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 Jul 2020
Graff1980
On brighter days,
I summit the sky,
then fall to escape
the rest of the world
that I try to
keep at bay.

I hit the water hard,
play in it like
it’s my own
backyard
swimming through
the deep salty blue
clear water view.

These are my daydreams,
a mind stream
I used to find
a line to rhyme
and work
poetry from my
ravaged mind.

On darker days
when the moon is
obscured by
a clouded sky
and fog moistens
my gray tinted window;

When the crow caws,
and the creepers claw
striking out in rage.
Taking this terror,
I paint my poetry page
with weird lines.

In the noon hours
I seek inspiration
from a nap,
waking refreshed
with a wonderful
dream reflection
slipping through
my bleary mind.
All points of inspiration
belong to me,
as I struggle to find
the right line.
Common people called him stingy
And with his funds he was.
But he was parsimonious
In areas that they never saw.

                Epitaph
True, he never spent a dime
If he could get it free.
He never wasted any time
That anyone could see.

He didn’t have much love to give
And wanted no love back
He had a certain way to live
Laid out in white and black.

He didn’t give and didn’t take.
He had no use for friends.
He died alone and that’s the way
This kind of story ends
                      ljm
The word was, of course, Parsimonious.  I  like doing these, but am having trouble keeping up  with one a day every day.  They are easy, but sorta like graffitti on a wall.  It's OK to paint them out.
 Jul 2020
Graff1980
Who knows
what wonder grows
waiting to explode
from those who show
no signs outward?

Who knows what pains
burn from within,
what sick shames
stirs her or him
to inflict suffering
on themselves
or cause ****
for others who
never deserved it?

Who can read
beneath the flesh
that they see
and find depths
of ****** reds,
of wretched raw
tears that claw
at the surface,
raging for revenge
against those who
hurt us?

Who knows?
 Jul 2020
Graff1980
Lured by the slurred
word that she heard
which plied with lies
that made her hum and purr.

Late for her classes
she moved like molasses
and stopped at a hot mud spot,
to sit in the slop
letting the filth
flow from the bottom
of where she was squatting
up to fill each crack and crevice.

She thought the wet dirt
would only hurt her white skirt
as the slick liquid was sliding
up and down her body.
In that moment writhing,
She had the feeling akin
to being pleasurably pig skinned.

How strange the change
as her belly engorged
and her limbs grew short.
Then from her lacy drawers
a corkscrew tail emerged.

How weird was it
when she heard
squeals of concern
spew from her snout.

She began to doubt
her humanness
as her dress
vanished
and she was grabbed
by a drab brute
with skoal breath
and lots of flab.

Pork patties were made
of this maiden led astray
by the wiles of a worthless
**** that made a feast of her
soft pork belly.
 Jul 2020
Graff1980
Church services will resume shortly,
so, get ready to crowd the rectory.
Confessions are in session
cause these are concessions to con men
plying their moral dissent
to compliment other idiots.

Success, cause intellectual blindness
and devotion to a deity who
doesn’t give two *****
about all of you who
are not rich republican men.

We win, my gullible friends.
Come on in.
Kenneth Copeland
and Cresflow dollar
will be taking your money
to support their private jet
go out and get
more stuff while the poor
struggle in debt.

Why care for those who despair?
Why share what we have
instead of bailing out
big businessmen?
We got to open the country again
and we can start with religion
cause they already believe
that science is fake
and magic is reality.

So, lets get them out and about
who cares if grandma get the disease.

We need to please these rich dudes,
these fox news
red hat attitude
gotta get a clue
red state race bating
confederate flag wearing
NRA make America great…

Wait……

Yeah, go to church
your pearly gates await
just please stay in
for at least two weeks
when you get back from
hearing your preacher speak.
 Jul 2020
Nico Reznick
My brother came up to collect our mother’s ashes.
At the same time, he dropped off her old vacuum cleaner.
I don’t know why exactly.
I hadn’t asked for it and didn’t need it;
I guess it would have been a waste to just get rid of it.
The thing is, 
it hadn’t been emptied, 
and for some reason that 
broke me 
all over again.

That grimy little time capsule.
That cyclone technology urn.
Contents:
Dust of a home you can never go back to;
Fur of a cat now settled with a new owner;
Dead cells of a dead woman.

Remains.
 Jul 2020
Graff1980
I created my only little world order
a comfort collected against disorder,
cause though I know entropy
will eventually consume everything
I like to think
I make my own purpose.

That I write meaning into
this universe I view
by the force of my creative will.

So, when the shadows come in
swallowing my well being
I have a foundation to fall back on.

Boy I was wrong,
the king of meaninglessness
the projector of  
poetry that says to everyone
that nothing really matters,
got a little silly
and caught up in
all those distractions
from reality.

Thankfully, all it takes
is a pandemic to shake
me from my stupor
and put me right back into the corner
remembering how much
I really don’t matter.
 Jul 2020
Graff1980
I am binary,
two beings in one,
a black hole
and a blazing sun.

I am solar rage
and a hunger
as powerful
as Galactus
ready to devour
all of us.

I am curious,
needing the seeding
of seeing and thinking
of drinking
and perceiving,
what is truthful
and what is deceiving.

I am ready to withdraw
but willing to come out,
full of confidence
but hold wisdom
in my doubt.

Like a dolphin
swimming in
the sparkling
ocean,
I am part of two worlds,
underwater gasping for air,
and limited in movement
when I come up there
to take my breathes.

Asleep when I awake,
in a daylight dreaming state,
but as time moves on
silence speaks volumes.
I see isolation
and find sorrow
in this lonely nation
of homebodies.
I am conflict that creates
some things I love
and other things I hate,
ill-defined by this frame
that holds the mind
from which I sprang.

Mostly, I am confused.
 Jul 2020
Graff1980
I want to write a better world,
but observing it is like trying to hit
a shrinking moving target
that no longer exists.

It is poetic pain exposed
with a wet runny red nose
that tries to sniff this rose
which grows from a puddle of mud and ****
whilst the thorns have scratched and pricked
the thin skin that has not started
to thicken just yet.

It is like having a plastic band in hand
and pulling it cause you plan
to use the tension to hold in
all of the bleeding
that this sick and deceiving
world has caused
but when you pause
the band snaps back
and attacks with fierce pain
causing more blood to drain
then it helps hold in.

It is like punching yourself in the face
to explain the pain of being hit there
realizing quickly no one gives a **** to see
said sad suffering
when there are tons of short videos
that distract all of those
who you long to teach.

It is just maddening.
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