Tag Archive | comical

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.

The Square Root of Two

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It’s irrational! That’s the whole reason it’s square.
Also known as two, raised to a stingy one-half,
This root makes no sense. One can check as one sees
Corner nooks seek the measure of ninety degrees.
One can see that it’s true, as it’s easy to graph.
The more normal the roots are, the more they’re like hair.

Ancient Greeks knew of this root and treated it well
With so many damned proofs it can boggle the balls.
Yes, this root is irrational. That can be seen
In its unending pattern subjected to preen.
Should we keep the irrational bound within walls
When the two right above them can party like hell?

Keep a root that is square if it pleases the pants
Off the people you pass in your daily affairs.
If your root is quite rational, you’re good to go.
If it’s perfect, you may want the whole world to know.
That is, though, if the whole world really cares.
It is not a good topic to start a romance.

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.

Will You Be Ready When the Moment Gets Romantic?

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Do you feel Springtime Fresh when the bleeding time comes?
Is your FICA score less than abysmal these days?
Do those stubborn cum stains on your sheets make you cry?
Do you curse at your neighbors and wish they’d all die?
Do not worry your nuts off. The world has its ways
Of addressing most symptoms through beats of its drums.

Dirty rings around collars and in toilet bowls
Is a menace this brave world could well do without.
When the air in life’s bedroom becomes hot and stale
There is always the sports channel. Life does prevail.
Does your body lie turning and tossing about
Through the night due to fear for the fate of our souls?

Leave that chewing gum off the bed post for tonight.
The dickhead who first thought of that ought to be shot.
That is, if he is living – if not, then reborn
That his germy ideas be subject to scorn.
Does your backbone betray you when you cop a squat?
Take a pain pill. Then everything will be alright.

YOUR PAYMENT !!

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Yo, GET BACK TO ME ASAP, you ignorant fool!
I’ve been sending you emails for weeks! Are you there?
I’m obliged to know why you’ve not contacted me.
We have nine point nine million that you’ll never see
Unless you reply promptly. I don’t want to swear,
But a fish that’s not biting is way less than cool.

I am Miss Mildred Stenchfinch, Ambassador to
The Nigerian Designate in charge of wills.
Someone has kicked the bucket and left you a load.
Don’t you want to grab hold of this fortune you’re owed?
You could use it to jerk off, then pay all your bills.
I am looking for someone dull headed to screw.

Now, you are a fine one, but you’ve got to respond.
Lord knows fucking with people is diligent work.
So, Get Back To Me, dimwit. Indulge in my scheme.
Getting tons of free cash should be every fool’s dream.
Please respond to me, dear. I am not one to irk.
We are quite busy here with much wealth to abscond.

Can I Trust You.. ??

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Heartfelt Greetings, Dear Sir/Madam, Bless You This Day!
It’s my pleasure and great honor to contact you.
I implore you to take the time to read this well.
You’ll determine my fate – whether heaven or hell.
If you’re skeptical, I understand. I am too.
I have much less to do than who I must portray.

I am Engineer Ruhullah Zafer Hadid
From the Syrian Arab Republic of Pause.
And apart from your being quite rightly surprised,
Know my gratefulness cannot be over disguised.
I was Finance Consultant; the key word is ‘was.’
Now I’m rich beyond measure, yet mine isn’t greed.

I am seeking your help to dispense you some wealth.
It is quite a large sum. I must give it away
To some fine, trusted moron. I hope this is you.
There’s no future in begging, so this gig is new.
Do get back to me soon. ISIS may ruin my day.
Surely that would be bad for your financial health.

 

Attention Beneficiary

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May the peace of the savior be with you, my dear.
I am sure that this message arrives at a time
You’re surprised at its coming to reach you just now.
I’m the Financial Minister of the Cash Cow
That is on loan from India. There’s been no crime.
If you want your jackpot, come and get it right here.

As the Central Bank Barrister, I speak to you
As the in-between nitwit in charge of your case.
Since the usual asshole has run out of steam
I have taken his place so things stay as they seem.
So, get back to me, sweetheart. I’d love to embrace
Every part of your bank account leaving no clue.

Our own Chief Representative Bereavement Bro
Has been crying his heart out on behalf of you.
There’s an ATM card being held in your care.
But in order to get it, you need not beware.
We just need lots more info. Please send it all to
Our Head Phishing Headquarters whose friend is your foe.

Tesla’s Off-Grid Multivibrator

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Watch This Video NOW! You will cry tears of pee!!
There’s a Great Big-Assed Secret we’re living to share.
You are being sucked dry by the Power Grid folk.
Get your asses in gear, people. This is no joke!
We are telling you this because we really care
That you get your electric through us nearly free.

This is the real thing. This is not like those cheap
South Sumatran Sun Cells that those other guys sell.
This one’s not like the Meat Motor with the rawhide
And it’s not like the Lip Laser electrified.
It’s our plan for peak power – a bat out of hell
To take full charge of people whose pockets run deep.

Every reason to fear is why we are so dear
In convincing you you need to make your move NOW!
If you don’t take advantage, our offer won’t last.
You don’t want to let time pass and be the outcast.
So get out the old credit card. Manage, somehow,
To prepare for your fleecing. Then we’ll disappear.

