toilet is tolerably clean and tasteful, but
toilet paper is almost empty, what a tedious test
tension builds, isn't one sheet too tight?
terror strikes, as the last sheet is spent!
tenaciously glued to commode, feeling tacky.
twin towels hang on the rod, a talisman
to use it or not is the question, thrive or tire.
white lace
angelic and pristine
reminds me of innocent babies and toddlers
petticoats and socks
black lace
gothic
devilish
sexy
worn by cougars and eager brides
enticing and sensual
red lace
ugly and tacky
It becomes like a pine smell.
Maybe jugs of orange juice shimmer.
Why fireflies don’t have lungs.
Yet they still harmonize something we can’t see.
I like the wallpaper growing in my head.
Surreal climbing age.
I graduated from nothingness and croaked out a sore sound.
That scholarship all those years ago?
Feels tacky.
After 9/11, there was the "War on Terror",
a conflict with a lot of trial and (mostly) error,
and few of us asked during all that commotion
"How can you declare war on an emotion?"
Well, now in America, there is a "War on Laughter".
The POTUS - "His MAGA-sty" - is going after
any and all of those pundit folks
who like to make him the butt of jokes.
(And, sadly for him, he can't call it a hoax
as he sits in his tacky Oval Office and mopes.)
Dozy Don, with the cheesy orange hair,
thinks he has beaten Stephen Colbert
and will try again to get Kimmel banned
but "Against the assault on laughter, nothing can stand." *
He can try to cancel all the critics he wants
in a pathetic display of impuissance,
but his prospects will be nothing but grim
because we will always keep laughing at him.
(* A quote from America's greatest humorist, Mark Twain.)
It’s summer but summer is a twinge of stacked pizza boxes.
I uncovered a lot of the previous sinkholes.
That wishing well was there for years and swelled up one day.
Gratitude is just a pin hole to get my money through.
I am animated.
Summer sludge and stuck in a healed body.
That got healed so fast the glue became tacky again.
I am animated.
Got to the end of that stuff.
And reset with a silly pun.
Early gold elevates the Taj Mahal Restaurant.
Sun-rinsed beams bedeck its frontage.
The low strip mall is not yet awake,
yet it basks; it glows golden
through every light-enthroned window,
bejeweled signage floats
above a light laundered concrete
and new-washed litter.
For a few clear moments
the shop-worn facades glittered
in vivid auric rays
I saw it all through a windshield,
I saw a kind of heaven
take a selfie through a once tacky lens.
When I returned later,
the litter was just litter,
shopping carts dripped above cloudy puddles.
The Taj Mahal was open, and already
sinking into a lunch-time special.
(Overheard at an Ecopsyche
Workshop)
The blue pill
Or as we like to call it,
“The self-with-nature seminar,”
Allows one to
Walk in fairly unkept woods
Surprisingly unaided
But regularly looked-after by an Eco-adjuster
Herself a blue pill graduate
And certificate holder.
You also receive
An animal mask
A booklet of
Fire ring songs
Plus, tips on how be a
Tacky-Tack eco-influencer.
You might even get the courage to say
Out loud:
“Corporations be damned!”
No side effects have been reported.
The red pill,
Our
“Cynic in the woods advanced program”
Will make you frothing-at-the-mouth-mad
Overflowing with eco anxiety
And as obstinate-uncompromising
As
Greta
Tintin
Eleonora
Ernman
Thunberg.
You’ll likely be arrested.
You might even lose
University tenure
And be on many ‘no-fly’ lists.
You’ll wake every morning
Knowing that you have not done enough
To save the planet.
“What’ll it be?”
“Two blues please.”
She held in her chubby hand
just a rounded, tacky plastic
snow-globe bubble.
Through blue gloop,
dandruff flakes fluttered:
the world - upended, shaken.
This, her own snowy kingdom:
a blizzard dome of imagination,
not suitable for that little sister.
