time
So while I'm at it I just thought
I might as well ask it in rhyme
Out of all the Disney characters
I feel compelled to ask
How come Pluto is the only one
That ended up getting the shaft
Let's start this off with Mickey
Who rules the Magic Kingdom with all of his might
Although with that high squeaky voice
I believe his underwear is notched a tad to tight
Then there's Daisy and Donald
Whom I can barely understand
It still though is quite clear to me
They speak in a language known to man
Poor ole Pluto I wonder
What goes through his mind
While his tongue is lolly gagging
With his tail keeping in time
And what about that Goofy
Who can barely dress himself
That dog carries on conversations
Even when there's no one else
So go ahead I tell you
Take a look at the whole batch
And you tell me that Pluto
Is not the one that got the shaft
While I'm thinking about it
There's the planet Pluto out on the edge
When did we decide to kick it off
Of our planetary ledge
But I digress because it's Disney
To whom I throw this question at
But believe you me it's NASA
Who will be at the center of my next rant
So out of all the questions in my life
That I have ever asked
There is no simple answer to why
Pluto got the shaft
My mom had a dish she called leftover soup;
I think it arose from World War Number Two,
When nothing was wasted, when all was recouped.
Sometimes it was creamy, sometimes like a stew.
And all those jars in the back of the freezer?
Into them went all of the leftover bits!
No matter how odd or how much unrelated,
Leftover veggies, moussaka, cheese grits!
And when they were full, it was time for the soup pot,
A boiling hot cauldron of leftover hell,
I'd come home from school and open the front door
And know what was cooking from that wretched smell.
When this was for dinner, I knew that my chances
For getting dessert had now dropped below nil,
With plenty of choking and gagging and crying,
Eating that soup like a large bitter pill.
The thing I found strange as we all got much older,
When she had the money with no need to scrape,
She’d serve it to guests, and she’d do so with gusto;
From that dratted soup, there was just no escape!
SILENT SCREAMS
Alone away from it all ,somewhere I wanted to think
To be alone and find myself,
The owls hoot,the cricket chirped,
The howl of the wind outside my Cabin made my heart skip a beat.
I sat there quiet like a lamb reading a book and eating my Alfredo,
I couldn't help but look outside because I felt as if someone was out there,
Maybe I was paranoid to the sounds of the night,
Because I lived in the City far away from here,
I was not accustom,at least not a place like this.
After My dad died I wanted to go away for awhile,
To deal with the pain and to move on with my life.
I didn't want to be alone out here,
But I needed it,Just for a few days.
I knew my boyfriend was coming to see me in two days,
I was reassured and felt safe knowing that.
All I could recall was hearing the door opened with a bang and glass shattered
everywhere.
Someone was in my cabin and grabbed me by my hair.
I saw two figures in front of me, as I screamed in fear and shouted
"What do you want from me?"
The tearing of my clothes made me scream inside,
I tried to run ,But they held me down,tying my arms together and gagging my mouth.
I lost my soul when I felt them inside me ,
I felt pain inflicted on my body ,
Tears streamed down as they both had their way .
Raping me over and over again.
They hit me with a metal bar on my head,
Because I was tried to resist.
That night as I lay naked in my blood,feeling my life was over,
They looked at me with evil in there eyes and said,
"A pretty thing like you shouldn't be here alone at nights?"
I tried to scream but I couldn't ,
The Trauma led me into a temporary shock,
I heard a gun shoot,piercing through the night,
The sounds of the wild wolves echoed throughout aware of the sound,
I looked at my chest and saw blood gushing out and I knew this was the end.
The end of this life,a horrible infliction and there was nothing I could do,
I was helpless,I was gone.
Form:
Great. Our team got saddled with Merida and Hiccup
The two wimpiest ones I thought without much delight or care
We thought we would have to drag them to the fight
Hiccup extended his hand and he and Merida beat us there
By the time they arrived she was slinging three to six arrows
Into the retreaters’ backs as Hiccup’s dragon fired them up for the spit
I was shocked, astounded, incredulous. They were fight masters.