When To Fondle Your Lug Nuts Is Not Mine To Know

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It may be that your lug nuts are hot to the touch.
If this happens too often, then it’s a sure sign
That there’s too much heat passed to them through those brake shoes.
So, lay off that break petal, friend, you’re bound to lose.
But if that’s not the problem, you might be just fine.
Though, it could be the tranny or maybe the clutch.

Say you don’t have a stick shift? Then don’t mind my last.
You may think that I’m guessing, but that’s not the truth.
If those lug nuts are hot, you might give this a try –
Throw some cold water on them. They could be just shy
As they’re caught greasy-threaded by such a hand sleuth
Who is keen to take notice to heat they’ve amassed.

Don’t sneak up on your lug nuts as they do their thing.
I don’t think you would like it were that done to you.
Lug Nuts do have some sense of whenever they’re felt.
Just remind them you care for them. They’ve never dealt
With someone who will feel them just out of the blue.
Do those lug nuts a flavor. Let them have their fling.

The Dick Whisperer

TheMagicRealist.com

Only music can soothe the wild arrogant beast
As it rises, though basketed in nature’s weave.
There’s no mind in the toilet, here. I speak with grace.
And I wouldn’t be caught with such egg on my face.
There are blatant life substances that we perceive
Also subtler energies we know the least.

When the dance that goes on, as the music is played,
Does approach living rigor, the stage is well set.
The dance, having triggered an elegant trance,
May program men for anything – even romance.
With dick under control, it then poses no threat.
The strong will becomes languid. Response is delayed.

It requires a skilled one to play music well.
No matter of fact out ranks this simple one.
One’s control of the beast must be constant and sharp.
If not careful, one could end up playing the harp.
This is The Dick Whisperer’s idea of fun.
For the beast, though, it could be a version of hell.

If In Doubt, Piss On It!

TheMagicRealist.com

Now, it wouldn’t make sense if I pissed on a bone.
Always through it, I say, is the best way to go.
Do I have enough left to complete all my rounds?
I’ve got piss on the trigger, and it knows no bounds.
I seek out the un-christened. That’s all that I know.
I’m a casual pisser with skills I could hone.

I can piss. I can sniff. I can dissect the air
With my neural net nostrils that suck up the scent
Of all things that have happened, and creatures gone by.
I must update my ‘wall’ here. The last has gone dry.
I must re-mark the places where time I have spent.
The fine art of good pissing leaves me without care.

I can piss in mid trot and will not miss a spot.
There’s a lot of my pissing I’ll do on the fly.
There isn’t a thing I won’t piss on because
I’m a Master of Whiz. You may bid me applause.
If I piss on your day, there’s no reason to cry.
I’m a dog, for darned sakes, and I just piss a lot!

I Can’t Find What I Believe Is Lost

TheMagicRealist.com

Where the hell did it go? It was just in my hands!
Lord, I know I’m not dreaming. Have I a mind still?
I laid the thing down somewhere. Now it is gone.
I have searched every crevasse from dusk until dawn.
When I’m baffled, I just can’t believe in free will.
It has been teleported to faraway lands.

I’m caught up in the frenzy of thinking it’s lost
So my effort is frantic with focus unclear.
I keep searching in circles nonsensically so.
Where that thing disappeared to, I simply don’t know.
That I haven’t found it fandangles my fear.
I would vacate this Twilight Zone at any cost.

But the price isn’t heavy. In fact, it’s quite low.
What I must do is believe it’s not lost.
By releasing all tension and struggle, I will
In effect find what’s missing, and then what a thrill!
And through the ordeal my dear mood won’t be tossed.
I can find what is not lost since time long ago.

Come Be Dithered Forlorn

TheMagicRealist.com

Come be dithered forlorn! There is joy to be borne
In a jar with its lid off in light of its load.
With the mind far at ease from the swinging trapeze
Any song sung in series will certainly please
One who favors the face of the figmented toad.
There is pink think in linking jackhammers to corn.

Now, that makes no sense. I’d do well to dispense
With the sentinel sent to torment fellow food.
If my sentiment centers on seaweed all day
Then can Mikey stop eating to come out and play?
There’s no contention to mention my mood
As the grip of the hippo remains quite intense.

What the Hell am I saying. Have I lost my mind?
Not a giblet bespeaks what a cucumber knows
Not a fish in a glass house will do windows. Still,
I could get a stray crayfish to lend me its will.
As the seawater whistles is how the seed blows.
Kick the can for kind karma and blissful behind.

Algorrhythmia

TheMagicRealist.com

How long do I keep up this foolish façade
Of believing I’m worth what was offered to me?
I took a big gamble thus ruining my life
In pretending I’m healthy enough for a wife.
I continue to screw up as people can see.
Thought I’d followed the program, but things turned out odd.

How does fate keep the terrorist from finding me?
There are those who are worth more. Had they had the chance
To grow old with their loved ones as worthy folks may
I’d be that much closer to my judgment day.
Life’s puzzle has proved such a strange circumstance.
There’s a reason for ISIS that I clearly see.

That I blither my ass off, can anyone know?
I can piss in pitch darkness and other things well.
If my stream should strike something at least I would know
That there is something out there. That might help me grow.
I did want isolation while burning in hell.
I’ll admit I’m a fuck-up. That’s not a hard blow.

Not another frog’s out there. No one knows I croak.
I was let loose to blunder my way through my days.
Easily I hurt others on my reckless path.
What procedure could probe at the heart of my wrath?
It’s one tough black sheep syndrome. I’ll get through this maze.
I’m one well-tempered asshole. It seems that’s no joke.

