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Schidtfaced

TheMagicRealist.com

To be born and be human, one must have a name
And it is something given. We have not the choice
In which ones we will take as we make our way here.
If some knew what was coming, they would come in fear
That the names they are given might make people voice
Their obnoxious remarks, though benign just the same.

Linking faces to names… That’s what folks like to do.
It’s the best way to keep track of people we know.
A good face then can have a bad name, just as well
As the mug that resembles the bat out of hell
Can be blessed with a pretty name – one that does flow
From the lips like a butterfly… or honeydew.

If your name is a cumbersome one, it may be
That you also break mirrors remotely with ease.
One who has both these assets is lethal at best
And at worst a mere scapegoat that most would detest.
A good name with a good face may quite often please.
Names are not really faces, we all can agree.

From Which Well Doth Hell Speweth?

TheMagicRealist.com

Why to stay harder longer should make sense to me
Or should have some scant meaning to parts that I know
That know nothing of woe for not having retired
From a lifetime of work erotically inspired…
I cannot figure out. And this all goes to show
That Big Brother and TMI seem to agree.

Who the hell are they talking to thinking it’s me?
There must be a statistic to guide their campaign.
They will greet on my birthday and many days hence.
When I’m caught live on line, the ads can get intense.
It is not all that personal. I must refrain
From becoming too bothered by things that I see.

I need no bride from Russia nor Rolex device.
That may be because I’m not the one who they think
Pays attention to not much beyond what he sees.
They may spew as they wish. I will do as I please
And not be too resentful I’ll come to the brink
Of a backlash vociferous and not too nice.

Solicitors, Knock At Your Risk

TheMagicRealist.com

I’m not running for office and neither are you.
And I know you don’t think this is Beverly Hills.
I don’t need my damned soul saved. It’s doing just fine.
You’re a fool if you think I don’t know the divine.
Most professional pests seem to get their cheap thrills
With their in-your-face tactics and hullabaloo.

My FICO score isn’t at mark of the beast
And that’s none of your business. Don’t patronize me
With your slick condescension. I hear very well
Hidden language that lurks where the sea plankton dwell.
Just because I exist you won’t charge me a fee.
Those who prey on the poor see their profits increased.

I don’t need my damned lawn mowed, dear neighbor of mine.
Your con game is as thick as the prick in the suit.
Keep your eyes off my yard and my yard off your mind.
Your kind gardening guidance is of your behind.
When to all I’m considered a tree bearing fruit
I’ll assume all are hostile rather than benign.

One Who Feels Down And Out

TheMagicRealist.com

One who feels down and out as if squeezed through a spout
Of a sphincteric nature need not fret alone.
There are many who feel the same. And what they do
Is to find an escape hatch that they can crawl through.
Either that or they find a way to somehow own
Circumstantial fecality nestled in doubt.

 I look fine in the mirror, at least wearing clothes.
They obliterate nothing that gives me away.
How I feel is the question – not how others see.
I’m eternally grateful that I can be me.
If I feel like I’m lying in this that I say
Then there’s work to be done on myself, I suppose.

It’s another off day. I’m not feeling in sync
With the heart of the cosmos and neighbors and such.
This is not a big deal for me. It will soon pass.
I’ll respect the momentum of relative mass.
Comfort is in detachment and keeping in touch
With the part of oneself that one knows doesn’t stink.

Do I Feel Like A Weapon?

TheMagicRealist.com

How to deal with my anger… It will take me down!
It, in itself, is what I’m fighting. So why
Do I seek a thing outside me to cause me rage?
I know that it is senseless, yet still I engage
In the warfare of pettiness. I can’t comply
With Established malpractices. They make me frown.

I suppose I’m a bigot. I don’t care for pigs.
I will eat them at breakfast, so not all are bad.
But I cannot look up to one wearing a suit.
Money cannot be evil. Ill heart is the root
Of any interaction that makes me feel sad.
Customers get their Service much as the dog digs.

I must learn to choose battles, if life is a war,
Where there’s no in the meantime to comfort the now.
I must know that my ego is just part of me.
It and I share a freedom. We need not agree.
Should one hell of a mad-on become a death vow?
When I engage in battle, I ask for but more.

Good JuJu

TheMagicRealist.com

When one speaks of Good JuJu, what could that imply?
Probably it was hijacked and sold as a slave.
But, at present, it means magic of the best kind.
Esoteric immersion can be self-defined.
To receive information from folks past the grave
Is a most common practice. Deception is why.

In the dense, fleshy body, one can conceal truth.
One can hide behind masks that the ego has made.
People don’t ordinarily read others’ minds,
So we tend to get tricky with games of all kinds.
We can even be driven to drink The Kook-Aid
And bring heartfelt resentment to the polling booth.

There is lots of Good JuJu, the best antidote
To the sickening mojo that would have its way
Were it not for the talents of some gifted few
Who, with enhanced discernment, and keen insight too,
Help to sort out the truth from untruth day by day.
Simple freedom from fantasy they do promote.

Jolly Jizz, The Johnson Juicer

TheMagicRealist.com

When the stiff Mister Johnson has no proper date,
A most urgent condition has made itself clear.
For the dude he’s attached to, there’s trouble as well.
He will thoroughly brief himself on cunt intel
To provide the raised gentleman respite from fear.
Is success or is failure determined by fate?