My good friend who is a Jehovah Witness
Says of Christmas trees, she doesn’t get this
Why do they hang all those tacky things
Junk up a perfectly fine tree of green
I feel the question is honest yet blind
For tree docorations are celebrations of kind
I notice she wears false eyelashes and weave
To me that is tackier than a Christmas tree
I suppose natural beauty isn’t the issue here
It’s doing what you know and feel is real
A natural tree with lights, decorations is ok
Her fake lashes ,wigs don’t mean she has no faith
As my Christmas tree is an expression of choice
Her lack of need for a tree is her own voice
In USA we both embrace our lavender lives
God gave us all a choice and we use it to thrive
I had to choose a casket for Rosanna,
the only one who’d ever turned out true.
I didn’t like her loved-ones’ bossy manner,
refused to hear their tacky point-of-view.
The parlour clamoured ‘oak’ across its banner,
but all along I knew: it had to be yew.
Creation is something that many have embarked to acheive
My belief is to get out of the way of trying to create while rolling up my sleeve
The next step truly has its own journey, distance yourself from thinking too deep
A great idea or creation could end up as a technique too steep
It looks amazing once I eject myself out of the anomaly's plan
Where do these ideas come from? could it be my mood or my hand
A trust needs to appear for it is all that works in a moment of creation
It will happen once all the elements bind together when it comes into fruition
I'm proud to call myself an artist with multitudes of talents
Whether I'm sad, depressed or just joyfully absent
Infusing tricks that remain tacky or cheesy has no place in my arsenal
Or should I just be and allow without a mehtod that's enforceable
Creation is the process of channelling a wave of discoveries
Marked in crystal birthing of artistic prophesies
They already exist in disjointed pieces
My job is to unearth them and assemble the
Art.
When my ashes are brought home
don’t place them on a mantel
between the tacky Hummel figurines.
Tip them out onto the backyard
to nourish the cabbages.
I am not coming back,
but check the wind once more,
I might blow into the house again
and the dust-buster will clog up.
Do not look for me in the sky,
I am not there,
nor on or under the earth -
please really?
I may appear to you at night
if you lay with another man,
haunt you
if you marry again,
but that’s just me
and my little insecurities.
Also dear, be warned
I still retain the power
to trigger the cat to pee on your bed
if you neglect
to dust my photograph.
Love yer.
When choosing clothes, some people buy
Whatever seems to catch their eye.
They always pay the asking price
No matter what, and don’t think twice.
That isn’t me, for without fail
I’ll check to find out what’s on sale
And if it’s pricey, I might splurge
If on that day, I get the urge.
As far as stores, the upscale shops
Will not be on my frequent stops,
But nor will be a tacky store,
With schlocky clothes you can’t ignore.
I guess I like the middle range
When I decide I need a change,
So when I feel it’s time to go,
I’ll check out clothing stores I know.
Things don't always have to make sense because no one makes the rules
I can say and do things the way i want because i do what I choose
God has given me free will so who are you to take that away
There is no established rules when it comes to what i do and say
There does exist a right way but i want to take a different route
That's what makes us different from what comes up out of our mouths
What i do may not makes sense to you because that's what makes me, me
No two people are the same so you may not could see what i see
What you find tacky and ugly i might find as a treasure
What you find boring and sad might bring me untold pleasure
No one can dictate or tell another how to be
The one dictating might care a lot while the other one is care free
I'm easily amused and happy and can see a whole lot out of nothing
Just because a person has their ducks in a roll don't mean they actually have something
Maybe i like being weird and i might at times seem dense
But i really don't care that much about everything making sense.
One man’s opulence another
Might consider tacky,
Especially when catered to
By every spineless lackey.
Yet those who rake in riches
As their empire’s being built
Should, if empathy at all exists,
Feel just a little guilt.
So many struggle just to live
While barely getting by;
Still, we hear of millions being spent
By those who rule on high.
A little gilt can be too much
And for a would-be king,
A little guilt, at least, should come
From those who kiss his ring.
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