EVERYWHERE, EVERYWHERE, ‘TIS PUMPKIN SPICE!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The leaves haven't even thought about turning,
still stubbornly clinging to summer's green,
but the grocery store screams orange.
You see them, the usual suspects, transformed.
Twinkies, once golden vanilla sponge cakes,
now a suspiciously orange hue,
promising pumpkin spice bliss.
Hostess Cupcakes, frosted swirls of autumnal delight,
their chocolate depths now haunted
by the ghost of gourd.
Oreos, America's favorite cookie,
now betraying their chocolate heart
for a limited-edition fling
with their pumpkin spice centers.
And M&Ms, ah those little,
candy-coated spheres of madness,
each one a tiny, orange lie,
whispering of harvest festivals
and sweater weather.
‘Tis a pumpkin spice apocalypse,
a sugary sweet, nutmeg and cinnamon invasion.
I laugh, a little crazed, a little delighted.
Bring it on, I say,
to the Twinkies, the Hostess cupcakes,
the Oreos, the M&Ms,
let pumpkin spice reign supreme!
Yes, let's be honest,
it's ridiculous, but
I'm totally here for it.
Now, where’s the pumpkin spice Pepto Bismol?!
Maybe I’m too simple
or too shallow
but I’m not angry.
What’s wrong with me?
I was trying to think
of someone I hate,
Jews, CIS guys, republicans,
palestinians, blacks, democrats,
the left handed, authority figures,
central americans, parents, vagrants,
the usual suspects, but I’m coming up empty
Things aren’t perfect
don’t get me wrong
I’ve got a pug nose
a flat chest
a giant forehead
and too much work to do
but I’m trying my best—
Worse yet, I’ve no plummeting anxieties
no obvious neurosis
—that one could be a misdiagnosis
no painful hangnails
no sad life tales
no addictions to defend
or hated ex-boyfriends
I have no emo hooks to pin my verse.
no current melodramas to cozen and coerce
between you and me, I think I’m off the rails
It’s really no wonder my poetry pales.
Yeah, that’s what’s wrong with me.
.
.
Songs for this:
Gee, Doctor by Dimie Cat
Sweet Lovin' (feat. Anna-Luca & Iain Mackenzie) by Club des Belugas
our awareness confined to body-mind
to navigate life our ego identity was born
to the truth of being, cognition remained blind
thus what was boon now bane till ego was shorn
discarding all knowing including imagined concepts
silence layers silence until silence alone remains
realms, gods and boons the usual suspects
colouration any, all these are chains
what emerges when duality ends
it is the absolute truth transcendental
no one comes, no one goes, no one ascends
it is a recognition of true being, beyond the mental
these unconventional cats who are dicks
forties detectives to you out of comic strips
make others nervous anyway me
go by their last names, like Marlo or Spade
interrogate usual suspects under spotlights
look to save a damsel or two
offices are dirty
in a sordid side of town
I run from these dicks
The same names keep coming up,
all the usual suspects,
but they give the illusion
of being many.
The same faces surface
the bugaboo’s,
the clown-faced devils.
We are taught to listen
without thinking,
to drink in
only their thoughts.
A critical mass is reached,
at last the sheep
are teaching themselves
to be sheepdogs.
Now we are watchful
of the wooly flock.
We will not drink
their watery beers.
a battalion of horses
prancing around in my mind
snorting and pawing
make my muse crazy with happiness
mice run through their feed
she loves that, it gives her a start
I roll my eyes
not fond of rodents
adjectives on fire ping themselves in my musings
the usual suspects
some I have used so often
I have embarrassed myself
persnickety and prissy being two of my favorites.
redundant I use them so often
I want to use prissy again! Trixie says
I back off; she can be a very unforgiving muse.
Ere Kyser
was Kaiser
or Söze
the records
a german
germaine
an immigrant
they granted him
a pass
some eight generations past
first, depressing
later, repressing
regressing
turning generational curse to blessing
and now messing
and fiddling
with rhyming and riddling
for an extended verbal stint
roger that
with another Jeff
and all the
usual suspects
I’m a bit of a mystery, a bit of a myth.
My answer to small talk is taking the fifth.
