Poetry-Thing Thursday: MotherVlad

Have you seen the news today?
Have you heard the tale?
The lump you hoped would all repay,
water-logged and setting sail,
Tube-toilette from Lady Justice,
delivered ‘neath the jester’s ass.
But Freedom mends however ail’d
and stupid sells asbestos.

No matter the shamest-shame,
or lumpest-lump,
you know MummyVlad,
your kindly grad,
was destined for t’swump.

And here’s what’s best,
now you’re next,
if not quite last,
for it’s ever going-on,
but that’s okay,
it’s all right-on,
so join in on the fun.

Truth is Vlad,
you’re ever-sad,
and really,
you know that.
But,
if you knew the willing will,
you’d remember what is true:
That to clash,
in Bear and Eagle flash,
as foolish then as now, too.

Watch countrymen run,
‘way from fi’ring guns,
never forgetting,
N1T3 will soon come.
No matter how cold,
those rebels most bold,
will find and defeat,
through each layered deceit,
for that is the Art,
of War in defeat.

There is but one way,
to evade now your worst horrors,
Your room-101,
and public-nightmare monsoon.
That harrowing dream,
that cuts at your womb:
the one where you harbor,
each idle tomb–
the one that’s inside,
and gutting,
buffoon.

Admit your defeat,
at the knees of her sheet,
and weep with true grief,
and open-veined sorrow,

For if you do not,
MotherVlad,
the Lady giveth no promise,
of further tomorrows.

But do not mistake,
what in haste seems dead-weight,
for that is the moment
to face the big-hate,
for tried and for true,
expose yourself,
open,
to failure.

Or do you think fate,
perchance to equate,
in a moment uncouth,
would heave all of her weight,
as if just to hate,
bend back, act pithy, ‘n rail ‘ya?

Well I’m here to say lass,
while yer down on yer ass,
would you rather it’all,
burn down around ‘ya?

If so perhaps I,
do solemnly scry,
the chances of wet scurvy ang’a.
So be tough and true,
warrior through,
but remember your lost man,
name of Sun Tzu:
some arts lost are better forgotten,
run this one through once more,
won’t you,
MotherVlad Rotten?

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Poetry-Thing Thursday: Mr. Fizzie’s House of Tizzies

Mr. Fizzie’s House of Tizzies,
where courageous cats meet buxom old bats,
and slithering snakes eat vile rattling rats,
and seldom sits the fury-faced gnats.

So come one, come all, this righteous fall,
for pigs in pants that tell crowds that chants,
of plans profound that’ll make ransom rounds,
of national nouns and kowtowing clowns.

Yes step right up, the future is fucked,
because outward oinkers are running rampant,
and glowing gaudy with envious-eyes empty,
while moral peasants gobble up their sparkling spunk.

It’s the Outrageous Orangutan vs the Mad-Hatted Hag,
and neither nitwit is more than a personal puppet,
for their monstrous masters and controlling corporate cum-pit,
and they’ll sell our souls for green and gold greed.

So cast your vote for the villainous goat,
and put your head to bed, to kiss your ass dead,
‘Cause at Mr. Fizzie’s House of Tizzies, it’s quite a pity,
to be one who’s witty,
for no matter which way you vote,
the result’ll be shitty.

Bonus Poem Double Feature: Part 2- Futility

Vigilante,
Closing in on a candlelight vigil,
spies the masked villain,
waiting in the wings for his next victim,
and so strikes with the power of voice,
until fear eviscerates the villain’s volition.

Meanwhile,
across a scarred city in moonlight,
is a deranged would-be protector-man,
whose only intention is that of the crime of murder.
After, he’ll hide behind a shield of metal,
that prompts sounds of mangled meat.

Futility,
is seen through the looking glass of fear,
where it is easy to mistake happenstance for fate,
but reality is Ralph, and harsh and frank,
and so long as we don’t allow ourselves to, we’ll never forget,
that there is no such thing, and thus our own futures formulate.

Speaking,
will forever be the path of sustenance,
as long as our reality is that of society.
We may remain in the din but reign in the silence,
for our hearts beat truest when in solace,
may they forever then, find written words for serene survival.

Bonus Poem Double Feature: Part 1- We’ll Rise as One

Sit upon a throne,
and taste the power.
Never atone,
be forced to cower.

Trampled underfoot,
we rise as one.
Whether in silence,
or loud as a gun.

Tell your lies,
and pull your strings,
for we despise,
unnatural things.

But sooner or later,
we’ll rise as one,
see through your smoke-screen
and your illusion.

Backed by hate,
and paper greed,
you deflate,
when faced with need

This world is ours.
We and it are one.
You will fade,
like the setting sun.

Opiate the masses,
with your vile succor,
separate the classes,
and rejoice with liquor.

But never forget,
we’ll rise as one,
against your kind’s regime,
forever, until we’ve won.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: One Ugly Goat

Cloning the dialect,
of a brain unerect,
cannot help deflect,
ignorance, shame, or lack of intellect.

Posing on podiums,
and razing auditoriums,
with stubborn, lost boredium,
how untoward of ’em.

Give ’em a blue pill,
they rise like a hill,
cause they’re a flammable still,
with pants burning at-will.

They open their jowls,
release lies as if bowels,
so don’t forget towels,
in the presence of such fowls.

They’re nothing but swine,
discordant waves of sine,
with brains unlike thine–
how for intelligence we pine!

So go cast your vote,
but don’t sell your boat,
or throw out your coat,
for the elephant and ass,
make one ugly goat!