All Email Is Male

TheMagicRealist.com

In fact, I don’t think that all email is male
But in theory, a number of things could be true.
A letter received in a mailbox these days
Could mean anything cast to the silent airways.
I don’t long for the old days. My heart is not blue.
Perhaps I’m in search of some ‘thing’ to assail.

And if that is so, what’s the matter with me?
One who’s daft would seek discord or cause for dismay.
But my in box is loaded. That is not a curse.
I must sort through the spam there, for better or worse.
In my bliss, I’d be bothered to email all day.
When it comes to mail gender, I let matters be.

I see mail that’s on paper and on the touch screen.
I am hetero-postal in so many ways
But with mail, I like female. It comes with some grace.
And with email I feel like I’m running a race.
I must conclude, then, that it surely pays
To do mail in private, for better hygiene.

Those Who Live In Where Ohming

TheMagicRealist.com

Those who live in Where Ohming where ohming is done
On the fly and at random and much of the time,
Know resistance that’s measured can sometimes be high.
The electrons, in those cases, toil to get by.
Yet, they practice law freely in their paradigm
Where the practice of ohming is done just for fun.

One who wouldn’t dare ohming, Where Ohming would scorn
To the hilt, and it matters not who that one is.
Being ohmed is a right every circuit must share.
There is such joy in ohming that none can compare.
It’s as easy as aiming and taking a whiz.
That’s why folks in Where Ohming can toot their own horn.

Every place in Where Ohming where voltage may be
Is a whole separate issue electrons must face
As no one wants to measure the voltage that’s there.
Folks are so used to ohming that they wouldn’t care
That some voltage is present and wants to embrace.
Those who live in Why Volting would surely agree.

In Pursuit of the Petron Pistachian

TheMagicRealist.com

So alive in this Schoolhouse, our minds are abuzz
With the brick and the mortar… what holds it in place.
I’m a part of the puzzle. My mind is aware
Of fantastic creation; there’s none to compare.
Seems we have enough time. We’re not running a race.
We like figuring things out, and that’s just because….

We have nailed down the atom and most of its parts
Though that bugger is tiny, made mostly of space
With leptons, exceptons and hardons, a few,
And a dozen more who-ons from out of the blue.
These thinglets procure a degree of embrace
Through Pistachian Providence, where it all starts.

Within such a field, most particulate flow
As they take on some mass much according to spin.
But the Petron Pistachian, not seen ‘til now,
Has completed the puzzle, and this will allow
Every scientist breathing to wear a big grin.
This Pistachian Presence is good stuff to know?

Full Term Termite

TheMagicRealist.com

Have you heard of the homeless? Then give me a chew.
I know much about hunger. I have it all ways.
From cellar to ceiling and all in-between.
I will eat in the dark where I shouldn’t be seen.
I chow down like a mother with every due praise.
I enjoy making babies, and not just a few.

Science says that I’m sexy. It flatters me none.
And besides, I can do it however I please –
Upside down in a trance in a crevasse somewhere.
I control my whole tribe with my scent in the air.
We don’t treat our men harshly. We’re much like the bees.
We like screwing and building and having much fun.

But we do have to eat, and our diet is wood.
We could go for particle board for a while
In the houses of people who tend to buy cheap.
Yet when that stuff runs out, our commitment is deep.
We will find what we’re after, and do it in style.
So complain all you want. It won’t do any good.

 

Rain Sylvania

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s a thing about rain that my heart won’t disdain.
It will keep folks inside, out of others’ affairs
So their shape-shifting eyes, in their neighborly fare,
Can’t catch up on my business. Folks should be aware
That I do my own thing, not that anyone cares.
If you’re that hooked on folly, come out in the rain!

Put on your best tutu with water resist
And gavotte past my window with smartass in hand.
Take a me-mie of me as you’re tempted to pee.
I might stream you my shtick so you’ll do it hands free.
It’s a shame your garage door is shut by demand
Of a powerful Lady who seems rather pissed.

I dare you, dear neighbor, delight in the storm
Just the same as I do but with just a slight twist.
Park your butt in your yard like you usually do
And collect all your intel with rain helping you
To deliver wet gossip no sponge can resist.
I’ll enjoy the rain. You just stick to the norm.

Frolicking Folksicles

TheMagicRealist.com

Frolicking Folksicles flaunting for fun
Among those who might eat them must take balls of ice.
And they’re colored, enhancing the eater’s delight.
Were they black and white only, it wouldn’t seem right
To consume them. Just looking would surely suffice
As one’s licking gets boring when all’s said and done.

Folksicles firmly propend to make peace.
It’s a principle pinnacle to their affairs
Of the heart and the mind and the spirit within.
With abundance of slurp, there is no need to sin.
There isn’t much else one could suck. But who cares?
If it weren’t for bright Folksicles, warring would cease!

What gets folks in a pickle, most Folksicles say,
Is the way we lose focus and blither head on
‘Til we sensate the melting – Folksicle in hand.
If our mess is sufficient, we voice our demand
That the sun should take cover – at least until dawn
So that Folksicle eating will yield no dismay.