Please don’t answer the question. Your problems are solved!
If you don’t have the real thing but do have a hand,
Just grab hold of a Jolly Jizz. You will do fine.
You won’t sweat much, and you will not wear out your spine.
You will never be lost when things don’t go as planned.
Why put up with the hassle of others involved?

Jolly Jizz by SpoogeMaster is just what you need.
She’s your sleek sultry substitute absent of voice.
You can slop-sock it to her held with a firm grip.
You Are Busy! You don’t have the time for courtship.
Do invest in The sure thing. That is your best choice.
With your friend on the standby, you’ll always succeed.

Digital Douche

TheMagicRealist.com

This old bitch is cantankerous. Ain’t it a shame.
Just a month out of warranty and she’s broke down.
She’s as slow as molasses kept cold in the fridge.
She’s got time for herself, but for me, just a smidge.
She can trick and treat me as if I were a clown.
If she drove me to violence, I’d not be to blame.

I won’t go to the Geek Folk. They will take her side.
Like machine marriage counselors, they’ll give me guff.
They will give me a list of some steps I should take
To clean up her stack overflow. Give Me A Break!
I’m a Poet. I know not of digital stuff.
I will fidget with words, and in that, I take pride.

There are temp and %temp% folders that gather debris
That they tend to hold onto long after their use.
There are many bit pathways that clutter with crud
of a binary nature that’s somewhat like mud.
Earnest digital hygiene should greatly reduce
Her most disgusting sluggishness effectively.

My digits can’t get messy just messing with keys
And my well-fondled, hairless mouse by the firm hand.
When I program a flushing, I’d like a swoosh sound
To ensure that it isn’t just fooling around.
I detest slow computers and can’t understand
How they keep getting completely struck with disease.

Silent Assed Letters

TheMagicRealist.com

If an actor is silent, why put him on stage?
I have heard of non-speaking parts. That’s not the point.
A good actor can get away with using mime
And may get more across to folks in much less time.
If performers don’t speak, their silence will anoint
The observer’s attention so that he’ll engage.

Let that bring us to letters… the ones that go mute
For a seemingly small set of words that are used.
Silent letters are assy. In fact, they’re a pain,
Though I’ve digested them with the ultra-mundane.
Almost half of the alphabet has been excused
Of a voice in some words. Are they there to be cute?

Well, they aren’t that adorable. Parsley they are
On a plate of potatoes and succulent meat,
Cast aside as the meal is completed, and then,
gathered up with the rubbish to not be again.
All the words that have placeholders playing discrete
Would do quite well without them, and they’d leave no scar.

What’s Up With ‘Won’t?’

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

There’s a surplus of ‘won’t’ but there is no ‘wo not.’
Why did no one explain this, when I was in school,
That there isn’t a ‘wo,’ really? It’s just a growth
From a disjointed history. Were they not both,
‘Will’ and ‘Not,’ as a pair, solved by judicial rule,
Then perhaps each raw litigant would have no plot.

How does ‘will’ become ‘wo?’ That’s what I’d like to know
Not that it makes a difference. I could get by
Without reaching the bottom of this inquiry.
How the ruling for ‘won’t’ was reached I’d like to see.
Who has judged this contraction the right one, and why?
Did some scene in a courtroom take place long ago?

In Old English, the verb ‘willan’ meant ‘wish’ or ‘will.’
It was ‘will’ in the present and ‘wold’ in the past (?)
Over centuries, too many forms of the two
Were used widely. Versions appeared out of the blue.
Some folks tried the word ‘willn’t.’ That shit didn’t last.
That is why frigging English is such a damned pill.

My Awareness of What Is

TheMagicRealist.com

My awareness of what is can keep myself stuck
On the roadway of life. It is hard to get past
All the sameness. Sometimes I can’t hear myself think.
My acquaintance with boredom could drive me to drink.
I detest holding patterns. How long will this last?
Since this happens to me, does it make my life suck?

I can tolerate traffic when we’re not in cars.
People seem to be not as quick to flip the bird.
Behind metal and glass, one might feel he kicks ass,
But in person, if you raise your fist, he will pass.
While on roadways, some nice folks are easily stirred
To brute force confrontation – but not while in bars.

Keep the mind off the hear and now, and on the road.
Do not look through the side windows at what is passed.
What’s ahead becomes now in the blink of an eye.
And what’s now becomes past fast. No one can deny.
I have tons of awareness – enough to outlast
Any standstill in life where I need not be towed.

Barcode Overload

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s too much information – that naked barcode.
It behaves like the butt crack. To me it looks gross.
Everything on earth has one – perhaps the moon too.
And like assholes, opinions and bad humor (eew!),
That machine-crafted zebra mark is bellicose
In a manner that messes with me when it’s showed.

Everywhere I will see them, like peeping Tom’s eyes.
Hanging out at the corners of labels they hide
Unassuming to most. But they give me the creeps.
They may thrive on immodesty, but not for keeps.
I do cover them forthwith with paint well applied.
I just don’t like to scan them. To me it’s unwise.

Is the growth of the barcode because of the growth
Of our species-specific domain, as it were?
We are plenty in number and things that we do.
We need means to keep track of all that we accrue.
Though they’re God awful nasty and too oft’ occur,
They’re a sight for the digital dimwit or both.

