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Joseph Demarco Poem
The suicidal King and the one eyed Jack
Were perusing the bar for a late evening snack
"How's her?" asked the Jack.
"Too thin," said the King.
"I like the women...
with bottoms that swing."
"How's she?" asked the King.
"Too plump," said the Jack.
"I like the women...
with a nice tight rack."
The Queen of Hearts pulled her panties up with a snap
And shoved The Beast's craw off her god forsaken lap
Shut her eyes, held her breath and rolled out of bed
And tiptoed out the door
Without a word said,
The Beast was OK
An Ace he was not
Confused, she strolled to the bar
for a late evening shot
"You pig," cried the Queen
"Who me?" pleaded the King.
"I can't believe you have the decency
To still wear your ring."
The king looked her up and down,
sole to soul and foot to crown
He knew something was wrong,
almost RIGHT AWAY
For one, there was a smile on her face
That seemed to last ALL DAY
"You ****," cried the King
"Who me?" questioned the Red Ace
"Not you!" said both King and Queen
"How could you stand there and lie to my face
with your button half undone
and your stockings out of place?"
"How could you?" cried the King.
"You don't deserve to wear that crown
With your bra strap twisted up
And your dress falling down."
"I'm leaving," protested the Queen
And she would've I know
Except sometimes
Love waits until the last minute to show
"Wait," cried the King, but he stopped
He had decided to call her bluff
And he turned his back
Even though it was tough
Because also sometimes
Loving someone just isn't Enough.
By: Joseph DeMarco
Copyright © Joseph Demarco | Year Posted 2009
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Joseph Demarco Poem
I was running up the mountain,
Just dog tired,
Suffering,
My mind drifting
Between the Infinite Rift.
My Aumakua (spirit animal) stops on a branch nearby.
He starts to chirp a mile a minute.
I cannot understand him.
For a second I imagine his chirps as something other than sounds.
This is what the little bird might have said,
"If Friends come and go
Enemies must
Stay and stop
Or what happens
If I don't think?
Does that mean
I am not?
Could I just fizzle away
into the immaterial matter in the air?
Become one with the universe,
Dissipate like the wind
Which has a pulse and a spirit
And a really bad temper.
The wind gets really pissed
If you break its rules.
For every reaction
There is a bell that goes off in a parallel universe
And two porcupines make love very carefully
Until one of them pokes the other
In the way that poking is bad..."
I put my finger in my ear, and realize the bird is still chirping and chattering, But for some
reason I can't understand him any more. Maybe I never could.
-Joseph DeMarco
Copyright © Joseph Demarco | Year Posted 2009
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Joseph Demarco Poem
We hardly remember the truth
Victims of the Great Forgetting
We hardly recognize that history is popular culture
A screenplay of the past written by the victor
Just look at Thomas Jefferson
Author of the Declaration of Independence
With his quill scribing the words, "All men are created equal."
We hardly think of him slinking back to his slave plantation
Grabbing one of his African slave mistresses
and having his way with her
His love puppet
Of which he had a harem
My ninth grade teacher (whom had tenure)
whispered from the side of his face
The only thing Columbus discovered
Was those people he called Indians
Which we now call Native Americans
were savages in the sack
And the only thing he brought back
from the New World was syphilis
We hardly look at the big picture
which is that we are destroying ourselves
We cannot continue to keep living
the way we are living
And not expect civilization to collapse
We are so short sighted
We hardly see history repeating itself
We are Rome
And quite sadly Nixon is our Nero
Hardly a hero
It won't be long before
The clock strikes zero
By: Joseph DeMarco
Copyright © Joseph Demarco | Year Posted 2010
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Joseph Demarco Poem
The (not-so-little) mermaid stares down
between her scales,
to the spot where the sun don't shine.
A look of concern dawning on her face,
she can't help but wonder
(not what it might be like to have legs
Or to walk and run)
but what it might be like to have a p#$$y
or who-ha if p#$$y is too dirty.
She has v@***@ envy.
For although she has been
blessed with a bodacious pair of puppies,
or tatas or breasts if puppies and tatas offend you.
She feels incomplete with out the who-ha
or c##t if who-ha is too clean.
She saw the word in a dirty magazine,
that her friend gave her,
and now whenever she gets the chance,
She swims to the surface,
and stares at the pictures
of women spreading their meat curtains,
or showing off their honey pot, if meat curtains is too pejorative.
She fantasizes about having that bearded clam between her legs,
About taking her fingers and parting those luscious lips
Perhaps fishing around down there
Although she doesn't know why men use that term
The v@***@ is not like a fish
It is more like a flower.
She stays in that spot,
studying and staring at where all life begins
envious that she herself
does not have a heart-shaped box.
Copyright © Joseph Demarco | Year Posted 2014
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Joseph Demarco Poem
Visualize my children and you shall look
Upon the voyage of Captain James R. Cook;
It was the eighteenth of January in Seventeen Seventy-Eight;
Hardly a Hawaiian can forget the Date;
What befell upon the Islands was a terrible Fate.
During the Makahiki festival, Cook was thought to be Lono;
He would never live to see how he upset the (Balance) Pono;
The false god blew smoke from his mouth and had skin so pale,
Arriving on a floating island with a giant sail,
So Cook told them he was a God, never thinking this deceit might fail.
At first it went good they celebrated together,
But upon leaving the island, Cook hit nasty weather;
One ship had some problems and broke its foremast;
If they didn't turn around, the ship wasn't going to last,
So they headed back to the island faster than fast.
The Hawaiians had been generous and were generous again,
And even as the author holds this pen,
He knows "boys will be boys" and "men will be men,"
And the Hawaiian resentment, was starting to burn
For "this god who ate so much, but gave so little in return.”