Utensoids United

TheMagicRealist.com

Utensoids United in condiment space
Sets the scene for first contact of quite the third kind
On a wall, in a house on a rock spinning ‘round
In its own starry kitchen where space does abound
And without incognito, they’re easy to find
Or to decline their visit, if that be the case.

Utensoids can stand being hung by the neck
And it doesn’t upset them to be used as tools.
Since they’re built really tough, you can’t use them enough
To uncover their cover. You could call their bluff
But they just might leave master cooks looking like fools
As in secret, they shape shift; there’s no need to check.

The Utensoids have come to keep watch on us all.
Not a single one wants to do harm nor insult.
If you grab a Utensoid, do so with intent.
You don’t want the damned thing to mistake what you meant.
If you handle it well, good will be the result.
If you’re cool with Utensoids, then stand proud and tall!

Talk To Me, Mama!

TheMagicRealist.com

Krakkabukkle-KaBoooom! That’s what I like to hear.
Mama Nature is talking. Let’s give her respect.
Whether quick burning arrow with rumble in wake
Or night whitening flashes that know no mistake,
Nature’s message is clear. Our fair ego is checked
By the Masterful Lady who crafts Atmosphere.

Show your thundermost cloud! Let me feel you shout loud!
Even though I can hear every whisper you speak.
There’s a world who don’t know you. You have every right
To react in a voice of intent and of might.
Strike me dead. I will join you. It’s truth that I seek.
I’ll commune well among you. To you, I’m avowed.

Why I make such a habit to hear Mother speak
Is a thing of scant value to ponder too much.
I just like a fine Mama who’ll run it down hard.
One is ill to complain that She plays the ‘wet’ card.
She’s one bitch you can’t fuck with nor lie to or such.
She’s the feminine version of deadly mystique.

Not In My Time Space Reality

TheMagicRealist.com

To the scientist centered in flat earth and Mars
The Big Bang occurs everywhere all in a flash.
Everywhere outside galaxies expands  in size.
This prolific phenomenon speaks through our sighs.
What’s outside this expanding is anyone’s hash.
What else could exist but space, planets and stars?

Now, the answer to that is a thing we call time.
It’s the fourth quad-dimensional piece of the pie.
Altogether, reality’s clear to perceive.
My perceiving is knowing in what I believe.
My wisdom comes partly from what’s in the sky
And the rest from attempting to make verses rhyme.

If I did have you fooled for a while, I’ve done well.
It’s my pleasure to do so for science’s sake.
Reality’s boring. It must be made fun.
I’m the son-of-a-gunest that’s under this sun.
Not that science is useless… That thought’s a mistake.
Now that this poem is finished, there’s no more to tell.

Near Perfect Nonsense

TheMagicRealist.com

I’ve a fond sense for nonsense that’s naturally pure.
If one strives for perfection, it’s always the case
That when foolishness fettered, then nurtured the same
Will recover in time to return to the game
Of living life loony. How goony the space
Of nonsensical numskulls with mirth to endure.

It may be nothing’s perfect in terms of nonsense.
Many pieces of silly must fall into place
So they dance about smartly in demented minds.
I’ve a fondness for jokesters. God bless their behinds.
I would be one if not already the case.
So much humor and laughter and fun I’d dispense.

Progress is perfection in some people’s hearts
And a verb is a noun just because it’s a word.
A fun clock is a camera; its film is the soul.
There’s no need for development; that’s not the goal.
Take your time from the hippo instead of the bird.
It is how we make peace before war ever starts.

Conjugation of Daho

TheMagicRealist.com

Daho was a state of the union one time.
It took pride in infinitive providence such
That its residents felt everything was just fine
Until when they realized a better design
To include all the attributes grammar likes much
All to exhibit representation sublime

A verb does have voice. It also has mood.
And on good days a good verb will sing a good song
So we know what on bad days a bad verb will do.
Don’t give a verb guff; it will predicate you
To whatever it’s feeling. Don’t make it feel wrong.
Any verb can get nasty and treat a dude rude.

Now, back to the case of Daho. As we know
To live now and to dream of tomorrow come past
Does make a verb tense, and Dahoans as well
So they came up with number and person to tell
All the nation Dahoans don’t do things half assed.
It’s a state now where grammar fanatics can go.

So, there’s Idaho, Youdaho; He, She and Itdahos.
That’s on the west side where singulars stay.
On the east side there’s Wedaho; Theydaho too.
Since they’re plural, they get along well with the You.
It was back in the day when Dahoans had sway
Until conquered by gerunds with will to transpose.

Vacating Vacating

TheMagicRealist.com

We could visit the spot where old Humpty dumped
Or the land where first creatures first pissed in the breeze.
We could scale the vast, mountainous, rock hardened dick.
We could watch it erupt and be covered in thick
Molten mayhem. We could live what common man sees.
Let’s begin our vacating, folks. I’m really pumped!

What could be more deserving of travelers to be
Than to map a vacation from end until start
With every detail most recursively planned
So that all in the family will well understand
That vacating is not a pure science, but art
And the spaces we visit may well set us free.

We could Hip Hip Hurrah and yank doodle in snow
Or act fat, dumb and happy for selfie stick’s sake.
But wait – Where we’ll end up in time is right here.
We could cancel our plans and then live without fear.
We’d avoid any chance of mistakes we might make.
Since we’ll be here right after vacating, why go?