Creating Despite Oneself

TheMagicRealist.com

I’ll create some calamity throughout my act.
This is par for one’s strutting upon the life stage.
Some things come unexpectedly as if by chance.
If I’m not good at magic, could I sing and dance?
I’m an actor who sometimes performs out of rage
When through my misalignment I run low on tact.

I continue creating despite my stage fright.
The anxiety strengthens and quickens the heart.
There’s no fear of an audience. All play a role.
We are scripted observers with one common goal.
We can make co-creating an elegant art
As we play under pressure beneath the spotlight.

I should know what my magic hat may well contain
If I would be professional and of good taste.
Even if I react in convincing surprise,
I may just know my lines well without a disguise.
My bad acting has karma that can’t be erased.
I can clean up my act, though, for maximum gain.

Remote Access

TheMagicRealist.com

Don’t make fun of my accent. I’ve practiced it well.
Either that or my English still gives me away.
Anyway, I will help you. Your system is screwed.
I’ll access your computer and then I’ll get rude.
I’ll have problems to show you and too much to say
While concealing the fact that this is a hard sell.

 This is like the old shell game with quick sleight of hand,
Only I open windows and spread them around
While explaining how sick your machine has become
In this short while I’m with you, you simpleton bum.
I will find every bad thing there is to be found
Then create a few more. This is what I had planned.

Just sit back and relax while I fill up your screen
With my scribbles and doodles and fancy artwork.
You won’t owe me a fortune. Just half one will do
To restore your computer to something like new.
What I tell you is true. I’m a desperate jerk.
If I knew any better, I’d surely come clean.

I Don’t Need A Damned Hero

TheMagicRealist.com

I don’t need a damned hero. Please give back my face.
And… my name is not Robin. I’m no kin to you.
I did quite well without you before you arrived.
Things now aren’t any better, yet I’m not deprived
Of my sense of humanity. If I but knew
How to ditch you completely, I’d reclaim my grace.

Something tucked in my pocket may act as my friend
As long as it behaves well and gives me respect.
It will act like a smartass and make me look lame,
When, to others, the thing is a fanciful game.
This is not about something that I need protect.
I’m the one in its shadow with thought to portend.

It’s a hero. Big Whoopie! It does a great deal
For most assholes convinced It’s a survival tool.
But for me, it’s a smartass. We don’t get along.
Every time I do something with it, I am wrong.
That’s according to it, therefore ‘it’ is a fool.
This hero doesn’t save me. That’s just how I feel.

From the Desk of D. Dudley Dickinworth

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

Sir, we give you the dickens! This time it’s for sure.
Why have not you responded? Where’s your sense of greed?
We have offered you millions. Don’t say you don’t care.
You won’t find a more urgent email anywhere.
You must answer me ASAP so we can proceed
To maintain cockamamie discourse. You Are Poor!

From our records of outstanding contractors due
A large payment, we find that your name does appear.
We now need your full address and bank info too.
We will need up front payment to cover a few
Incidental expenses, like campaigns of fear.
Make that check out to me. I will take care of you.

I don’t want to get nasty, but, damn it to hell,
You have not yet replied to me! Don’t be a fool.
Don’t you know how to act with a dick in your face?
You must give it attention. I know there’s some place
In your heart for some jackass who thinks he is cool.
Once I have your phone number, I’ll call you as well.

To Forget Being Gotten

TheMagicRealist.com

If I need to be understood so I feel good,
Up the creek of the fecal and minus the oars
Would be I with my sorrow and deep seated fear
That I’m too odd a creature and don’t belong here.
When I don’t believe I’m the one who life ignores,
I am scaling the brick, and not knocking on wood.

Are my words so elusive that they don’t make sense
To the asshole majority? That’s fine with me.
They’re the same words that everyone uses. I just
Rearrange them in ways that are meaningful. Trust
That I came here, as all do, to live and to be
Plentiful in creating in full present tense.

I can’t get a damned thing that most rappers exude.
Most of it is a voyage, for me, to nowhere.
So, I don’t listen to them. That’s not ‘tit for tat.’
I’m an alien being, and no diplomat.
Should the gallery peanuts sound off, I don’t care.
One whose heart glows with passion cannot be subdued.

Homophonic Heteronymity

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

I had fear of the homophone right from the start.
Had I heard a thing of it, that would have been nice.
I was taught, as a child, of the word ‘homonym.’
Now, no one’s ever heard of it. Have I gone dim?
Could it be that my memory is imprecise?
Which came first with my schooling? The horse or the cart?

It seems Google remembers. This gives me some peace.
I would beg post-teen teachers to keep their acts straight.
That is, if I had nothing much better to do
Than pick nits with society and what is new.
As I keep to my own little world, I feel great.
I’ll admit to some old ways that I could release.

One may hire O’Glyphic or Heterophone
For the ones spoken most to and who listen well.
There may be some who heteroglyph their way home.
Homophonic profanity festers like foam.
When they’re making up new words, would someone please tell
The old retroverse wordsmith adrift on his own?

Bizarre Pharma Dharma

TheMagicRealist.com

A life filled with bright color begins with child’s play.
That which makes the heart happy is sweet to the taste.
If the medicine tastes good, then I can believe
It will do what it’s made to do. Do I achieve
Any measure of some relief? Or, do I waste
Much of my motion hoping that meds are the way?

