Leaving Canadians dumbstruck,
Donald the Schmuck has gone amok.
Petty, puerile brain,
Mapping dorky domain,
Now we quack out loud ‘What The Duck’?!
September 1, 2026
“Post Pep Comics”
In this time,
there are no children -
we refer to them as the 'undead'.
The young watch on
while their gods war on, it’s all televised,
committing abominable atrocities, war crimes.
Like ancient souls held in the palms
of the war machine they watch on
like zombies, vacant things
scrolling, weighing their relevance
against those dressed in designer ozempic scales, while worlds away
the third-class child attends their lessons in starvation,
surviving death and bullets
trafficked and war torn, raped and
psychologically taken,
click bait;
bleeding into the small tight margins
of Western comics where the Eagle always wins.
Archie and Jughead dispense their puerile rules,
rating us like commodities, stocks that rise and fall;
it’s all entertainment
after all.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
Those who are tough lived long enough
(from puerile juvenile to senile immobile)
to become on the world's bum a boil
in the very end my good friend old chum
will finally shuffle off their mortal coil
go to the dogs then pop their clogs
come to some harm and buy the farm
get a leg out check out peg out
or as bad luck would have it kick the bucket
when they give up the ghost and they're toast
if they were an eskimo
we'd sit them out on the ice and snow
but we're humane we do maintain
ne'er more to roam we condemn them
for life to an old folks' home
where the infirm may wither and dither
hanging around dwindling down
until the day they f-fade away
It’s time, by now, we did away with nations.
I tell you, hand on heart beneath the flag,
This jingo jag has now become a drag.
Those puerile patriotic palpitations
had meaning only when we lived in tribes.
Today our people mix and mingle freely –
so can’t we now dispense with Horace Greeley,
and wetbacks, wops and wogs, and all those jibes?
Since nations never have a sense of humour,
it’s little wonder why we have these wars.
We need a change of heart. Embrace the cause:
don’t split us into gooks or spooks or squaws,
or hicks or micks or spicks, or baby-boomers.
One nation under God, we’re all consumers.
It is unconscionable to ponder
that God's awesomeness is questionable.
The permanence of his good countenance
lies beyond the sustenance of the shrewdness
of our
insouciant condescension.
The incandescence of His amour in our lives
should remain aglow with eternal longevity,
so that any falsehood
be irreproachably reprehensible,
His presence is without pretence
That thunderous fires
owe His infallibility a debt,
Even when death has dealt with our incorrigibilities,
we must summon courage
to quench the flames of inveterate servitude.
And in solemn solitude
our being
should exude an astute gratitude,
that girds our vulnerability
with great fortitude.
And in the sober cadence of our credence,
we should attest to the sempiternal essence of God's existence,
not to be subsumed by the puerile creed
of a monk with no god.
Tingly skies full of surprise oh how I love when with surmise,
the little rascal aims his dart as if it were, poetic art !
The juvenile lyrical mind under infantile skin,
like the sweetness of the fruit ripe already,
will have the mute desire to reach and win
with artistic heart pulsating within puerile body.
Rising from the depth of ageless emotion,
spreading like waters of the flooding river,
love assumes a heavenly halcyon dimension
in a delightful art framed with platonic fervor.
When the yarn of yearning sews the closed eye,
on the flapping eyelids the bird of passion flies.
The flight makes all the dreams to rise high,
float like shapeless clouds in the seamless skies.
If in the same rhythm the two hearts beat,
time arrow will stop for you, making no sense.
Past forgotten, in the present two souls will meet,
sunk in the depth of blind love without pretense.
When cupid's arrow aims for you, there isn't much that you can do !
Every revolution ever
Devised by the most clever
From the rot, they sever
And souls naive
Of anew, believe
Assuming it not too far gone
To rectify all that’s wrong
They must be ready to stand up, then
For combat in the villain’s den
And although it is not as mighty
The sword decides who holds the pen
Yet history provides a warning
And the idealist may end up mourning
For those without a Machiavellian trait
Are warriors destined for a tragic fate
As it seems that thoroughly good men
Will never be esteemed as great
Those who gain control may revise the theme
Drifting ever further from the dream
Men of puerile mind
To knives are blind
And that vision once so fabled
Destroyed by some, we many enabled
On reflection, it makes the morose sigh
When they hear that brave man’s cry
“We serve neither King nor Kaiser”
Acting as a battle galvaniser
Due to the fact that ‘ad finem’
There’s superficial change achieved since then
And all of us are none the wiser
More rural space becomes an urban scar
As man’s machines arrive and start to scrape
Through living loam down to the dead grey clay.