My loyal troops are always gathered ‘round.
It’s just Santa, Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy,
And me.
I’m a bit of a fog, and a bit of a fraud.
I’ve smuggled illegal opinions abroad.
I hang with all the usual suspects.
It’s just Bigfoot, Yeti, Paul Bunion,
And me.
I’m a bit of a rumor, and a bit of a fact.
You can tell by the way my critics react.
But I’m never worried by all their drawn swords.
It’s just Athos, Porthos, Aramis,
And me.
My halloween candy went missing one day
The usual suspects came into play
The clues were quite easy to unveil
The culprit had left a candy wrapper trail!
The trail ended at little brother's door
He had pulled off this caper the year before
I called his name, he came running out
I said "Boo" and he let out a shout
It was the same for a few years
He'd take my treats then get a good scare!
---
10-17-19
If I Were Your Brother Contest
Sponsor: Bobby May
David Icke
remains untarnished
after years of abuse
he is now a respected
figure, although he remains
prone to the usual attacks
from the usual suspects!
Alex Jones
has been removed
from You Tube
and other platforms
his bigger than life
persona attracted
the good,the bad
and the ugly
Tommy Robinson
has been removed
from all of the
platforms
he is the voice
of many wounded
souls
Tommy is their
Messiah
So David Icke
are you paid
opposition?
The government
are not to be trusted.
end
Black or White
They hide behind masks
They deceive the cathedral masses
They have no names
They have no real face
They preach
They poetically sing
They postulate like peacocks in a ring
Yet silently they slither away
The preacher with the loud voice
The Politician like a trumpet
Promises they have on offer
They are the usual suspects
Loud in pronouncements
Silent in moral disguises
In the corner of the flower garden
The ugly rose
Stood alone
No shelter from blistering noon sun
Wilted and burnt
The beautiful ones mocked
The usual suspects in the garden
Gathered together in flock
The ugly rose wilted and dried
As the other flowers laughed
They became week and fraught
Not knowing their fate was interlocked
For the ugly rose fading and alone
Was not the petals nor the stem
The intertwined roots were rotted
Soon it was the other flower bushes condemned
As the rose garden rotted and died
That one ugly rose, rose again and became alive
Flourishing on the nutrients of the unsurvived
Sadly that one lonely rejected flower
Still was all alone
With no one to share her flourishing bloom
Like a lover left alone in the corner of a room
No one was there to see her bloom
The rains caressing her soul
Every day at quarter to four
There is often a rush to the library door
The ‘usual suspects’ are often there
Sitting on a library chair
They speak to the teacher who they have upset
It may have been deliberate or even for a bet
They could have been fighting, swearing or smoking
When they arrive for their chat no one is joking
Disturbing others, using their phone or often being late
They will end up in the library - it’s not just down to fate
Some may learn and try to refrain
But the ‘usual suspects’ do it again and again
After a short time their chat is over, and to the bus they run
But I love to see the days when the library list shows ‘none’
Our staff they do a marvellous job to try and educate our youth
Poor behaviour can stop this task, it is the sorry truth.
You did a beaUTIFUL THING Boss
Tp f### a perfect future all over again all over a woman,
,he met himsef comin back and he said to himself its pointless without love,
round up the usual suspects,
This very same thing happened to me just last year,
THIS COULD BE THE BEGINNING OF A BEAUTIFUL FRIENDSHIP,
Scream the GODS.
Usual suspects, usual jokes
Usual banter, usual pokes
Mates forever, friends for a time
Band plays their favourites
And feelings they mime.
Swan glides in and rests on a seat,
Regal and classy-to them she's fresh meat,
Colour has come to their black and white screen
They smile and look friendly but she knows what they mean.
She has saved three months for the dress that she owns
But the vultures around want to pick at her bones
She wants a connection, she's looking for more
But she's come in alone, she must be a whore.
The men have escaped from the kids and the wives,
Three or four pints and they live different lives,
The drink makes them think they are sex on a stick
But the swan only smiles and thinks 'yet one more prick'.
She knows she won't meet him in this type of place
She knows in her heart his mind and his face
But while she's still waiting she'll fill up her time
With music and laughter and feelings they mime.
Related Poems