I need something for gut clog – a lethal depth charge
That will blast the pipes thorough of resident waste.
The condition is common, the symptoms as well.
They’re enough to debilitate and make life hell.
Yet, despite indications that aren’t to my taste
I seek help from beyond self… from ‘oneness’ at large.

All the fine meds available are much the same,
As they boast full relief from what ails me the most.
But the symptoms they claim that will then go away
Are the same as the side effects, to my dismay.
Should I therefore proclaim that my innards are toast?
That would be utter nonsense, and worse, a damned shame.

A Room With Some Padding

TheMagicRealist.com

…Just a room with some padding. I don’t need a view.
I don’t want to see what it’s like on the outside.
What is out there is nowhere. I’m no one to it.
People treat one another the way they see fit.
Am I mad if I seem to be full of self-pride?
If you say so, there’s nothing much else I can do.

I can get used to white, though it does hurt my eyes.
Can you keep the lights dim enough so I can’t see
That I’m banging my head on whatever I find?
Were I made to see brightness, I might well go blind.
There is no mind more lost than the one that can be
Locked away due to mere obsolescence endwise.

I believe I’m a poet, still. Don’t say I’m not.
I embrace my delusion. Belief is steadfast.
Some who craft only bullshit get on fairly well.
To pretend to not understand me is pure hell.
If I don’t think about it much, I will have passed
Through a dark, psychic fugue, but with torment forgot.

Where The Heck Is That Product Key?

TheMagicRealist.com

I’ve become like a hound dog, and that’s not my style.
I’m in search of my product key, therefore, I’m hot
On the trail of a wild goose located somewhere
Underneath my computer. But it is not there.
If it smelled of some number, that would help a lot.
If I don’t find the damned thing, I’m stuck for a while.

That the product key matters is easy to see.
The need is most obvious to those who make
Software products, to keep the game played fair and square.
But if I lose track of one, then I can beware.
There’s a hell one must go through who makes that mistake.
If I contact the seller, he’d likely agree.

Keep your product key copied and stashed everywhere,
But nowhere near your passwords or favorite bookmarks.
That way if you lose it, it is everywhere found.
If the computer crashes, then you won’t feel bound.
Simply having technology too often sparks
More entanglement than I can easily bear.

Bless Every Damned Thing!

TheMagicRealist.com

What the hell can I do but bless every damned thing?
I can’t beat the sick bastards. They’re nowhere in reach.
If I hold a stiff grudge against that which I hate,
My heart welcomes disease, and then death is my fate.
All the hate that’s around me is ready to teach
Me that what I give focus to, this life will bring.

All the crap that is wrong with this life I must leave
At the doorstep of doom where it rightly belongs.
Every sap sucking asshole who’s dead or alive
Gives me reason to know if I chose to deprive
Myself of true alignment that rights many wrongs
Of my world, I’d be less in a space to achieve.

Bless the whole screwed up world. It must matter to me
That I keep myself happy instead of damned right.
Every crotchety bitch and demented old man
Surely got that way thinking that they were less than,
So that now they are ready to take full delight
In expressing disgruntlement most artfully.

Better Business

TheMagicRealist.com

“Nine to Ninety-Nine Business Weeks, Sir!” That’s how long
It will take to respond to your urgent request.
Please bend over until about ninety degrees
So when we stick it to you, we’ll do it with ease.
If you want to complain to us, then be our guest.
We don’t post contact info, though that may be wrong.

Say you’ve dropped your bJesus card on the rail track?
That is how we perceive it. Did we get that right?
Well, we’ll send you another. But, Oh, by the way,
You’ll incur some discomfort and maybe dismay.
You’re a fuck up, dear customer… and not too bright.
Let us put you on hold, sir, then we’ll be right back.

…Oh, did we disconnect you? We’re sorry. Please know
That our job is to Serve you. We do that our best
From a call center ten thousand miles far away,
And through thick scripted accents programmed to convey
Only policy… most often mocking the stressed.
We do value your business like piss in the snow.

Angular Momenta

TheMagicRealist.com

It does not make a difference what I believe,
As my lines are prewritten, well-studied and played,
And wrapped tightly around me so that I can’t move.
I’m in love with life’s contrast and ready to prove
I can manage most any mass. I’m not afraid
As I give to momentum just as I receive.

Living gives me the right to see things my own way.
Many ways do encircle me. Some I adopt
And take care of, as, randomly, they move about
With velocities varied. I have not a doubt
That their moments of inertia cannot be stopped.
If my life were as linear, I’d love to play.

Yet I do play by default. What runs around me
Is what I have held onto by my will or not.
I could let them run freely, the ways that I own.
But if they don’t return, I would be left alone,
As my reason for living would be well forgot.
Might my ways be more friendly if tied to a tree?

Self Help Solution

TheMagicRealist.com

Oh, Go drink yourself sloppily! I’ve had enough
Of your running your circles around the fun park.
I am here to make merry – not here to make do
With a sense of self less than the sky is bright blue.
Though I’m not that Olympian, I make my mark
By my pumping out powerful poetic stuff.

All black men think they’re poets.’ Is such a remark,
In its absence of meaning, a mental workout
For the one who receives it? It does put a cramp
In my mind for a mile. Will I emerge a champ?
I make meaning of whatever I think much about.
If I think about bullshit, my outlook is dark.