Hedges ripped out and carted off to tip,
Trashing nests and burrows right from the start.
The babbling brook that supplied the small pond
Is piped to concrete culvert underground
Destroying one more vital habitat.
Now soon we see lots of luxury homes.
Synthetic stone and bright white PVC
With neat lawns made of bright green plastic grass
Ready to place a puerile plastic gnome.
No longer do we see dark sky at night,
The Milky Way being masked by amber glow.
With space to spare commercial buildings come.
More rural space becomes an urban scar.
The stench of puerile self-aggrandizement wafts through the air, a noxious cloud of platitudes and pomp, as the pusillanimous pustules of pseudo-intellectualism congregate to lavish accolades upon one another. How... amusing. The notion that these self-absorbed aesthetes, ye armchair sybarites, consider themselves arbiters of taste and talent, is nothing short of grotesque. And yet, here it persists, leeches on the cadavers of real artistry, perpetuating a vicious cycle of backslapping mediocrity, as they vomit forth oozing saccharine, cliche-ridden tripe, and elevate it to the status of holy scripture. Quaint indeed. The stench of their ignominy is almost... palpable.
How does it feel to know that playing by the rules was your downfall, I said I would be the last poetess standing because I can do: abattoir hymns of crimson vortices shredding the children to rain sanguinary as viscera chunks hail from above. Sorry ai can’t touch me, it would freak out to even read that. I may not have won many contests, but oops. Hehe.
Heavy gambage haul to save Astoria,
the aureolin Sun hides behind clouds;
Filled a map with wishing well wishes
to try and find an impossible answer;
The aureolin Sun hides behind clouds;
Viridian waters spontaneously sparkle,
a smile underneath waves of somber;
Filled a map with wishing well wishes,
the puerile solution reveals itself:
Score that tyrian and eburnean treasure!
To try and find an impossible answer,
One Eyed Willy tatoo gleams in xanadu;
It's their time, ' Goonies never say die.'
Exhumed memories
Pinned to a moment in time
Faded photographs
Close enough to hold
Or lose one's way and drown in
The past is like that
Stripped of artifice
The worst kind of nakedness
One's own reflection
Puerile litany
Lust begets lust begets lust
That's the thrill of it
Dancing by myself
Music slower softer now
Box is winding down
The music box plays
The ballerina dances
Graceful and alone
FANTASTIC FOUR
Fantastic Four - well, just who are they?
More comic heroes thrust onto the scene
I assume some may know of this new stuff
But for many millions, they’ve had enough
Formulaic as such movies have ever been
From puerile trash, can we just step away
Until recently, real actors have cost more
But animation is now dominating the show
The Hollywood contracts are allowing A.I
A few images taken and real acting will die
So, let’s get back to the reality we know
A revival of true human stars at the core
~Running the Gauntlet ~
Simplistic in its structure…
Nearly amateurish…
Unpolished attempt…
Superficial…
Facile…
Without subtlety…
Nonsensical…
Journalistic attempt at prose…
Lack of complexity…
Unimaginative…
The underlying message is vacuous…
Unsophisticated…
Puerile attempt…
Your submission is not appropriate at this time…
Not for us…
Not the right fit…
Not quite right for this publication…
We invite you to submit more…
Do you have any other work we could consider…
Your style is unique…
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Thank you for your work we will be publishing…
On the side of a path branching off from the road
expectations of glorious guilt mount
makeshift trenches housing truants, anxiously counting
the seconds 'til school officers call off the hunt...
Free at last at 9:30 to pursue puerile passions
constructing lean-tos in trees, small campsites nearby
They'd burn down the bush in a heartbeat if only
their consciences would forget how to sigh
Intentions fall akin to ashes on the pyre.
Of our procrastination quixotic fire
We've got a penchant for delay and distraction.
A puerile fear of routine and reaction.
But in our deepest hearts, we glow.
Time is a precious commodity to sow.
But we still apply it to just toss it away.
Thinking that tomorrow will start a fresh day
We piddle with excuses and justify.
Our lack of progress and letting scope pass us by
But the truth is, we're only cheating ourselves.
By neglecting our dreams and putting them on shelves
So let us rise from the ashes of our pyre.
And ignite a fresh flame of desire.
Let's attempt to alter our current reality.
And will cease to be hindered by frugality.
Life is too precious to waste away.
On diddle misguided play
Let us grapple with the day and bear it count.
If you live decently, the strain won't mount.
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