A Most Literal M

TheMagicRealist.com

M could be for Matter. We’re all made of some.
It’s a consonant catered to personal glee
That could mean any number of beautiful things.
It’s the essence of M-ing for which the heart sings
When a detour through eye level leads to the sea
And momentum ensues like the beat of a drum.

M could stand for Messy or Menses the noun
As the mind mingles meaning, malfunction and more
In attempt to decipher why nature must play
In promoting such urges that cause due dismay
For those of a flavor not prone to ignore
That magnificent manhole just south of the mound.

One may wax anti-lingual and labor the view
Of the sequitur logic against sucking face
With another one, hairy, of mucous and warm.
Nature caters, in time, to what’s not the norm.
Why is man sloshing sultry beset with disgrace?
When it comes to linguistics, is M good for you?

I must think of that M just as if it were me
Since we’re most made of microbes; from mother they came.
Could it be that when nature finds man in a rut
She gives the command, “Get Good Guys in your Gut!”
To help out with digestive health just the same
As the flower most surely gets help from the bee?

Barking Trees In the Forest

TheMagicRealist.com

Now the dogs are all barking. It’s seven a.m.
And the kids are out romping around the car port.
They are ready to load up and get off to school.
Yet the dogs are still barking. Perhaps it’s the rule
In the forest where barking trees oft’ come up short
Of attention from humans… Such pity for them.

The children are free, though they’re taxied the same.
And they ramble on doggedly nipping the ears
Of their own, chatter boxing as hard as they can.
They get full response for the slightest demand.
But the dogs are still barking. Should I be in tears?
I’m the stark rabid neighbor who harbors no blame.

It is closer to eight, now; their pleading has ceased.
These bastions of bark, having finished their trial,
Will begin once again as the children return.
If they barked for a living, what fortune they earn!
Dogs have voices like timber that grow for a while
Then fall flat in the forest where heard not the least.

Every Good Printer Should Wipe Its Own Head

TheMagicRealist.com

Every t that’s electric should cross itself well
Just as socks unattended should stay decent pairs.
Every printer that prints other than in 3D
Has a head that needs wiping.  Its will is to be
Of its own clear volition, effecting repairs
Of its own fettered systems so balance can dwell.

Every i that is manual has had its day
Now the age of blue-toothing and why-fi is come.
Someday soon a device will have nary a button.
There’ll be so much to love for the technophile glutton.
Every i that exists will have class – not just some.
They will dot one another without much delay.

I’ve managed two printers. My one is a girl.
She presents not a problem when I am offline.
But the other’s a jerkoff who laughs in my face.
It thinks I’m the bozo; I’m prone to disgrace
As it sounds off to me. I concur with its whine
Every time there’s a mis-feed I’m made to unfurl.

Elevator Music Awards

TheMagicRealist.com

Folks who craft lousy music that puts folks to sleep
Ought to have recognition for work that’s well done.
For work that is fair, many juices will flow
As with all tender meat. Every artist should know.
How does composing rut music constitute fun?
It’s along the same lines as someone counting sheep!

There’s a tune that is played on most government lines
While waiting on hold for the next of avail.
It starts off real slow, then it starts to get weird,
As my consciousness seems to have been commandeered.
It takes talent to craft at the pace of a snail
With such melodic ease in the strictest confines.

This genre of music should have its fanfare.
Folks who write and arrange this stuff should be exposed.
Big pharma may scorn them, but that shouldn’t be
Any reason to keep them from all who agree
That annoying music is purely composed
To keep all desensitized so we don’t care.

Signs of Life

TheMagicRealist.com
When one talks about signs, there are myriad kinds.
We’re accustomed to trust them to say the right thing.
But when cruising while high, should the cops be alarmed?
If you get them to smoke some, will they be disarmed?
No, the cops are not privy; to justice they cling.
They will quote you the riot act. Don’t cross their minds!

I don’t drive around high, but high drives around me.
It’s a challenge I meet on the road every day.
When I get behind someone who’s driving as if
Someone said, “Sir, prepare to drive over that cliff,”
My question is, why is this jerk in my way?
Is he seeing, perhaps, something I cannot see?

Keep an eye on what’s happening ‘round you all times
Is some simple advice for those high on the road.
But it’s also for others who must get around.
With you fools on the highway, I’m helpless and bound.
Get your asses in shape. Kindly lighten my load.
In the past I have shot folks for much lesser crimes.

 

 

In Pursuit of the Functional

TheMagicRealist.com

I’m sorry, young fellow, this waveform won’t do.
There’s just something about it that seems rather odd.
It appears at the center, not noticed at first.
But when I look closely, my mind is coerced
Into thinking this signal’s not something to laud.
That X axis is sassy; what’s happened to you?

Other students of life know to follow the rule.
The X is for time, but the why cannot be
Of more than one value per moment’s avail
Although value is moot on a much larger scale.
Affairs of the heart are like waves in the sea,
And the ocean of axes can be a rough school.

The heart is quite centered upon the time line.
At least, that’s, in theory, where it doesn’t count.
In reality, though, there’s no heart symmetry.
It’s a tad to the left of the center of me.
My belief in its functioning is paramount
In this structural world we have come to design.

You Can’t Trash a Trician

TheMagicRealist.com

Get a load of that Trician, folks, gosh what a sight!
He’s the marvelous hero who works door to door
With gadgets and cables and tools of all kinds.
The stuff that he knows might just boggle our minds.
When he gets here he’ll lay all his stuff on the floor
And begin working wonders to lead us from plight.

