Lazily I sit naked on my favorite  carved antique chair,
by the writing table, fully immersed  in Kamsutra zen,
the randy one barges in, with a smile,euphemistically reprimands:
"Man, have a heart, your ****** is being unfairly wasted again"

'Tis true what they say,
May your glass be half-full,
I discovered the same
In a quaint Irish pub.

On leaving that evening
I pulled on my mac,
The wind was wet
And pushing my back.

Pushing's surely
An understatement,
It drove so hard
My face met the pavement.
And I could hear Molly singing:
And the road rose up to meet me.

There was no sun
To blame for my face,
The burn on my skin
Was a shameless disgrace.

The road home that night
Was all downhill,
But with hard rain that night
I was trudging uphill.

There's plenty
Of work
For this man's hands,
For the luck of the Irish
Is a tourism scam.

As for being in heaven
A half hour ahead
Of Ole Lucifer knowing
That I'm ten minutes dead;
I'm sure he'll be keening
At the foot of my bed.

Dad always said
Being Irish was grand,
If you're in North America
And not Ireland.

Thought you had a thicker hide my succulent, enticing friend
Thought you may have grit your teeth to bring this to a sweeter end,
It’s just the way you frame your words, so eloquent and mystical
Plus sanity’s touch heavy hand in what was writ, logistical?
One would have thought a bigger girth, broader shoulders, squarer chin
Than to resort to hot retort of pressing BLOCK…thus cancelling?
Disappointing how it ran, how it voided all before
When, then, you might have easily... avoided showing me the door?
Still, I guess, what’s done is done. We both shall live another day
Where, hopefully, the sun shall shine allowing us both, out to play?

M.
13 February 2016

Fickle feelings fuel your mind
Leaving you in a state of confusion
Inside you find your heart is blind
Perpetuating another conclusion

Feelings change once again
Leaning toward a different selection
Ongoing turnabout without end
Perpetuating a loss of direction

She cooks her dishes with such panache and zest,
as if both are  two new  dishes for me to taste,
her dainty waist, arrested my eyes,
then the mind ******, thunder thighs,
all I want is to stick to her all over like curry paste.

I thought Snake Oil Salesmen were
a relic of the past, standing up on a stage dispensing
blatant lies and bogus even dangerous cures for
exaggerated imagined illness and or personal fears.

I thought we ran all of them out of town,
suitably tarred and feathered,
Riding on a hitching post rail.
Perhaps some things never change.

"Hurry, hurry, hurry.
Step right up folks!
In this little bottle, I hold in my hand,
is a magic elixir of my own imagination and invention,
That is absolutely-unconditionally guaranteed
To Make America great again,
All I ask for this be all, cure all, is one small vote
cast for me, crowning me King of all there is."

Now where did we put that rail?

Sat on a bench
Reading a book
A shadow appears
So I take a look.....

There in my face
Without any shame
Stood a man in a coat
Without a name
Clasped in his hand
His **** - stood up tall
A look on his face
That said it all

"You're on your own
So I'll ruin your day
By showing my ****"
What's left to say?!
His sweaty palm
Moving so fast
Stroking his ego
Rubbing his shaft

'For ***** sake' I cried
Standing to leave
'Put it away!'
Quite tame I believe
For now what I wish
Is I'd taken a shot
A swift kick or a swipe
To show him who's boss

If I'd had a ***
I'd have taken stock
And stubbed it quite calmly
On the end of his ****!!
Alas all I did
Was walk away
And ring the police
Then got on with my day!

(C) Pixievic

I **** at writing poetry, but I do it anyway
Because life is an absurd struggle in
An impersonal universe, thus rendering
All efforts ultimately meaningless,
If that's the case, why shouldn't
I write bad poetry? If we are to, as
Camus says "imagine Sisyphus happy"
Then I'll keep rolling this metaphorical
Boulder of frustrated creativity up the
Mountain of artistic expression, in the
Misplaced hope that just maybe,
One of these times, instead of rolling
Back down and adding one more instance,
To that large pile of abject failures that
I've accumulated throughout my life,
It will stay at the top, rendering me
Successful, and making one of these
Jumbled word salad tangents into
Something that's actually worth reading.

...probably not gonna happen, though.

Ones who look
But never see,
Are ones who won't
Agree to agree.

Ones who hear
But never listen,
Never get
One's position.

Ones who touch
But never feel,
Have heavy hearts
Forged in steel.

Ones with answers
Who never ask,
Are usually blowing it
Out one's ***.

Ones who smell,
Well...
Avoid those ones.

Politics:
Satan's favorite video game.







©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry

A silver pail of crickets turned over in the boat , the prisoners ran for cover to take a vote ... The Aye's would return to the bucket to risk their fate , "Our captors appear ready to leave the lake anyway !" The Nay's would seek limited freedom and shelter somewhere on the boat , beneath a paddle , a raft or in a tackle box , subject to be harpooned and cast into the drink at any moment ! Three young crickets said "To hell with such tomfoolery ! We're off the boat this very second , we'll swim for our very lives across the waters treacherous surface ! Two out of three lived to tell the tale , to witness all the Aye's and Nay's cast off into the watery abyss , the price for giving up one's independence , the very fruits of resigning oneself to be falsely governed , to lay in chains or hide in shame is no life at all for fisherman nor bug !

You shape in a drape with bright disease
Claws sharp , Dixie fried , everything plus
Focus your audio gin mill cowboy
Hanging paper while interviewing your
brains , no place to jungle up
Know your groceries lead sled
Until you noodle it out keep it
Mason-Dixon line
It's all off the cob .


Bass drum knuckles - one who loudly over shadows anyone else , a bully .

A shape in a drape - well dressed

Bright disease - to know too much

Claws sharp - well informed on a variety of subjects

Dixie Fried - drunk

Everything plus -  better than good looking

Focus your audio - listen carefully

Gin mill cowboy - a bar regular

Hanging paper - playing with forged checks or documents . Liar .

Interviewing your brains - thinking

Jungle up - having a specific place to live or to be

Know your groceries - being aware , do things well

Lead sled - a classic (older) car

Mason-Dixon line - anywhere out of bounds regarding personal space

Noodle it out - think it through

Off the cob - corny

All the above except title provided by Adrienne Crezo .