So, I write of the fecal, as it falls my way.
That is not quite as often as one might perceive.
I’m an athlete. My well-crafted body is made
With some knack for the verbal, although I’m a spade.
If I cared about what others care to believe,
I’d be lost in a theme park with no will to play.

Ready To Be Ready

TheMagicRealist.com

Life is full of momentum built up over time.
It accumulates quickly when we’re at our best
At creating whatever we most think about.
It may seem that it’s best to hold on to one’s doubt.
Yet, our readiness comes at our true heart’s behest.
When I choose to be ready, I get off the dime.

Having fallen from high, and with parachute none,
What advice would one give me, should I ask for some?
One might say, “Just hang on. It will be over soon,
And your soul may just vacate before flesh is strewn
On the pavement.”
I can’t easily overcome

What I’ve built up before me… before the long run.

I can dare to be ready to be ready for
The momentum I make in my meek-minded maze
By allowing each moment to see the next through
To the next, and the next, until each now is new.
I am here for the run of life – eager, always,
To be ready for more journey, forever more.

Loud And Livid Delivery

TheMagicRealist.com

Though one’s innards be livery, does all the bile
That accumulates due to frustration pent up
Cause the outburst of anger with volume of voice?
Is it sometimes predestined or always by choice?
If I sound off to others, am I the sick pup?
When I view this in hindsight, it seems it’s my style.

When I think you won’t hear me, I tend to get loud.
It’s a knee jerk reaction. I’ve little control.
Therefore I must stay vigilant of my ill beast.
I do lack others’ patience. I know that at least.
Perhaps long isolation would comfort my soul.
I’m a hothead. I’m neither ashamed nor too proud.

Sometimes ‘special delivery’ is the best way
To ensuring one’s intent is taken as real.
If my mood takes a nose dive, I must be prepared.
That our good times and bad times are equally shared
Is my premise profound toward the best way to feel.
I can let off some steam and still have a good day.

Just Here To Visit – Not Here To Stay

TheMagicRealist.com

If I weighed almost half a ton, would ankles work
With four pairs of two screwed tight by no engineer?
How I ended up here seems a puzzle today.
Now that I’ve lost my parking space, then must I stay
In a constant upheaval endorsed by my fear
As most often I feel like a well-behaved jerk?

I’m not here to do odd jobs. Who told you that lie?
Was it me through deficiency in self-defense?
It can seem I’m the nice guy for doing jack shit.
It’s a subconscious bugbear that stings quite a bit.
I would tell folks to stick it, if I had some sense.
I don’t know what I’m doing, yet foolish to try.

Do most people fuck with me be because I am slow
In the mind a bit and of a social IQ
That’s as low as the oil stains on life’s garage floor?
I fucked up for you this time. I’ll do it some more?
I can do that so well. Surely I never knew.
Since I’m here for the visit, I might as well grow.

The Best Cure For Toe Fungus?

TheMagicRealist.com

Let us talk about toes – yours alone, by the way,
And that fungus they’re fettered with. You know it well.
Who am I to send email to you with advice
Randomly about getting your feet smelling nice?
Well, I must be an asshole. Most people can tell
By the sheer lack of meaning in what I dare say.

It seems, now, that my inbox and spam box are twins
Who play offense with insults and off-the-wall crud.
I’m a fish in this ocean. As you cast your net
Most escape by derision. You get what you get
When you’re dragging your lines way too deep in the mud.
What would you like to sell me as my patience thins?

You assume I have fungus as if the world knows
I’m a registered specimen stripped of his rights.
That’s not even the case. Where the Hell are you from?
You sneaked into my inbox like some kind of bum.
Yet, I’d be but a fool if my temper ignites.
I know no one but me is in touch with my toes.

Lorem Ipsum

TheMagicRealist.com

What The Uckfay? I say in the odd-Latin way.
I don’t mean to hijack it to make verses rhyme.
But it’s there for my use if I need it. So what
If it’s triggered by language that fills in the rut
Of precise advertising for use anytime
When there’s dummy space needed for nothing to say?

Language is quite the dinosaur. It has it’s way
Of remaining quite cryptic in how it’s conceived
Over eons, although it can easily be
A most elegant means by which people can see
Deeper meaning in what all agree is perceived
As reality and what makes for a good day.

If the notion of dummy text makes any sense
It may come as an insult to folks of my kind.
Words can shoot from a fire hose or someone’s pen.
If we piss off all poets, what will happen then?
It should not get my strength nor my will misaligned.
There are text pumps afoot. I shall not take offense.

Now That I Can Tweet

TheMagicRealist.com

Do you love me sincerely now that I can tweet?
I’ve been practicing steadily all just for you.
I can twitter my ass off and do every day.
Many twits do this also with not much to say.
Can my fistful of characters offer some clue
To the ones that I’m tweeting to whereof I greet?

Watch me now, as they say. With the swipe of the thumb
I can instigate mischief or shed light on truth.
Within moments the world knows what I want it to
And it doesn’t take much to show others my view.
It would work out much better were I in my youth
But in light of all that I can tweet like the scum.

I can tweet with the best now and also the worst
As I learn to parse giblets of thought into place
So that dim-witted twit folk can follow along.
I can tweet like a mother, so don’t get me wrong.
I shall stock up on bird feed for now just in case
I’m elected Top Twit. Now, that would be a first.

