Long Lice Poems
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January 24th, 2023 Hair washing heralds huge happening
Hark….the herald angels sing, and twitter
for mass communication
mediums stop the presses
when I, a regular schlemiel
take shampoo to mine matted mass mop
(no less than once a week)
of straggly follicles, and commence
to dispense with the heady eco system
viz rare crop of flora and fauna
(some rank as endangered species)
rub and band together
to scratch envy of
flaky key neigh bring ponytails
and create quite an niche,
and where also can be found
lousy knit wit vendors ready to scalp
and give shaft to razor sharp purveyors,
who mane lee scout out available
head and shoulder room to nap
without a stir, tub bed down
(praying Holy Scott no wash out
nor Harris mint occurs),
or burrow vis a vis,
where subcutaneous porous droplet size
watership down pieces
of prime residence found
counting one mister comb lee
bald bold faced realtor
amidst competing rival
bulb buss Edward scissorhands
(with knot to heavy a price toupee)
affianced to rapunzel,
whom he sheared split ends
as her barber of civil,
one dapper dander ruff dude to offer
lice cent shuss insects a tonsured
cut above other stylish habitués
preferring to fraternize,
glad-hand, and hobnob
amidst a cluster of big wigs
housed by yours truly - Samson
in gleaming puffy pompadour
pads tightly secured
with the best dreadlocks,
which harum-scarum
green barrettes serve
as first line of rinse able defense
IdentityGuard (with franchisee
Bob O Link averse to split hairs, but fierce
as a Mohawk and ring leader
to protect any curl of mine)
waving away intruders,
who if insist tubby persistent
and tangle with fate
cannot expect camaraderie
from buzz cutting crew i.e. the fuzz
to give expletive filled lathering,
severe shame poo wing subjugation
plus an up braiding experience),
and teach stragglers
they will suffer
a real perm in hint bang up job
if they brazenly brush
against brylcreem of the crop
rooted as rightful heirs
(hairs) of tousled doo mane,
thus concludes my tail.
Postscript: Yours truly
an aging long haired
seventh generation pencil neck geek
finds ultra joy when
volunteering for kitchen duty,
hence imagine the hypothetical picture
portraying Geico caveman
mimicking pseudo dawn of humanity.
The Silence of War
Behind the Curtains of a church window
Men in Prayer, orchestrated by sweat and Lice
Find relief from snipers gaze
Beside the cross sits the last candle
Flickering precariously, searching for sanctuary from the wind
But the wick is near the end
And so are these men
The Harvest of War is almost in
For this is November 1918.
The German guns call like the song of the Siren
Irresistible, for only the dead will hear
New orders to cross the Sambre-Oise Canal
Another postcard for Historians to write.
Machine gunners scythe the ranks
Gone the Irish regiment, clover for the beast
I take shelter behind a splintered Oak Tree
Once magnificent, A survivor of Natures glory
Now a hideous spectre to man’s intervention.
I wait here with Wilf my captain
Waiting for death to find me
The mud beckoning for blood,
The Canal red like the River Sticks
A feed for tomorrows Newspaper.
A groan from wilf, his eyes start to dim
Fear brings the Lord’s Prayer to my lips
A last haven for my soul to cling
I watch his spirit fly away,
As the words fade from my voice
Like so many others on this day of carnage
Wilf, my friend, died November 4th 1918
Yet another contribution to this dark harvest,
Another soul for god to tender.
A statistic, a casualty of war,
To be remembered generically
A wreath to share with a multitude of lost darlings,
Another photograph to fade on the mantel piece
A piece of History for a grieving widow to dust
In the ranks of the dead
Angels count our losses
What dreams did we lose?
What voices were made silent?
What books were never written?
And how many tomorrows gone,
Lost in the darkness of death?
Under this oak tree, fading from memory
A soldier Wilfred Owen was taken too
Unspoken truth in unspoken poems
Silent to mortal’s ear
Another casualty of war
A feast of wisdom for angels to keep?
For His words were far too much,
for the hogs of war to stomach.
His poetry made silent by country’s shame,
Unpatriotic, not cricket old bean said the generals
Only now, through peace can we learn
The voice of one soldier,
How I pity humanity
For silence is a killer
Democracy, and justice its victim,
And the inevitable Silence of war will kill us all.