He’s got meters, repeaters and gizmos galore
As he stakes out the problem and lays it to rest.
If he will take a break you might offer him lunch.
When you do get him talking he may get the hunch
That your faith in his skill has been put through the test.
He is hard wired eloquence live at your door.

Do trust in your Trician and give him a hug
That is if he’ll have it and if the job’s done.
Or you might just give him some pizza instead.
If you grill him a steak it won’t go to his head.
When your Trician is working he’s having much fun.
When his good work is finished we all can feel smug.

Things Always Work Themselves Out

TheMagicRealist.com

When I sense a problem, desire is born
From a place strong and centered. I’d call it my soul.
I am told it is answered as soon as it’s felt
From that same place within where all contrast is dealt.
When a circumstance threatens to hinder my goal
I should take a break also. To self I am sworn.

Once I shift my attention from what I don’t want
I allow the solution to work itself through.
It’s like Jesus said, if you ask with true heart
What you want will be given. I’m surely a part
Of a system designed to assist me and you
To find what we’re seeking in cordial détente.

Give birth to the question and then let it go.
It’s the turning away that’s the ace in one’s hand.
Give the universe pleasure in working things out.
There’s no use in fussing; it carries no clout.
As I follow this tip will my life become grand?
I’m a sucker for trying. I’ll then let you know.

Horace the Humping Horror

TheMagicRealist.com

Do listen up, girls, there’s news I must tell.
It’s disgusting and quite disappointing to me.
That Horace guy whom the boss hired last week
Asked me out on a date with his caveman technique.
I agreed to sleep over just so I could see
If this fellow could work his machine very well.

It was tragic, dear ladies, don’t sleep with this man.
You will bounce like a basketball being not bound
To hitting the floor every once in a while.
The man is a menace; I guess that’s his style.
I was looking for love, but a humpbeast I found.
So avoid this asshole the best way you can.

I hadn’t faked orgasms much until now.
No need to do so had ever occurred.
But this jack hammer Horace, although he’s endowed,
Must lose the damned hard hat, for crying out loud!
We are not made of concrete, but he hasn’t heard.
Don’t ask him to slow down; he wouldn’t know how.

Forlorning Begets the Spectra

TheMagicRealist.com

Don’t worry; be happy” is simple advice
For a flesh and blood man who knows how to survive
Yet also for snowmen with carrots gone chill
With no hope withstanding, not even a pill.
It’s no wonder that snowmen and real men alive
Will procure veggie consciousness at any price.

When the mind freezes over and playtime sets in
Is the hell that was present now sculpture in ice?
Give one time to attend to one’s final affairs
Before one ascends to that snow land upstairs.
A stiff brew on the rocks there would really be nice.
The rocks here are cold ones that bruise a tough skin.

Go forth and tell no one that I have healed you,”
Jesus said to those folks who’d been broken or bent.
He knew if they went and told others, no doubt
They’d be robbed of their healing, then being without
The means to return to a state of content,
They’d revert soon to sickness as if it were new.

Wafer Mache

TheMagicRealist.com

I remember the zinc-plated vacuum tube days.
Perhaps that’s the issue. It wouldn’t be fair
To the new ones to point out the way things were done.
I would take apart radio sets just for fun.
Inside there was substance no age can compare…
…No petite touchy feely. …No harmful brain rays.

A box made of wood with a dial and a light
Was the thing we would ‘watch’ as each evening passed.
The announcers were artists who captured the air.
They brought life to living and not much despair.
Those junk boxes were sturdy and well-built to last.
There’s a need for what’s come, but who knows if it’s right?

Moore’s Law clearly states that our paper will end.
Transistors will run out of space pretty soon.
Before that should happen, perhaps we’d take care.
Our technology’s volatile wafer thin layer
Could be wiped out of matter emerged from the moon.
[It’s a misguided warning… Continue your trend.]

The Sickness of Puppy Is Within

TheMagicRealist.com

Upon a time once, a king planned a big feast
For a wedding. His son was to get married soon.
But the folks he invited… they gave him such guff
With excuses like tending to business and stuff.
It seems they weren’t raised with a nice silver spoon.
Nonetheless, this king changed to an angry old beast.

But, before that, he thought he’d try spicing the air.
He had butchered some fat ones and put them to grill.
Then he sent out more servants to tell the folks, “Come,
I’ve got meat on the barbie. You’re welcome to some.

But they mocked him and said, “Your command’s not our will!
When the king heard of this he fell deep in despair.

The problem is that he’s a king, simply said,
With a kingdom so vast there’s no way he could greet
All the people he knows and would want to let in
So he sends out his spokesmen, then to his chagrin
They screw his poor servants like devils in heat.
They leave the man seething in froth from his head.

Then the king said, “Venture into the Hood.
Go gather the darkies and trailer park folk.
Go into the streets; invite those who don’t care.
Gather south of the border… so many down there.

The servants then did just as the king spoke.
Lots of people showed up, and he knew that they would.

But then after all that, something still was not right.
One who came to the party was dressed the wrong way.
When the king saw this person, he tripped right off line.
He let loose on the bastard in heat of decline.
If I were the son, I’d have lost it that day.
Old dad has an attitude absent from sight.

