He lived in room 757
just like a haiku
thats what he said to me
just like a haiku
eesh
There’s a reason I avoid this part of town
if not for the psuedo intellectualism that spreads
faster than herpes at a swingers party
then for the cheap drinks for too much money
the door guy that thinks he deserves a tip
keeping out the ‘riffraff’ as they used to say
The Polo shirt with the Raybans over in the corner
makes eyes at the one girl his buddies brought to the bar
if he plays his cards right
he might just have a chance
and why not?
Did I walk into a bar
or some sort of reality show
where are the cameras and who’s
ing with me?
The carbon copy cut outs of people all staged around the place
talking about haikus
and their twitter account
and their many followers
not my scene as I head to the door
As a pick up from my coat from the check
the girl tells me to have a good night
I doubt it
no one writes Haiku’s anymore
I know I'm for the rest of my life
But I can find a psuedo door on the day
I know I won't be there
For once you would understand me .
Alcohol and cigarettes would appear different then
I promise to tighten up baby.
A new me will be seen
All those annoying decencies
Out of the window
Though is seems that was done long ago .
I'm not going to take it gradually
2 parts left till I'm alive
One where I stand a chance
The other where I move on
So many loves throughout my life I’ve had.
In days of youth, I spent a lot of time
with lovely books; they made me feel so glad.
Back then I didn’t even write a rhyme!
With food I’ve also had a love affair.
In fact, it’s lasted all my life, but I
have had to treat my lust for it with care.
My time with it I’ve had to modify!
I’ve had a psuedo-love for working out
or any type of labor for that matter.
To feign love sometimes – that’s what it’s about
to get through life, while dreams sometimes shatter.
But poetry’s a best and constant love
since first I started my affair with it.
Another love have I, and lots of
time I use for it when my hours permit
This other passion I can greet each day.
I’ve loved it since childhood with all my might.
I revel in it at the matinee
or stay up loving it till late at night.
An addict to great TV shows and to
great movies, I am so enamored that
reviews of movies every week I do.
No threesome though with food - or I’ll grow fat!
April 2, 2021
for Margarito Lillico's Reveal Your Other Muse Poetry Contest
Psuedo shape shifters
Above beyond reflection
Births of paradox
"INTRODUCTION" -
Now after Nobel Prizes for Insulin ... now Gangrene
We owe it to our grandchildren, to reverse
The "ILL PILL" industry and psuedo-education:
Diabetes is "metabolism of the liver" issue
Not a sugar or insulin or diabetes problem -
So auto-immune ills relate to hate, an anti-human emotion
I - (I L L)
It used to be said, "For every ill, there is a pill!"
Let us not repeat slogans; beyond rapping for ads
Let real education prevail; is your food good medicine?
II - (P I L L)
Please use the internet; google Dr. Hegde's contribution;
Investigate who campaigned but failed to de-frock him
Let any crime, malpractice, be proved! As to statin -
Let it be known, after each pill comes many an ill.
DO NOT KILL THE MESSENGER: investigate the message. Is it valid? shalom
The weather plots his journey
Town to town in dead of night
Fields dead and on a gurney
He comes in to make it right
A rainmaker, people call him
A psuedo-scammer others say
He sells himself as godlike
He comes quick and does not stay
He tells people what they wish for
He beats the storm in to their town
He seeds their minds with his tall stories
He promises more green than brown
Like an evangelistic angel
He beats the weather to the ground
He's a salesman like no other
He picks their pockets with no sound
A rainmaker, just a scammer
He works the towns where nothing lives
He is an alchemist non-gratta
He always takes and never gives
He sells snake oil and concoctions
He is a shaman in disguise
He promises rain where none has fallen
There is more moisture in the farmers eyes
He takes credit for a rainfall
He promises gold where once was straw
He's a rumplestiltskin with their feelings
He sells them only what they wish they saw
He may believe in what he tells them
He always puts his name out on a stake
But, can he truly make the skies open
That is a choice the desperate make
Trust all words, used to matter, no the now, just empty speech.
Blanketed and passable fake to help you sleep at night.
Needlessly feel the sting of lies to face
Unsuspected rug wrenched away from security.
It's all twisted, tangled, glued to fit perception of programmed life.
A poke or jab at feelings by trusted soul
Blindly naive, kept prisoner of broken heart
Other voices now shouting over crowd of cover up.
Life finds way of total reveal of conscience.
Wasted years of coping and telling self, believe them...they love you...never to hurt you..
False impressions of psuedo-relationship out of control
Wounded by loves hurt we receed to complacency
Left with half-soul, half a mind and half- hearted..
Heather Turner
when certain voices speak
something inside me pricks up unseen ears
inviting the best of schizophrenia: mind, ego, body, the Deep
we are a lot of trouble - our degrees, you, and me
and the scientific way with the unknowable
knowing nothing of that which dwells within WE
yet when powerful suns glow and speak
the uneducated part of me listens like a child again
to voices back from India, familiarly sweet
lulling this plastic shell with data and pixel to sleep
so my own light - Deep, Deepak - is like Father Fire again
while through windows stained, sons peek
LISTEN! Listen intently ... imperceptibly gentle voices
Singing of a once glorious Ganges, mighty Mississippi, magnificent Missouri
How to sing when overcome by men and women's vices
when Grandfather Spirit is hung from a totem pole for psuedo-science
but the Data was always here, is here, will always be
light and sound allow my atom to cross the silence
(c)Deo, published and recyled since 2005.
Truthfully decaying
Patience is fading
Boredom turns to Rest
Thoughts churning
Life to Death
Frustration with fists
Shattered Glass
Lying on the floor
Pain filled with false bliss
This is was his end
She cries that her life is full of reality
All the while drowning out actuality
The visions she shouts
Are steeped in her doubts
She clearly has issue with sensuality
You're my miniature Messiah,
You're my temporary saint.
You naively think you own me
And have a right to voice complaint.
You tell me I'm the sinner,
And chastise the things I do.
But to demonise the blood of Christ
Is surely sinning too.
So I ask you psuedo-saviour,
What on Earth would Jesus do,
If he looked down on your life
And started scrutinising you?
So judge me, scorn me, look down on me,
And I think you will find:
A sober heart is often spoken
Through a drunken mind.
Tiny marimba pinwheels rotate,
Under flippant bass.
A poodle barks...
A barrage of dissonant sounds,
Melodies played backwards...
Then the music stops.
A ambivalent sneer,
As sounds rush around
Taking cover from
a blitzkreig of odd meters...
A mournful solo
filled with arabesques..
a sonic fart.
Demented cartoon music
turns into
atonal distance
turns into
rock star psuedo-blues
turns into
elegant, triumphant arpeggios.
Good night , Frank
Wherever you are.
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