My Darned Bowels Are STILL Ailing

TheMagicRealist.com

What is up with my innards? They’ve got me again
Doing side twists and wishing that I were a plant.
Seems that bowel gets so cluttered so often that I
Would trade guts for some green leaves. I do wonder why
Normal folks crap with ease but some people just can’t.
That damned bowel’s been a problem since I don’t know when.

On the top shelf, I’ve shitters, bowel blasters and such
Though the medicine cabinet too is a mess.
I’ve got paraphernalia to rig the rear end
For extreme irrigation that I may impend
A prophetic bowel movement with no second guess.
I have glycerol bullets that I don’t use much.

If I cleaned up my act a bit, that might do well
To address this most chronic non-movement of mass
Through my system. I’ve tried everything that is known.
I’d have nothing to lose and perhaps I’d be shown
A new outlook and how to make up with my ass.
Too much damned information? I’m damned glad to tell.

Kicked Right Out Of Dreamland

TheMagicRealist.com

I was sound asleep though I was covered in sweat
As my body turned clockwise while wrapped in its sheets
Of bewilderment as my soul went on a trip
To that wonderful dreamland where I can equip
Myself with all its graces and spiritual treats
That my sleeping and dreaming most often beget.

I remained for a good while although there’s no time
In a world of pure thought-form and nowhere to dump
All the tension I’ve mustered throughout the long day.
I found out there’s no dumping. I did disobey
The most cardinal rule there: Do Not leave your clump
In this mental world.
And their directive is prime!

I’ve been kicked in the rear end. So now I’m awake.
I’m afraid to go back there or even to try.
They might block my arrival and give me what-for.
I’m not feeling distressed that I didn’t dream more.
I shall start my day now as I breathe a deep sigh.
I am not banned forever, thus I have my cake.

Poetic License

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“Have Engine – Will Poet” shall be my motto.
When it comes right down to it, it’s one with some tread.
As I travel this highway, my ride must be smooth.
When my word road is bumpy, how can my work soothe?
I require Full License in trust that I’m read
Like a bird at its leisure with some place to go.

I’ve a License Poetic to prove I may drive
My machine in whatever way I judge to be
Beneficial in getting up just enough speed
But not so much that reading becomes a hard deed.
I am easy to read, and I cruise radar free.
Way ahead of departure, I’m good to arrive.

There’s no Highway Patrol for the poet in me.
They say it’s not my day job. I’m too small a fish.
I have not earned my letters for poetic arts.
Thus, I don’t have the right to endear people’s hearts.
So, I’m wild on my highway. I do as I wish.
I can poet my ass off and do it with glee.

Flustercuck

TheMagicRealist.com

There are two or more gathered. It could be in grace
Or in consort with cunning in weaving a spell.
Many people united can become perplexed
With that ‘chicken or egg’ thing and which will come next.
That lame argument is a façade with a smell.
It was implemented to keep fools in their place.

People are much like chickens. We scratch and we peck
At that which is below us, as we judge it so.
As we gather together, we make such a fuss
Over just about anything meaningless, thus
Most the worms we’re consuming will not make us grow.
Social clusters are often a pain in the neck.

I am not xenophobic. I cuck with a few
Of my species because alone I’d not survive.
Each one pecks in one’s own way. There’s no reason why
One should peck like another. No rules here apply
Except those of the cosmos wherein we may thrive
As we had well intended when we were brand new.

Flaming Petutia

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s a Flaming Petutia. Minutia fulfills
All desires the human mind idle can bare.
Though the fragrance is earthy, true colors do bloom
As a function of how much the mind will consume
With the purpose of sorting out what one can share
With some others in hopes it may trigger some thrills.

The Petutia, a sphincter with petals unique,
Can release, as it opens, what lies under foot.
It is not to be looked at. It’s grosser than hell!
There’s no flower quite like it. How does it compel
One to while away blissful with feelings well put
In a fine floating boat that is headed down creek?

It is done by my knowing the world makes no sense
Except for the ones who have found a good space
In a field gone prolific in manifold smell.
I partake in whatever will ring my heart’s bell
And will make life a fresh one immune to disgrace
Every moment, in light of no need for defense.

Didgeri Donewith

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s no fun! I am done with my didgeridoo.
It turns out it’s a nightmare carved from a tree branch.
Though there are those who play it and do it quite well
I do better with gut gas. All nearby can tell.
Both our blowing could trigger a fine avalanche
In a world where such things can come out of the blue.

I’ve a didgeridoo as a gift from a friend.
He is not from down under but from across town.
Might he have some agreement with them on the side?
Does he think I might learn how to play once I’ve tried?
Well, I’ve tried it enough times to put the thing down.
There’s just too much hard work and ill will to transcend.

So, I’m Didgeri Donewith. I did what I did
Thinking I’d have the patience to do as those do
Who have talent for getting good sound to come out
Of a tube wholly hollow. I’m left with no doubt
That my lungs need no workout. My didgeridoo
Done did all that it needs to. It now will be hid.

Zonehenge

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s a fact we spend much of our time in some queue.
Though we seem to be busy, we’re standing in line.
It is so unproductive to waste so much time
While we’re being held captive. No moment is prime
When there’s no movement forward – no sense of a sign
That my prison will free me for more things to do.