Butt-N-Fly Genes

TheMagicRealist.com

What kind of a creature owns butt-n-fly genes?
One who’s quick on the draw like the wrangler on hand?
…Perhaps one who’s not dirty, yet has no real name…
Maybe someone mistaken or hurt just the same.
Whose genes are the tools of the rock-n-roll band,
And whose message is carried well, by any means?

I’ve worn butt-n-fly genes. It’s an ordeal to pee.
I could leave them, or take them if that’s all I had.
But I’ve many more genes; some are neat in my drawer
Whereas others are scattered about by the score
And they all do have zippers. I’d drive myself mad
Had I buttons to deal with. Who wouldn’t agree?

It’s them cowboys who wouldn’t! They’re such rugged souls
As they wrangle incessant, simplistic and wild.
Were someone to tell me to go butt-n-fly
I’d reply with a warning, “Don’t spit in my eye.”
I will risk my junk parcel oft’ being exiled.
Haberdasher’s genetics achieves all our goals.

The World Done Fell Back!

TheMagicRealist.com

Shit do fall back; I should know that by now.
It ain’t like my ass was just born yesterday.
Woke up this morning all pumped for some grace
Thought I’d get to church early for once, just in case
The pastor may have somethin’ special to say.
Where the hell are my homies?  I missed them somehow!

There’s no Candid Camera crew I can detect.
In fact, ain’t a soul in this desolate lot.
Should I sit here and wait ’til some folks should appear?
Maybe rapture done happened, but then I’m still here.
My folks are peculiar, though.  They ain’t forgot
How to make a good practical joke, I suspect.

Twenty minutes gone by; I ain’t figured it out.
By now, ain’t no chillin’ will satisfy me.
There’s no such thing as The Twilight Zone… true?
Then the thought hits me from out of the blue:
The world done fell back!  So it’s easy to see
That I didn’t fall with it.  That’s all it’s about.

The Ignition of Igor Ignorski

TheMagicRealist.com

I’m reluctant to greet you!  Igor’s the name.
My reticence seems to catch people off guard.
But I just ignore them.  That’s part of my style.
I’d perfected not noticing for quite a long while
To the point where my doing it’s not very hard.
It’s the way that I am – and a worthy life game.

Somewhat geeky and shy, I don’t get around much
But when rarely I do, my Ignition’s involved.
It’s the journey itself that I’m setting aflame.
And I couldn’t care less if the world knows my name.
The less lethal my focus, the more gets resolved
And my passion for ignorance no one can touch.

 Life’s a vison through glass with a straightforward view
Not a looking down, counting the lines in the road.
If the latter were true, then I’d have to slow down
And observe every creature that crawls on the ground.
It is better to simply relax in cruise mode.
I am pleased to ignore you.  I bid you adieu.

Divine Intervention

TheMagicRealist.com

Don’t torch that rugrat!  I bring you a clue
From the One who commanded you from up above.
Lay not a hand on the traumatized child.
It’s not his fault your devotion’s run wild.
Yes, God gave you a test to determine your love
But does being a nut case exemplify you?

If God were to tell you to go fuck yourself
Would you submit to cloning to get the job done?
Or would you instead listen well to what’s said
And then come to know it’s a voice in your head?
Many people hear voices.  It’s nothing to shun.
They’re like pages from interspersed books from the shelf.

God has His way.  I’m His messenger though
So I do not mind giving you my point of view.
When some ‘voice‘ tells you to do something wrong
Why not stop to consider who’s singing that song?
God does do some testing.  He grades a lot, too!
But He does so most lovingly, just so you know.

Winning Spiel

TheMagicRealist.com

 The chaos around… Am I bird of this nest?
If it looks like that’s so, I attract it to me.
Who the hell am I to be given such power
To dissect the world’s events hour by hour?
I’m not given vision so others can see
How to take what’s beholding and ignore the rest.

My only concern is what happens with me.
Though that may sound selfish, it’s sure as hell true.
If my focus were elsewhere I’d be of no good
To the rest of the folks of this earth neighborhood.
My passion for verse came not out of the blue.
It’s a gift from The Maker for all eyes to see.

My thrill had been penning, then shouting with glee,
“Hey look at me, folks, what a talent I am!
I’d be donned in tuxedo upon the live stage…
I’d have publishers wanting my page after page
[If only they knew me].”  They might give a damn
If I stood right before them all fettered in plea!

But I couldn’t do that; they would surely revolt
And I’d end up inside of a ‘courtesy’ van.
I’d be somewhat know then, but not for the thing
That consumes me in pleasure and makes my heart sing.
So I’ll just keep on writing as best as I can
Because otherwise I’d be inviting tumult.

There’s Tabasco In My Kitchen

TheMagicRealist.com

Why there’s stuff in my kitchen that I don’t want there
Is a problem I can’t seem to chase from my mind.
I don’t like tabasco; I never once did.
I was raised on the mild stuff since I was a kid.
I tried some tabasco once.  It wasn’t kind.
But it’s still in my kitchen so I must beware.

Last week, the hot stove I had finally resolved.
I had kept my hand on it for such a long time.
My parents did it, and theirs did as well.
‘Twas a family tradition to navigate hell.
Then finally I realized that it’s not a crime
To break with convention however evolved.

Now this bout of tabasco has entered my life.
My world and my kitchen are not as they were.
If I’m making a cake it might sneak its way in
And if that were to happen where would I begin
In pondering how such a thing could occur?
That bottle must leave here or else there’ll be strife.