Footnote
On this day November 4th 1918, Wilfred Owen killed in action, Sambre-Oise Canal, 7 days from Sanity
One of England’s Finest War Poets.
When you call me a beast, when you spit venom..
How can i love you? No: i shall die.
I saw your ships and people waiting for us;
so i waited too.
But my heart, my heart of all hearts,
did not like the sight of you, and went home
with no expectations, with the ghosts of all
your love boats gone; my heart of all hearts
will not believe.
The sun you showed me never rose again.
i am sad.
He puts himself in his little chair to read and leaves
to rejoin the hot sweat of the earth.
i saw him.
And he put his little eyes upon me.
i asked him to read my story.
i said i am writing it for you.
He took off his glasses.
Now i see that he is not a prince but a monkey.
His legs are crooked.
And his eyebrows are three sizes too big.
And his hair is black and white; his eyes are bright
yellow and red; and so the purple moustache and
the blue flowers that grow from his finger tips;
flesh he must peel with his fingers
or his teeth.
Oh, he said. (he says) You should not be afraid to write a story.
Writing is a little like being raped.
There is one girl in every house
and one girl in every room
and one girl in every
and one girl in the cubicle
of the toilet; and they are all my victims.
She does not want to be my victim;
but she is being my victim.
What is rape?
You think it is to carry a lock of hair.
What is rape?
When the pain of living is so strong
that there is no room for love.
Or they take away the most beautiful birds,
the creatures that fly and the animals with wings,
but leave the things that have no life,
like a spider or a fly or a dandelion,
to carry its seeds into the street
(she is my lover) to be eaten by rats and lice,
to live it is life in the straw of the morning air.
What is rape?
To take away the kisses, the eyes, the mouth,
the tenderness of your cheeks, the tiny lips,
to rape your body when your love is not in it.
I did not know this love, but now it is my burden
and it is my fault.
This is the meaning of its life in the straw of the morning air.
What is rape? To take away the kisses, the eyes, the mouth,
the tenderness of your cheeks, the tiny lips, to rape your body
when your love is not in it.
I did not know this love, but now it is my burden
and it is my fault.
This is the meaning of Life within flesh.
:: 01.19.2021 ::
It has become painfully obvious that the only way to be heard
is to pay through the nose to be a lifetime nerd,
the way to be read in on this sight
is to pay through the nose with disdain-unslight
the drivel/dribble practicum that is profound in it's reading
is a joke, sickening jest this side of profane with often open ended
vocab blur bleeding from a finger up my butt countenance, hey I can be a pooret
yet as in all ways money that talks/squalks/walk the bills
up/on cuming and its resolute intercourse interims the slash good words for the sentient freefall to the ills of my **** really mean/matters/ ratiorationale reticient/demeanor/demonstrative/destructive co cliff effervicient
sentient fecal savored poetic prickprofundity perversing on pisspoor gobetweens
prepostured with sitesucking positiveprevelance performance preludes of lifetime member promises. GoThe usual suspects figure.
As GMarx once reveled in his Libra coutenance, "I would not want to belong to a any club that would have me as a member"! So be it as u quali/quasi/qualify your
intermiserable inputs from lowly wantobe"poets"? Really, where do you get this chum encrusted fecal crap?? Love, beholding, misery, misertudes of life and sequesters of social misfitted miserdoms as to your innane, irrelevant, idiotic, interpretation of the serial social merits of human america and its poetic sense, and the globe as it is. I haplessly hope that in the humo state of written wrongs that u hate my stuff sur-plenty of desolution row and the good of for what it's worth in my non sequential birthday of sixty something nothings per social senses.
my money nevertalks, even on this lice level. D--aaamn.
Never let it me be told that for me
to be hold in an equal fake frequence with all of the hard-on Dr. Filth viagra statue status that I can speak from my borrowed loaned loins and be heard to a pro poem status dollar of signoff significance.
I know I am being obtuse and indifferent as I don't want to play the $$$ poe whore game that would catapult me to the upper stratosphere of a poetic Zeus, Oden and the like in your eyes, as talent not matters. WTFE. But alas
keep me in your prostratic/pussitic poetic poison prism, Dave. "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers". Otherwise, FU. Keep the faith.
The Immigrants
By
Elton Camp
Mexican man, father of three
Feed, clothe them, would he.
But a job is not to be found.
Not in his own hometown.
To the north he will go
Jobs to get, he’s heard so.
Come here you cannot do
We will welcome but few
Far beyond the Rio Grande
Lies a virtual promised land
But he must ignore the rule
And give his life unto a mule
Pay to him his very last peso
Trust in the mule’s say so.
Into a van a crowd to pack
Enough food & water lack
Across the miles of barren dirt
Perhaps to be killed, surely hurt.
If he is lucky and isn’t caught,
He may find the work he sought.
If any income tax he dares to pay
The INS will soon come his way
Their demand on him is very hard
Must show us now your green card
We find your morals low & weak
Because English you cannot speak
To hear you jabber in that Spanish
We deem to be so much outlandish
We hate the darkness of your skin
Never can you be an equal friend
Explain to us why you ‘re so short
And for all your faults, we will deport
You may not get a house on our street
Likes of you we aren’t willing to greet
We fear you might keep a filthy house
One running over with lice and mouse
But if to hard, manual work you’re able
We will agree to pay you under the table
Expect that your wages will be quite low
Take what’s offered, or out the door you go
Hola, Pedro, you will hear our mocking taunt
And take the low-level jobs we don’t want
And remember your own subservient place
Or we will return you to Mexico in disgrace
You illegal alien, nasty, ugly and full of sin
Though you cooperate, no way you’ll win
When menial jobs for you finally run out,
We’ll send you packing without a doubt
You’re a parasite, so work here no more
We have firmly shut and locked the door
The country’s border is closed to you tight
So that it can’t be crossed without a fight
Arizona has shown the rest of us the way
To keep such riff-raff as you so far at bay
The very same should be true in every state
Illegal immigrants real Americans so hate.
(Please realize this is a poem of satire and
is designed to show the feelings of many
in my hometown which has a large, recent
influx of immigrants. It doesn’t necessarily
represent my own views.)
(Prov. 22: 6 / Heb. 5: 14 / Deut. 6: 6-9 / 2 Tim. 3: 13-15, 16 / Matt. 19: 13, 14)
- cont. - from Part 1
And The Same Can Be Said
Of A Young Child’s Impressionable Mind
It Needs To Be Nurtured At Home
Or It Will Eat Every Junk & Stuff They Find
And You Can’t Let A Child
Follow Its Every Whim …
No Matter How Brilliant or Smart
Dumb Things Will Make Them Dim
But Parents Try To Remember
Just When You Were Young …
Didn’t You Just Want To Act Stupid
And Have Some Friends & Fun?
Every Child Needs To Know
What & Who They Can Trust …
This Is More Important Than That Job
& Making Big Bucks
Every Child Needs Guidance
Even If Parents Are Just Guessing
But There Is A Book of Instructions
To Keep Parents & Child From Stressing
(2 Tim. 3: 15, 16)
It Is A Compass & A Map
& Its Like Reading A Diary of Confessions
Where Both Parents & Children
Can Learn About Real Life Lessons
(Matt. 4: 4 / Matt. 19: 13, 14)
And We Need To Start Training Them Young
From The Crib & From The Womb
Give ‘Em Plenty Space & Privacy
But Know What’s Going On In That Room!
‘Cause Newsflash! … Now Hear This
When Children Get Wrong Ideas or Tears
It’s Up To Loving Parents & Families
To Steer Them Free & Clear
Yes, Newsflash! … Now Know This
Children Don’t Know Nuthin’!
It’s Up To Responsible Adults
To ‘Try’ & Teach Them Somethin’ …
Their Bright Little Eyes & Minds
Are Looking To Us For Advice
And We Have To Watch Their Little Heads
So They Don’t Get Infected With Lice!
Yes, Their Bright Eyes & Minds
Are Looking To Us For Advice
& There Is Not Enough or Too Much Time
That We Could Sacrifice
And Without The Rod of Discipline
Whether Spanking or Time Out On The Floor
Loving Communication Is What Keeps Them
From Being Spoiled & Rotted To The Core
Look – Grandmamma Used To Tell Me
“If Everybody Is Sticking Their Head In The Fire
And They Tell You It Won’t Hurt …
You Tell ‘Em ‘You’re A Liar!’”
Listen, We All Can See That This World
Is Going To You Know Where In A Hand-Basket
But You Don’t Have To Let Them Group You & Yours
Into That Casket …
And When A Child Wants To Eat Candy
‘Cause It Tastes Good – All Day Long!
When You Tell Them “No!”
Listen … You Ain’t Wrong!
Written & ©: 7/16/2013
By: The MoonBee
No rhyme nor reason why
yours truly recalled how
me late mother
(earlier in her fitbit livingsocial years)
non verbally communicated disgust
(insync with audible sigh)
quite often ultimatums
blasting fulminating nauseating
scathing well nigh
she loosed loathing against
grungy looking son (guess who)
futilely escaped wrath of Harriet Khan
clamoring upon rooftop high
offering birds eye view
out of earshot and eyesight aye
catching sunbeams while smiling wry
cowardly lion sought divine intervention
courtesy sheltering sky
acres of shingles I sprawled
these lovely bones did lie
property of garden variety generic guy.
She who helped beget and birth
sole heir inheriting gamut of behavioral quirks
linkedin with many predecessors,
who trod, slunk, roamed...
across planet Earth.
Best bet said present day scribe i.e.
poetic, nonesstablishmentarian, liberal,
jesting, humble, freelance, dilatory bummer
whose hindsight evinced a student dumber
than his classmates wheedled
(as targeted scapegoat) by bullies their flummer
re: entrapped - worse louse than lice
internalized trauma left figurative tread marks
analogous to raging road runner
pressing accelerator pedal of hummer
driven by (an actual person) one Roger Kummerer.
Despite agonizing vicious tongue lashing
against flesh and blood,
which venomous invisible whiplash
never petered out
(even when sundry bloke
got married and gladly left home)
abusive treatment markedly
left appalling, loathing and percolating
ambivalence if though mama passed away
(these last seventeen plus years) wrung
cash crop of poetic endeavors,
albeit resultant lackluster
literary crafted aspirations.
Memory of mom overshadowed
by similar facsimile thereof
think shrieking banshee,
an indelible psychological imprimatur,
I strive to acknowledge
emotional reverberations to date
(May 27th, 2021).
My trademark wordsmith fashioned communiqué
impossible mission to shake off bittersweet feelings
toward once (former) Arthur Murray dance instructor
which fancy footwork synchronized with favorite
debonair handsome young fella (papa)
both flirts buoyant with elan and energy
only thru death will angst become free
interestingly enough hands will clap with glee.
Looking through the window
Everything seems like a puzzle
His coming ought to rekindle
Instead all have dwindle
Change is all we asked
Not knowing they were masked
Although they were tasked
Everything remain the same
Three square meal
Has become dream
Off course to the peasants
Their people
Have become cable
That is seen in every neighborhood
Across their neck
Is a wood to inflict wound
On people
Although they claim is for their cattle
But we sure know better
Funny it may sound
They are like sand
That is seen everywhere
Ministers have become blisters
In the hands of the peasants
The name may be lai
But the parents mean lie
Truth they say they speak
But lies we know we hear
The cost of living
Has made the peasants livid
Tomatoes have grown toes
Out of the market
Yet store houses grow millions of naira everyday
The planter we know not
The keeper we know not
The owner we know not
Oh my father's land!!
I hear there is a change
A change we never asked for
Is it an America based president?
Or the federal palace has a new headquarter?
No one knows the answer
Oh! Nigeria my father land
Its now in a farther land
Where can be reach by the rich
The ruled have no clue
Instead they have been gripped by grippe and grief
We were told that the arena was filled with milk and honey
What we now see is Sickness and mourning
Men on black have become terror and horror
Off course to the peasants
Need less to say , they are morons
Protection have been substituted for extortion
The white men see them as gods
Here, they are best described as dogs
On them are lies instead of lice
Law makers;
I mean,
Law breakers
Are the least of the shame we now have
We now have wrestlers in our chambers
Maze have become swords
Automatically our chambers have become battle field
Their shame has become their fame
Wooowuuuu
The erudite are not left behind
In fact they are fart that has polluted our arena
Years after years
Justice have been denied
We need TRANS-CHANGERS!!
We need transformed men and women!
Not transformation!
We need changed men and women!
Not Change!
Plague of lies,
froggy croaks untrue
Swarm of flies
surround Capitol dungHills
Infectious hope buzz kill:
Leftover piles of shill legislative bills
that don’t do do right
There should be no nose mystery,
stink of deceit fills the land
Brown lip locust wings
avarice ride
on a grifter breeze
Devouring all of the green
Dissimulation policies of greed
be blowing
turd raspberries
in the wind
This puff pestilence is putrid exhalation X brand
There should be no Pinocchio mystery,
rotten Would of falsehood
burns lung pollute-y
Foul breath forestry smokescreen fills the land
Cursed sour ground sound
is coming in waves
Flood of maggot noise abound
Blanket of little white **** snow job
is toilet tissue swirling around
Coming down royal flush
depressingly hard
Pain threshold too low to withstand
There should nascent be ... nay, no nasal mystery —
Veracity murrain miry
is the excrement sand which fills the land
Hazardous Waste tax material
has been poll sewage,
cesspool sinking below
the average Joe Citizen cranial
Yes Land filled with lies,
do do have a most wretched smell
But[t] toadies ain’t pocket sorry enough
about how honesty died
Croc ballot tears, every four years, don’t vote eulogize
Yes minions
got such lice, dysentery lips
Their squirmy truth
is always diarrhea leaping DeLorean
Back to the feces Future
To a broken promise Land filled
with dumpster dregs
of nothing
but[t] frog skeletons
Amphibian vow voices croaking
those empty chest organs
Howl flickering full be their guts rotting!
Lying shamelessly on hallow divided ground,
naked telly truth
went into tooth decay hiding
Bellyaching dirt went spit turd belly up
As dem/‘publican Kermits would
Jiminy cricket say: “Dey(light) don’t need no
dark stinking proof”
Those midnight jumpers
love spit mooning tongue sticky shade
un’er a halitosis roof
In a land filled with rank vapors insincere,
ain’t no pig manure methane doubt,
you’ll be pathologically told:
Smoggy talk got put on hold,
while the contagious shouts thin out ...
Rows of zeroes didn’t magically disappear
Third level CCTV audio recordings
of the last occupants illegally departing the
quasi-safe, Area 4, Sector 9 quarantine zone
— Seventh vol. of the Ghetto Chronicles
We hate to see you all go,
good company is hard to keep these days
Time is marked as being irrelevant here,
idle eyes patrolling
each iron-bar clad window
The klaxon sirens blaring outside,
gives an aural stench
As motion metal beasts come to
an abrupt screech
Slumping sound of a sickly thud
Concrete ground flowing with blood ...
a poverty-racked body: raggedly, last gasp breathing,
has just treadmark died
And the ghetto violence ever abides
We of the pavement sweeping, creeping crowd
have seen this snuff scene a-many times
Abandoned hopes ...
barely living,
desperately cope in deserted buildings
Surrounded by disease and dope,
provides a-plenty self-inflicted killings
Come inside this iron-bar jungle cage,
and feel the rage
of these walking dead lions
Their lionesses and cubs constantly crying
Sadly, the ghetto violence steadily abides
We of the chittering, unclean-up crew
have tragically seen
the mane numbers a-dwindle to a few
Our antennae eyes
are always patrolling
every crumb-laden floor and creaky locked door
We would love if you last oomans could stay —
Disregard the filth
and diseased surroundings
It ain’t that bad,
once your settled mind
don’t ever troublesome ask
why
you in this pestilent predicament
in the first place
Help that was forthcoming,
just got ambulance carried away
Aw, my bad ...
I didn’t know that was yo’ adopted Uncle
But, Sam-bo
shouldn’t been talking back too loud
to the Po-po Five-O
Oh man, all of you be a-packing yo’ bags too
This rat-infested dump gon be cupboard empty
without all of you Good Timey yahoos,
drinking and singing those darkie blues
Alright ... since you put it that way,
saying how’s you all can’t no longer stay
Before you go,
will you do me and my partners —
Us cockroaches,
bed bugs lice and mice,
a favor, please
‘Preciate it, if you turn off the lights ...
before you leave