Does it seem to be moving? I can’t really tell.
The Illusion of movement can play with the mind.
Where in the world else but in non-moving lines
Can the mind shut down gracefully as it resigns
Itself to the reality that I’m confined
In a life situation a half tier from hell?

Like most relics, lines have evolved at a slow rate
Notwithstanding their increasing length over time.
We are Stonehenge-like creatures when frozen in place.
When I’m loose in a mindscape, I feel no disgrace.
I should zone out as my time seems not worth a dime.
Life is much more worth living than having to wait.

It’s About Self Control

TheMagicRealist.com

I attract what comes to me – no doubt about that.
When I find myself frazzled by what’s in my way,
I do tend to go off. I’ve been known to get riled
When I feel that my honor is being defiled
By someone with control issues and much to say –
Not with words but with attitude like a bobcat.

Tough black cats at the drive thru is what I will get
When I doubt what my better self knows fully well.
That is: No one can damage my ‘honor’ but me.
What goes on in the real world is not mine to see.
I can get through this fine day without letting hell
Have her pleasure at my expense and much regret.

Self-control is a skill to be practiced and honed
And this world does provide opportunities great.
I can move most my muscles; that much is for sure.
I command subtle energies never obscure
To my worthiness as well as those whom I hate.
My distaste for the drive thru is hereby postponed.

Nature Of The Coil

TheMagicRealist.com

As the coil whistles wild tunes and rattles the nerve
Of what rest of self savors – an ease about flow,
The mind could think that wellbeing has a firm grip
On the body, or it could go bonkers an trip
On just why it seems, all the time, it has to know
To what purpose the whistles and rattles might serve.

It’s a coil, after all, in the form of a bowel.
I will steer clear of jargon that steers from what’s clear.
A tight coil is less spring-like, or more, by the way
I devote my attention throughout the long day.
If I take notice that no bowel movement is near
Then my day is a menace; my language is foul.

Thirty feet of a snake that will never stretch out
Nor will never see light of my day from its place
Well-concealed in its chamber, content in its ways,
I should cease my condemning it and give it praise
For the work it does ceaselessly in its embrace
Of whatever I put it through without a doubt.

By the Numbers

TheMagicRealist.com

The Pi-th root of infinity, should it exist
As a variable that traverses the mind,
Is a root counter rational. And it’s not real.
Even though it’s not real math, it does have the feel
Of the essence of living among humankind.
Within seas of infinities, none are dismissed.

Any root of infinity should be the same
As the sum of infinities, meaning, them all.
That is, if it could be quantifiable stuff
Where one gets to the point where one says, “That’s Enough!”
Yet, indeed it’s a concept one couldn’t call small.
It does draw the mind close like the moth to the flame.

By the numbers, I number among the ignored.
That is nothing to cry about. I will be heard
As my meaning has function with my heart and mind.
Might that happen this time around? I am resigned
To a life of fulfillment transfigured through word.
There are worlds of infinities to be explored.

Two Lips by Land or Tulips by Sea

TheMagicRealist.com

Many landscapes and seascapes avail themselves to
Simple pleasures of living that people enjoy.
Many lips go for kissing or catching the breeze.
There are spaces for tulips along friendly seas.
Whether tulips or few lips, each harbor the ploy
Of accessing the inner self like an old shoe.

Two lips land locked could be but one half of a quad
Where the missing half seems not a task to conceive.
Or two lips can be literate, light and at ease
With the spirit of nature who’s willing to please.
With some tulips between lips some hearts do achieve
Some small measure of happiness. Does that seem odd?

It’s the toss of a coin, sometimes, how things evolve.
Often life seems a game of chance hostile to will.
But it seems, at the same time, that I’m in control
Of what happens in my life and with my own soul.
That control comes from within – the voice that is still.
With a lifetime of life scenes, I’ve nothing to solve.

A Codec for Cotton

TheMagicRealist.com

I do most things online. I get digital sex
Through a modem equipped with touching technique
That sends chills up my spine when I’m getting things done.
When it comes to my laundry, my cycle’s begun.
I upload it to DigiClean once every week.
It downloads clean and folded, according to specs.

But sometimes I have trouble converting my load
To dot lnd format. This causes me stress.
I know Customer Service will lend me a hand.
They are always so friendly, and they understand
That although my ill applet has me in a mess
I will soon have clean laundry within my abode.

Often times it’s the codec that culprits my cause.
They get changed much too frequently due to the way
Bits of data treat fabric, synthetic or real.
They know nothing of texture. They can’t up and feel.
A fresh codec for cotton does brighten my day.
When one does laundry online, one obeys the laws.

What Every Colon Knows

TheMagicRealist.com

One would think I’m a colon or that it is me
As I move about backed up with scowl on the brain.
If I find myself trapped near the end of my gut,
Seems my bowel is an asshole who’s tired of the rut
That we both made together while waxing insane.
My behavior’s atrocious, as I can well see.

I gave up on the action paths. None will work well.
I’ve popped shitters like Skittles and chased them with milk
Of magnesia. I’ve tried tons of ex-lax and more.
I’m so hell bent on crapping, I’ve got my own store.
I would like stuff to flow softly through me like silk.
But it seems that my blasted pipes are shot to hell.

