When the joke's begun, it made you tense
They like poking fun, at your expense
Then laugh till they're blue, and choke on phlegm
When they laugh at you, the joke's on them
So, laugh when they laugh, it's up to you
You can gaff the gaff, they put you through
Just brush off their snide, and cold reply
When hushed deep inside, you wanna cry
The total bummer of our wasted Test summer….ahem
Does jar well below par no cigar not even a cafe creme
After another dafter dumber and dumber apophthegm
The tedium of this charlatan medium saying carpe diem
Couldn’t be any glummer still will take Baz to the ATM
Laughter him on a whim mending a forlorn torn hem
We pleaded tree needed to go not the Root but stem
Pretending will be happy ending Bazball’s Bethlehem
ECB & Key glib in tandem fib as random as a Lib Dem
English cricket’s viral spiral now coughing up phlegm
The gory gashes from Ashes lashes will still condemn
Then Stokes says that’s all folks was absolute mayhem
Jokes he’ll back in the 2027 eleven it’s us versus them
After hoax new Kiwi bloke evokes masterstrokes a gem
No longer going for broke a stronger bespoke requiem
Will coax the magic unlike the tragic Bazball "La Boheme"
No superhero cloaks as from acorns grow oaks says Flem
It's quite obvious now:
"The they" are preparing for life deep underground.
Placing final ribbons around subterranean cities.
Stockpiling sustenance
Water being siphoned to top off cisterns and privies.
The Amazon, Tigris, and Euphrates.
Superior, Michigan, and Erie are all being drained.
The surface people will be left scrambling for crumbs
in the phlegm of nuclear holocaust.
They'll devolve into hunter-gatherer clans.
To become a twisted reality show for subterraneans.
"The They" who trafficked us and ate our babies
will make a game of it, placing bets at our expense...
on who will perish -who'll be left.
Then, when the earth is somewhat cleansed.
"The They" will emerge to barter with metal from our teeth
pin our cross/bones to their puffy pigeon chests
The rest will serve as sex slaves, servants, and jesters
in the post-apocalyptic bed, "the they" have knowingly made.
Phlegm slithers down the sink
its slow descent towards the stink
Hands of mucus and hair reach
out like Hell's hellions to ensnare
the whimpering shade, pathetic
adorned with bloodied fists, raised
beating their faces in rhythms anthemic
A mirror is their sole spectator
A reflection is an unreliable narrator
that sees a God that punishes fear,
the pen that writes infinite narratives
Pain, the transformative element
is the absence of language
Its primeval elegance
I was sitting on the corner, stoned
When out of the blue, my dead aunt phoned
How could this be, she rests in peace
Right beside my loving niece
I answered the phone, and my auntie said
"I know you think that I am dead"
"I'm alive"- my auntie moaned
Or- could it be that you're just- "Stoned"
"Whoa", I said, clearing out some phlegm,
"you must be my dear Auntie Em,
and this can't be Kansas anymore".
(Munchkin sounds were too hard to ignore.)
"Blasted, Tom, I am your own Aunt Polly.
Do your chores. Forget your childish folly,
and, you varmint, if you'll allow me,
you ain't supposed to eat my brownie".
There once was a man named Clem
Who had copious amounts of phlegm
To his consternation
This sticky situation
Happened again and again and again.
I lost my mind today -
Oh boy -
and all the thoughts I had
just seemed to vanish
in the haze
surrounding my head
It seemed so wise -
so potent -
so infinitely dull -
complete with thought, effete with pomp
emblazoned on its skull.
An ounce of heart
a pound of spleen
a smattering of phlegm
A bit of code
a bunch of will
And a thick soup of memes:
All this was all mixed
and cut to bits
A chewy marble blend
From which I built
A vague relief
Of life that I intend:
Where has it gone, do tell me?
Where is my upscale mind?
I look without,
I look within,
But nothing can I find.
It seems the mind has melted
And I must build anew
Today's mind-melded structure
With but a quart of glue.
The real risk is fire.
Flames.
It’s not butterflies.
Or caught up in trance.
It’s about gesturing to an exit.
And quiet before the vapor.
The tv got ash all over it.
The real risk is fire when you live in a kerosene dream.
Flames.
Curtains.
Kerosene dreams.
Quit on me.
The real risk is fire.
They never told me not to use the elevator.
Maybe they did.
It didn’t turn me into a butterfly.
The firefighter told me while dusting off a bone.
The real risk is already over.
Coughing is leftover.
Phlegm turned to dust.
Again, I've filled your faith
with black powdered phlegm
when they should be
brimming with precious gems.