Hiccup and Merida. Who would have thought? I never thought of it
Battle after battle we watched them fly off into the fray.
Arriving ahead of us, toasting our enemies over the fire.
Want some? Hiccups asked me, offering me meat for the day.
It was the arm of an enemy, and the idea made me wretch.
Merida was chomping down on a plate of barbeque ribs.
I said no thanks, for I could tell they were of a corpulent man.
Come on! Hiccup urged me. We have more than enough. Plenty!
What the heck, so II took a fresh foot out of the pan.
Feet have hair, Merida warned me. Too late. I was gagging.
Why didn’t you tell him? She asked Hiccup. A kind of nagging.
I did not know she was squeamish, the dragon master replied.
I was a mess about this nightmare ‘til the day I died.
The hands let go with a cracking sound
Whipping our Smith to the glowing ground
Bouncing and wobbling his jiggly joints
Green swirls into Red, boiling patches into points
The Machine retracts and swallows its hands
Coiling deep inside its rickety glands
No gagging, no cough, just a calm ritual
To pull out a key, almost entirely habitual
It holds its key in between fingers
And looks at our Smith that unwillingly lingers
"We are going up, no matter what you want
The door to the Vineyard, my current haunt"
Our Smith rises, and slithers up the path
Not wishing to incur the Machine's promised wrath
"It HaS BeEn A wHiLe SiNcE i'Ve BeEn GuIdEd
.....I'vE nEvEr ReCalLeD, oNlY aBiDeD?"
The Machine catches up and scans without warn
Our Smith jumps and wriggles with scorn
"No Smith should be able to think without Star
You are able for now, but stop acting bizarre"
Blotches burn his burns, twice smouldered
Our Smith knows his place and continues, bolstered
He upwardly stumbles, until he smacks into a mesh
A crosshatch door, laced with flickers of flesh
"Now, stand aside, fallen Smith of mine
I must open the way, so stand by that sign"
The Machine takes its key and finds a lock
No time wasted, it removes the block
The door unfastens itself from the clasp
Creaking open, with a gut-wrenching gasp
The flesh on the mesh fall in lumpy piles
Casting rainbow hues on the muddied Pink tiles
"WhAt HaPpEnEd To My FrIeNdS, MaChInE?
WhY cAn'T tHeY fOrM, eNgAgE iN rOuTiNe?"
The hands come again, instantaneous and fierce
Planting our Smith beside the Elevator's smears
The hands hold our Smith's stomach, gurgling
Pressing, tightly, bending inwards, hurting
Crunching bubbling boils in his body
Crushing thoughts of anything godly
........................................
Our Smith loses the energy to stay alert
As the crosshatch contraption ascends overt.
"The Fiery Breath of Certain Death"
Or
"Alarm Bells Are Ringing"
You wear your anger well, it suits you just fine,
but, do we all have to feel the fiber of your fabric?
You toot in your zoot suit, then you scoot for a toot,
head wired, eyes fired, lip licking, lip flicking, chicken!
Snarling, snapping, rapping, grueling gruel, your fangs drooling,
rabid dog reflex, we'll just have to call you Rex!
As in...T-Rex, flexing oral dexterity,
you flex your pecs Rex, then your text is next!
OMG! The "Prankster," you're the original "Gangster,"
blogging and feeding, we eat floggings and bleedings!
Melting minds of the masses, you chair literary classes,
we suffer the choir, with heads blazing, ears on fire!
If kindness kills, then you kill us with "Carols,"
glock half-cocked...lock, stock, and two smoking barrels!
I guess the bullets you spray, helps keep the conscience away,
while you skin us alive, to be meat on display!
You drank angst from the wagon, a flagon "Snapdragon,"
wagging, gagging, with hellfire halitosis bragging!
Your breath of quick-fire death, inflames our thrombosis,
we pray today, that our blessed death, doth soon approaches!
But, till that day, we pray, for blessed redemption,
if we're lucky, maybe God will give us an exemption!
With excerpts from the movie: "Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels"