Monstrously Machievellian
Demonic pedagogic
Ominously Orwellian
Demagogic logic
Fools’ Musk-ovite mules
Zuckerberg zeitgeist heist
Dickensian dystopia rules
Google last post bugle
Fossil fuels myopia drools
Bellicose Bezos blows
Bro-ligarchy mates’ malarkey
Unions demonstrate
Amazon defenestrate
Hades Gates hierarchy
In the dock
Murdoch foxy skulduggery
Poxy TikTok runs amok
Crass puns..shock thuggery
This lot don't give a jot
.
Bitter sh**ter Twitter
Greedier needier seedier
The death of mass media
X marks the spot!
Categories:
poxy, corruption, discrimination, earth, political,
Form: Rhyme
What would I do if there were only one of me
and not this raucous house on sky high stilts
shouting Fe Fi Fo Fum
rooster proud and peacock pitchy
like Baba Yaga, with her chicken legs
but many more mice,
and they are all writing this poem
from inside a giants eye?
What if this was my last brew, last blow,
last blathering?
What if this was my last poem,
unfinished, tragically abandoned
because of some unforeseen poxy palsy
that splits my cranium open
letting all the air out?
Would I be content, or bent backwards forever?
No not content, not content at all, no indeed not.
What good would high stilts do me then
and how many blind mice
must be beheaded in order to gag
a never ending last breath?
I think I smell some blood in a still chewing cud.
What if this were the only poem in the world
tattered, incomprehensible, and soiled as it is,
why then, I would be just one, only one,
and that would not do - not do at all
or perhaps…
Categories:
poxy, poetry,
Form: Free verse
For Fifty years i been sittin 'ere
I Love this pub and I love me beer
I've tried em all, the Guinness, the Stout
but, this one drink I can't go without.
I must admit though, once i've sunk a few.
I'm up and down to the bloody loo.
One pint in, two bloody pints out. up 'n' down all bleedin night.
I've got my own spot in the poxy trough ( I stand in the corner to the right).
Now, 'Er Indoors, She bends me ear.
About how many nights a week i'm here.
but, it's the only place I can get some peace,
and not to mention the fruit machine that I can fleece.
I aint worried about me dinner, No.
Cos she's burnt me food, so kebab shop, that's where i'll go.
But, not before the last bell's rung
and my final pint is drunk and gone.
I Stagger home, slightly worse for wear.
I WON'T be sick. (besides it' would be rude to share).
This final walk, it's made me think.
I Can't wait for tomorrow for another drink
Categories:
poxy, drink, funny,
Form: Verse
On Radio 4 this morning, plastic fivers...
So, money doesn’t grow on trees no more
For some of us it never really did
The rich grow ever richer, and the poor
Still grovel for a poxy flippin’ quid
The launderers shall rub their hands with glee
‘Tis easy now to wipe clean, and to wash
The dirty money in the treasury
The grime of crime from shiny plastic dosh
Old money will still glint of ancient gold
New money will still boast itself and flash
And diamonds shine, and lead be dark and cold
As ever was, the alchemy of cash
The chemistry of lucre is not strange
The rich stay rich, and for the poor, no change
© Gail Foster 13th September 2016
Categories:
poxy, anger, change, england, humanity,
Form: Sonnet
There you stand
once again-
In that moment
The past;
Quiet, murmuring...
She brings you backward
A season of sad all her own
You see her there
through the window
eyes so green
they could cut an emerald
Her body/
small and fragile
A little girl
with tiny arms
in a stiff dress
An enigma destroyed
Her heart
Sundays dressed
In a mothers purse
Filled with prescriptions
Treasured dolls-
whose eyes rolled across
the kitchen table
and a beloved father
who remained silent.
Categories:
poxy, angst,
Form: Dramatic Verse
I detest writing on this poxy little phone
Hunched over a 2by3inch screen
Punching away at the imaginary
Glass keyboard
Boss eyed
Cross as hell... every time I lose connection
Hence half hour
Wasted ... oh well
Crucifying my wretched eyesight
And arthritic finger aching
Pleading
That I should go out and play
Unaware that this old bag is way to old
To enjoy herself
And throw caution
Right out of her cracked conservatory window
And slam dunked mind
Oh isn't life grand
Winding up ole misery guts
And driving her round the bend
Up the Swanee
Heading over the cartoon hills to
Bedlam by the sea
Tapping away on her poxy little
HTC
The scream
Categories:
poxy, angst, on writing and
Form: Free verse
Doc Holliday truly amazing
Sick to death and two six guns blazing
Though his blasting appeared not to be phasing
The calmness of his gelding equine’s grazing
This be the glory, how the west was won
By house of ill repute, and the six gun
Plenty of action, was never boring
Funeral parlors, were businesses soaring
Stank of many bodies in pine boxes
All human life was generalized poxy
In the west, principle way of the law
Generally how fast every man could draw
These early days were quite chaotic
Wyatt Earp’s moves were a bit methodic
The saloons were filled with poker tables
And many big bosoms of dance hall mabels
Indians drank of white man’s fire waters
Sheep herders were known as only free squatters
The winning of the west, was quite a quest
Reservations put Indians to the test
America has it’s many stories
How our west was won by many glories
So greatly was the west romanticized
We wonder how much was only lies
Well documentation of westward truths
Or documentation of many human spoofs
Maybe fraudulent claims, as was the hog leg’s aim
We accept no blame, but we’ll take the fame
Placed # 15
Categories:
poxy, fantasy
Form: Rhyme