In refrain, you cough clouds of blue rain
red roses circling clogged drains.
Limited by our senses
Limited by smells, sight, sound
Limited by tastes and touch
Yet somehow
We sense there are mysteries ...
beyond them
A sixth sense
Embedded in our brains
The Pituitary gland
A doorway to the imagination
Where there’s a revolving door of neurons
All juiced up on Angelic power
A gateway of ganglia
Blueprinted from ages of DNA evolution
All up in our business with revelations
A continuous reconstruction zone
Especially created to regulate growth
Both literally and spiritually
The philosophical phlegm
That secretes like God goo
Inside of me
Inside of you
Inside all of us
ew
Alphabetic yellows but you would melt my hairs should haze
The dim contour leasing the pounding in my breast
Would a war by all fragile ward fragility to lick your smoke at the corners
Of your mouth to which then French and frenzy make an ocean wider
Green, green is the blackest grass of long twisting cobras told unknown
Gallant as a child holding on to frays of reeds and a bite of snow
Nothing contained in the deaf phlegm of white light
The skill of work in the hot bloods of the thickness imagined
Weaving in the wives room and again to the lantern
To rub the brass and alleviate the dead petals in conquest by the fresh
The very tongue rials twisted as wires chill the season
Unlikely arrivals of the two by shy flaunt
Then veering is the roads aghast by ghastly refuse
Some do become lovers neath the sun ware the moon
But do others weigh the scale of surmise
Positively Preposterous Puckheads...STILL!!!
Boy! They sure don't drive no Coupe DeVille.
My wife dragged me here against my will,
I just, Touched Down! in Palookaville!
Her Uncle Buck, buck-teethed and busted bunions,
Always smelled just a bit like onions.
He'd cuss me out while eating Funyuns!
Yep, that Codger's one big Curmudgeon!
Aunt Tildy, wore garters with lace tassels,
Bought lavender soap by the passels!
Had dreams of Knights at White Castles,
And she tells my wife, I'M the ASSLE!
Cousin Clem, I call him "Phlegm," ain't right in the head!
He's thirty-five! and still wets the bed!
And his folks still wonder why he's not wed!
I don't care what that Doctor Phil said!
Last, but not least, is that beast they call Boo!
That cur must be older than...Twenty-Two!
And bowels!...Man, that mutt sure could poo!
As luck would have it...he spackled my shoe!
Damn! Sun's setting, they're sweating, and I'm stuck here...STILL!!!
Oh Lord, please send me that Coupe DeVille!
I might as well start writing my will!
There's "Nightmares Galore" here in Palookaville!
The Cloud of Hell
It was a perfect day, cobalt sky and azure, glittering sea
When a stygian cloud came from the east, the Lord of Wars
spat phlegm, spraying us with horror
Inside this monstrosity, body parts, headless, were
Flying by the noise was unearthly, and my little dog
sheltered under my coat, I bought in Hamburg.
When the cloud had passed, I saw a landscape
Devastated as Ypres in the Great War when then
as now millions of people have died for nothing.
My dog was limp and had stopped breathing. I blew
Life back into it and in the terrible noise of the sky
We heard nothing, not even the stillness.
The master of wars was visiting us the peace
We had enjoyed it for too long; it was time for
Bloodletting, the revenge of the sand dwellers
She laughs, she cries, then she sighs
brimming with confidence,
the pain within she denies
Her heart thumps then skips a beat,
as she reads poetry, a taste of bittersweet
In quiets empty moments, a hole
remains deeply in the soul,
an abyss, an unmeasured chasm
It’s the space p~o~e~t~r~y fills
Her personal dead poet society
stirring her deepest passions
awakens her dormant desire
her quest not for fame or fortune
but for the elusive treasure of inner piece
Her confidence misconstrues itself for vanity perhaps
sureness
positiveness
conviction
certitude
reliability
assuredness
assurance
validity
conclusiveness
authoritativeness
truth
factualness
self-possession
nerve
poise
aplomb
presence of mind
phlegm
level-headedness
cool-headedness
firmness
courage
boldness
mettle
fortitude
belief in oneself
faith in oneself ...
…
…
...are all just more vanities?
free-spirited or lost soul?
do both make one another?
the vanity of human wishes?
work in progress…
Riding along a tongue full of bees
biding my time until I can free them.
Sliding inside they're stinging my skin,
inciting all of this pent up phlegm.
You took too lightly my hard restraint
blew a smoky swarm into my face.
Spew, I have the wildfire to rise up.
Debut, watch me dominate this space.
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