On the other hand I could just let the thing be
Because how it got in here is not mine to know.
Although it’s my kitchen I’ve very well known
It follows my folly may be overgrown.
I haven’t a quarrel with you, Tabasco,
So let us be part of a team, you and me.

 

 

 

The Tale of the Donkey

TheMagicRealist.com

“Pin the tail on the donkey”?  Who thinks of such things?
Are they tails that are made up to punish us too?
We’ve done nothing wrong.  Why we’re treated this way
Is to offer all children their happy birthday.
But our rear ends are ragged, quite blistered and blue.
We favor your knowing for whom the tail swings.

We have tails already; your minds take them off
Just to feign disability for a short while.
Maybe some kids would like ‘Land a bark on the dog,’
‘The smell on the skunk,’ or the ‘leap on the frog.’
When kids make their own games they’re likely to smile
And our butts get a break.  That is nothing to scoff.

So here is the thing we would pin upon you
Since you’ve peddled the stupid assed game from git
Teach your kids to allow them to teach you as well.
They are out with the old stuff; it’s such a hard sell.
Let them do their own thing just as they may seem fit.
Keep our butts from your faces and do something new!

Wacky What If-Ing

TheMagicRealist.com

What if up still meant out as in terms of the earth,
But then down became somewhere much other than in?
Would the fragments that seemingly fall from the sky
Take a detour from earth as they shout their “Good bye?”
What if I weren’t a chicken?  Would fowl be my kin?
Or would mingling with monkeys maneuver my mirth?

What if noon became midnight and June became May?
Then would all the world’s creatures take arms and revolt?
Or would they conclude that things still are alright
And continue their day-ing while knowing it’s night?
It’s enough to give any small chicken a jolt
When considering all that could cast ease astray.

What if blind leaps of faith were not taken as true?
Would questioning my own existence be fair?
Would I walk around dreamlike, not noticing much
Of what goes on around me with people and such?
What if people around me are not really there?
I’d be freer than nothingness without a clue.

Grand Mal Movement

 

TheMagicRealist.com
The Grand Mal Movement – a dance on the stool
When tightness is forced past expected control.
A cool rush perspires a brushed whirl of wind.
I now must account for how badly I’ve sinned.
Mass saliva production proceeds with its goal
Of persuading the gutwrench to suspend its rule.


Another severe one disabling the will
To just remain upright and anchored somewhat.
With flat feet on the floor, though, I double in pain.
Why must I go through this again and again?
The release of the rut that’s become of the gut
Reflects but expulsion that’s little to nil.

A second wave coming – I am, though, prepared
For my consciousness leaving.  I’m bent on the floor.
What happened betwixt is a mystery to me.
If I could upload this for doctors to see,
Then they wouldn’t ignore my complaints anymore.
I suppose my describing it all makes folks scared.

But then how would anyone else come to know
What some seemingly private a hell does go on
Behind smokescreens of provident medical view?
The fact that they find nothing wrong is a clue
That what I’ve got going can surely be gone
If I seek inner guidance and just take things slow.

The funniest thing is the ‘movement,’ you see,
As the body is limp, yet it flails on the deck
With a force that is fluid – a rhythmical feel.
Can the body explain to the gut the real deal?
My body may tell me my life is a wreck,
But it’s psychosomatic. That much pleases me.

How To Catch An Alien

TheMagicRealist.com

Can one find what is lost when believing it’s not?
…Not a question one asks from the pit of one’s soul
To another just like him and part of the fold
Along crease in the earth plane since times before old.
Could it be cow violation, itself, is the goal?
…Perhaps something one shouldn’t ponder a lot.

There are plenty of ‘them’ – and there are some, for sure,
From dimensions more distant than we think we are
Yet with powers far greater performed before eyes
Whom are baffled by tricks that are done in our skies.
They’ve been watching this petri dish oft’ from afar.
Who’d have thought all along our Bullshit was the lure?

There’s no need for alarm due to our saving grace.
Our scapegoats, it seems, are our cattle that graze
In the fields clearly marked (We’ve been bill boarded too!)
The ET’s seem fond of this part of our zoo.
Too bad for the cows that they mistook our phrase.
We’ve become, in the cosmos, a strange marketplace.

Am I Playing a Good Me?

TheMagicRealist.com

This is not a debut; I have always been here
On a stage not withstanding direction nor theme.
Have I loved enough yet?  Have I risen from fall?
Can I slip in a song before last curtain call?
This life, as I live it, seems more like a dream
Of a drama composed by the likes of Shakespeare.

I’m a poet myself – or, I play one, somewhat.
It’s the best way I’ve found to relate to the world,
But before we mince words, we are actors at heart.
How one acts towards another’s a show from the start.
I’m a beacon of light, once my talent’s unfurled,
And through boos and applause, I maneuver my strut.

I can’t tell you I’ve been here and done that before.
It’s not all that accurate and lacks of some taste.
What I say does flow through me – sometimes by the thought,
Yet usually by happenstance, then should I ought
To thank the script reaper who sits commonplaced
In an audience vibrant and asking for more.

This time around, I am better than last
As I deal with the candlesticks notched in my belt
And with all of the stage props – some clearly misplaced.
My lines must have presence before they’re embraced.
This theatrical setting is one to be felt
As my focus on this day soon becomes past.