When loose tools were stolen, men got even more irate;
Both sides Hawaiian and Haole began to fill with hate;
So Cook’s men stole a canoe and there was a small fight;
Nobody died, but the European sailors remained on shore for the night;
When they awoke, another of their large boats was missing from sight.
Cook was angry now and wanted his large boat back;
He marched on shore with marines, in an attempt to attack;
He grabbed him a hostage Chief Kalani'opu'u;
In the wake, a riot began to ensue;
The Hawaiians got their clubs, while Cook waved in his crew.
Guns were fired, Hawaiians charged, and the Marines ran back to their boat,
And alone stood Captain Cook in his British red coat;
Cook was hit with a club, stabbed numerous times and killed;
Still more than two hundred years later the void can never be filled,
Like a cavity that's so deep it cannot be drilled.
What could the Hawaiians do?
It seemed as if the prophecies were coming true;
Death and demise would come from across the sea,
Though it never said what or who it might be;
Were these white foreigners, devils or the missing key?
One hundred years later, the Native Hawaiian Population was decimated;
Disease and materialism only helped to destroy all the Hawaiians created;
The US took their harbor and went on vacation on their white sands;
Now is time for change, the choice is in your hands;
Discover the truth, help return stolen lands.
Copyright © Joseph Demarco | Year Posted 2007
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Joseph Demarco Poem
The Beatles are frozen underground
Like some sort of Prehistoric Cave Drawing,
Art Incognito.
The Ground is Hard
And my Fingernails break.
The Clay inbeded in my DNA,
Some part of me is Buried
Should I attend my own Funeral?
Nobody Else seems to be going
The Eulogy is short and unsweetened,
There are no Tears.
It hasn't rained in days,
I long for the tropics,
Where things make more sense.
I long for that girl
from long ago
who was never anything
but beauty personfied.
The butterfly on her lower hip
flutters and is perhaps my heart.
Desire is an impossible suspect,
My fingers slide under her yellow underwear
Past the Tattoo which dances,
Subtly stopping to admire the colors of her wings
The Moment is perfect.
The Cold outside in perfect contrast
To the warmth I feel for her,
beneath the Reptilean Skin
I crawl looking for this moment
Because that is all I can do
To pass the time
Copyright © Joseph Demarco | Year Posted 2008
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Joseph Demarco Poem
We all hear the internal clock ticking,
A self-contained Doomsday device,
Melting like a candle in the desert heat
Shaded by our consciousness,
We try to ignore the Fun House mirrors
That manipulate our memory.
Our minds as flat as pancakes
Are screaming for persistence
And there's something that looks slightly like a deflated goose on the sand.
Our memories are not real
They happen to be past-tense fantasies
Reality souped-up on steroids
Hounding us like a dog
we bargain with memory
and give in to its demands
By: Joseph DeMarco
Copyright © Joseph Demarco | Year Posted 2010
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Joseph Demarco Poem
Twas the day before Summer Break
And all through the school
Not a single kid was studying
or following one single rule
The books were all stacked in the corner with care
while paper and spitballs
were airborne everywhere
The children would not listening to what teacher said
For visions of vacation
danced in their head
They'd have parties and picnics plus get to sleep in
The only downside was dealing
with their family and kin
But that was a really very small price to pay,
Just a very small sum
Because Sweet Summer Break had at long last come.
The clock ticked toward three,soon they'd be free
Half left their seats before teacher could decree,
Have a wonderful summer break
By: Joseph DeMarco
Copyright © Joseph Demarco | Year Posted 2014
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Joseph Demarco Poem
In the land of the lost
They dug up a book of magic spells today
No one had seen spells like this before
Some of them were extremely weird
The cover of the book said:
PO--etry
And the people wondered if PO-etry was a black or white magic. The book was sent to an
expert in magic and his assistant for examining.
Look at page 82
"Mumps on the breast
sleepless rest
Eastless west
I didn't have to study for my urine test."
or
page 97
"Crazy insane
painless pain
evaporating rain
nothing changes perception
quite like the brain."
or how about
page 115
"Vision blurred
brain is slurred
this is what happens
when I think like the herd."
The expert in magic confirmed it was white magic and shared the spells with everyone. The
spells brought wonder and joy to the people in the land of the lost. And perhaps that is magic
in itself.
Copyright © Joseph Demarco | Year Posted 2008
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Joseph Demarco Poem
The scene is all too familiar
(Except for the purple sky),
Has this happened before?
Deja vu on the edge of a waking dream?
In another life,
Or maybe all funerals are the same?
The same ceremony.
The same casket
(Well this casket is made of Phantom-wood).
The same sadness, fear and joyousness,
from everybody that it is not
THEIR funeral.
We are all lined up
(Along the blue grass)
These familiar strangers.
They look like neighbors from past lives,
The lady next to me looks like
my 1st grade teacher
(Except she has five noses).
She doesn't seem to know me,
Why would she?
Didn't I used to deliver newspapers to that man?
(Except without the eyes in the back of his head)
Not in this life
Maybe that was lifetimes ago.
On the way in
I brushed past the doorman
(who looks like this kid I used to play hockey with,
except he is thirty years older).
But we say not a word to each other
As if we don't know each other
(or never did).
The funeral is sad and I cry,
even though I never knew the boy in the coffin
I cry because things have to end.
Why can't they be endless?
I cry cause death is heart-breaking
I cry for his family's pain.
And I am glad to go back to my world,
Where we never die and love is endless.
By: Joseph DeMarco
Copyright © Joseph Demarco | Year Posted 2012
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