kcar wrote: 
Forget all rules, forget all restrictions, as to taste, as to what ought to be said, write for the pleasure of it... - William Carlos Williams

You have potential!

My 9th grade was in 68-69. Viet Nam was in black and white. So was the violence in my city. Monsters were and still are real. Not subtle. Easy to spot. They look like bullies and cowards.
That much hasn't changed. 

 oldviolin wrote:

Erections On A Theme

Trump eats detractors for breakfast because nutrition. Ugly but true.
He doesn't give a damn about me, and he doesn't give a damn about you.
His empire of dirt is an empire of hurt.
Like a Bible for a prop, like a worn out dirty shirt
When a body is unhealthy, that's when disease thrives,
taking what is vital with dull and rusty knives
So don't look for Biden, he doesn't exist
Another middle finger from a crumbling litmus fist.
Propped up by dregs of vassal forces , vacant suit hard to miss
Formaldehyde and acid stained, sealed with an empty kiss.

carrion my wayward sun
with your play on worlds
your spotted affairs
and indigo flairs
for debridement

 oldviolin wrote: 
Old fridge is in the scrapyard
the words in a jar
no matter how fast we run
we won't get far

Chicken in a bread pan
pecking out dough
Pandora's box wide open now
row boat set to go

It all sounds bad
but could be worse
above the dirt is better
than riding in a hearse

You can gum up the proof
with a flexible tooth
a puff and a poof
to hide under the couth
with the assayer's sooth

because

From co(s)mic anomalies to pericope winkles
we tug at our skins and smooth out our wrinkles
we polish the water to a high glossy sheen
and matter the weaving from ends to the mean
for with that keen input, those bit roots, brash strokes
we eye of the tiger and all that evokes
in witness to wonder the standing lie down
the cacophony ended, with nary a sound

I looked into the sky today
An orange haze everywhere
Is this the beginning of the end
Or is it the glasses I wear
It’s an Oompa Loompa kinda day
Waiting for the next bushel of oranges to drop
On my naked feet’s 
Oh FÜ¢k’s that hurtz 

Work cancelled today but I still have a million things to do
It's beautiful outside for the whole day through
Maybe I'll just hang around here and harass you, you, and you
What else is a part time ne're-do-well going to do?

candy-coated popcorn
peanuts and a prize
that's what you get 
with the skies flinging pies

sitting on a park bench
bag of pickled smidgens
wizard of the waste land
feeds the homing pigeons

Everyday you spread your lies
Trying hard to open eyes
But you're the blind one.

Each day you spread lies
trying hard to flip the script
But you can't, so stop.

The crap you post can't
even be believed by you
Give us all a break

Takes all kinds of dirt
to bury the dead
Takes all kinds of hurt
to witness with dread
Leave talking to the talkers
when the talking's been said
Like living with the notions
of dying in your head

In a dimly lit room one might see in shadows
what they might imagine in grief
With life and death the currency of doubt
and a pallid witness to abandonment and belief

 GeneP59 wrote:

This reminds me of a William Carlos Williams poem I had to read in the 9th grade. The teacher was a plump, smug rookie: 

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

I could just see Tubby trotting those weasel words on a roommate after mooching his cereal. Over the years I'd think of responses like

Listen you asshole

Do that again and

the next plum's going up your backside

and my dog will take a dump in your Birkenstocks. 

 Manbird wrote: 
Hey! Catch!

Not sorry

 oldviolin wrote:

your big head is what time it is

One day, while wandering on the winding road to metaphor, I spotted an anachronism
hiding amongst broken sheen and mounds of red dirt with dead bare trees
and I thought to myself that this could be it.
I stopped my red metal wagon with hard rubber tires 
and picked up to assemble the makeshift easel lying partially buried in the ditch.
Reaching into a bag of jewelry I produced a few gobs of color
and the axle grease from my trusty if rusty carriage and mixed the medium
until the mash was mixed and the memes were a ghost. 
I peered through the glare and prepared my dirty red canvas
and I felt a tug at the strings sewn into my hands and 
began to brush and smear and elbow my way into a house of signs
as I wondered which wonders to paint. 
That was a really long and ridiculous to describe day.