On the other hand, though, that may not be quite so.
I create my reality whether I’m trapped
In a body that feels like it’s felt its last days
Or in one that feels wholesome in all natural ways,
When I clean my vibration, that bowel will be zapped
With a blast of pure energy. This I well know.

Too Much to Chew

TheMagicRealist.com

I’ve got too much too chew. It came out of the blue
Or oblivious. I don’t know which one it is.
Simple greetings befall me as well as small talk.
By default I’m committed. There’s no room to balk.
I’ve been offered a chewing as well as a quiz
Once again I’m amazed by what I’ve stepped into.

This huge bone I’ve accepted seemed small at the start.
Or perhaps my small eyes see most anything big.
My eyes get me in trouble. My loose tongue as well.
I do act on my own and create my own hell.
If my eyes could see big things as small as a twig
Perhaps then I’d be shielded from hurt to the heart.

I should bite off a large chunk if I think I can
Get my jaws wrapped around it not seeming the fool.
Yet when I find that I’ve bitten off more than I
Could digest in a lifetime, I’m ready to try
Anything that might stop my becoming a tool.
I can be of good service and still be a man.

The Decisive Device

TheMagicrealist.com

A decisive device is one that can’t act nice.
Its decisions it makes with no input at all
From the user who just wants to get some things done.
I do not go for gaming nor surfing for fun.
And it gets so aggressive and makes me feel small.
I can’t deal with a dick headed devil device.

Don’t peek-a-boo to me with messages from
Your right corner, peripheral to my intent.
You do tittle my gaze as if I were a cat.
You should know that I’m human, and what’s wrong with that?
You continue to dick me. Indeed, you’re hell bent
On securing my madness so then you will cum.

A divisive sufficing may be what I need.
My decisive devices can get me perplexed.
When they tell me they’re doing things I don’t want done
Should I gather my privates, then turn tail and run?
I can’t figure out why things are so over sexed.
I shall guard my virginity as I proceed.

Fork Out of Dodge

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I’m your Fork Out of Dodge – a proverbial guy.
I’m dramatic and forceful when it’s time to go.
Any fork undercover is grateful to be
Among those expelled first from Dodge most rightfully.
It’s the city most thought of when getting to know
The sensation of terror. The question is, Why?

Stuff can happen in any town. Why pick out one
To become the example of bad scenes to leave?
And since when does one’s safety depend on the fork?
People fork off in Kansas as well as New York!
Yet these questions are moot. I’d do best to conceive
My own clear understanding. It’s better than none.

I’m a Fork on the run and I haven’t got time
To be hanging around when the fan is turned on.
If you haven’t a fork who is stranded in Dodge
Then relax and partake of yourself a massage.
I will fly by the night. I will not wait ‘til dawn.
I am destined to grow toward a new paradigm.

The Weather Girl Thought that the Cameras Weren’t Rolling

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What amazing a profile the Weather Girl has
Whether sunny and bright or wet, cloudy and cold.
It’s a short presentation to tell what will come.
It’s a bit like astrology – nonsense to some.
It’s been said every Weather Girl does as she’s told
But this isn’t quite so if she likes modern jazz.

So what under the sun can a Weather Girl do
That would cause any moron to pucker the snout?
How one digests one’s media is akin to
How one wipes one’s behind when there’s not much to do.
To be entertained fully, we must check things out.
So I go watch the Weather Girl blooper on cue?

Take a chase for a glimpse of those fine body parts.
News is only a peep show. By moment we pay
For a flash of the headline and tons of bull fluff.
It’s astonishing how folks survive on that stuff.
But I’m just an old poet with too much to say.
So thank God for the morons, and God bless the arts.

Hello, My Dear…

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Your Attention, my dear, I am thirty years old.
Though my life had been peachy, I am in distress
As it seems I’ve been cut out of castle life for
My behaving so generously with the poor.
I’ve been put out to pasture and I must confess
That this story of mine has not ever been told.

Yes, my life in the grass is not easy, you see.
All those nearsighted knights with their poles are a threat.
I’d considered I’d bribe them so I’d graze in peace
But the bastards can’t see well and they are obese.
That I’m thin is a good thing. I’m willing to bet
That my fortune is safe while it’s stashed up a tree.

But I cannot survive in the woods very long.
And my dainty voice beacons your unanswered call.
You will get compensation for helping me out.
I am talking Big Moolah. That’s what I’m about.
All you need do is send me your fortune – that’s all.
It’s the kindest of worlds where we all get along.

Pussy 4 Less

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What’s a fellow to do when he’s out for a screw
And the merchandise mingling is too highly priced?
Could one go undercover and act like a hoe
Then transfigure among them before they could know
That the fee they demand often feels like a heist?
Men should stand up and shout! That’s what righteous men do.

When I want some quick ass, I am prone to bypass
All the bullshit and trickery romance can yield.
Give me meat on the fly. I’m a fast-moving guy.
I will have my quick nookie – I will, do or die!
But I won’t pay a fortune to be aptly healed
Of my spurious passions that lead to impasse.

Bumping Ugly with someone you know can be fun.
There’s no payment involved but the time that it takes
To develop a nurturing, loving rapport.
But, like top brow tycoons, poor dudes want nothing more
Than some convenient action without the high stakes
As the threat of inflation affects everyone.