Tag Archive | funny

My Space

TheMagicRealist.com

Behold the lone space bar, apparently wide,
But its name appears not, as with all other keys.
It is that way so either thumb can partake
Of the pleasure of thumping for clarity’s sake.
I do fancy a keyboard who’s willing to please
By providing me S P A C E for each word to reside.

Computers have hairs up their butts about space.
They ignore it and ban me from using it too.
Must puter-nyms look like a mis-jumbled mess?
I’m not big on word sleuthing.  That much I confess.
In fact, spaces do more than underscores do
Without looking so geeky and lacking in grace.

There’s space within atoms; they’re nothing much more!
If there weren’t space between things, how would the world be?
All mass in the cosmos would then coincide.
The binary digits, with no place to hide,
Would congeal in the plasma for all worlds to see.
My Space is a good place with pet peeves galore.

Istan Bulls Love Constantin Opal

TheMagicRealist.com

Istan bulls love constantin opal
Just as bishops tend to wax epi scopal
And when kept up high, a tug on a rope’ll
Quick release them precious jewels.

Even fools love all kinds of opal
Clear from Pakistan to Constantinople
And when asked to part, an emphatic nope’ll
Usher forth despite the rules.

You won’t go back once exposed to opal.
Now, if you’re a bull, a glimmer of hope’ll
Manifest without the prickle of nopal.
You just might convince the mules.

When suds are few, a fun bar of soap’ll
Cause the brash young bulls to dash antelopal
So no least of them becomes mis antropal.
We’re as bound as molecules.

Kape Kenneveral!

You can hold a cork under water, but you can’t make it drink.

 

TheMagicRealist.com

The flesh of the wine bottle top is akin
To the problem we tackle and wrest to the ground.
The effort it takes gets the job done, for sure,
But it might cause some illness for which there’s no cure.
The weight of the issue misjudged by the pound
Bespeaks the illusion there’s something to win.

I’d a niggardly weed in my yard once ago.
It just would not give pay to superior will.
I yanked it and stabbed it and hurt it quite well.
I drowned it in Round Up and said “Go to hell!”
Yet, the damned thing defied my desire to kill.
I decide who gets cut down and who gets to grow!

One can have any cake and consume it with pride
In a world where one knows when to give it a break.
The limit, as mankind approaches its prime,
Of will power potent enough to stop time,
Is infinite, yet we must learn to awake
To the guidance provided us from deep inside.

Plant Porn

TheMagicRealist.com

The organs of sex at the top of a pole
Erect and receptive to contact in space
It seduces the eye, and it does this quite well.
It re-penetrates, purely by means of its smell,
The innermost memories of beauty and grace
That are held in the heart and consumed by the soul.

No shame ushers forth from a body so pure

That it shares its love making with creatures that fly.
As soaring and landing as most of us do,
Their partners are many, and ours, but a few.
With no care for clothing they live not a lie.
When they’re linked up with good times our moments endure.

Making funky is lunky for we with our jewels.
Oft’ we break into sweat for the effort involved
But the lily is calm with its stuff in the breeze.
It doesn’t care if it makes some folks sneeze.
Were our issues with intercourse ever resolved,
We’d quit hyper-humping and looking like fools.

Foghorn Forlorn

TheMagicRealist.com

What is up with you, boy? Get from underneath there.
Don’t you know that’s the first place a rooster will look?
My big mouth’s been a pushin’ you through all along.
You’re now head of the head cocks. What did I do wrong?
It’s a slap in the face, boy; my gizzard’s been shook.
But, I’ll act like I’m happy and don’t really care.

The things that you say, boy, are right off the wall.
I couldn’t do better, and ain’t proud to say.
But, my boy, you been yip-yappin’ like Elmer Fudd.
It’s no wonder folks want your name dragged through the mud.
I been workin’ my tail feathers off night and day.
And what thanks do I get? … A ‘yes bird’ uninstall.

I may rough up a chicken who gets in your way.
That’s the way that I am, and I ain’t here to please.
In fact, boy, I’m big on the brash just like you.
We made a good team, but for now, we are through.
If you need me again, boy, just drop to your knees.
If you really had to, that would sure make my day.

The Wellbeing and Wonder of Whack

TheMagicRealist,com

Pick a noun – any noun, ‘doesn’t matter which one.
If it’s whack that it’s lacking, know where to get some.
There’s a town that has oodles – an infinite source.
It’s an attitude bred in the psyche, of course,
Not an actual place that’s devoid of scum.
If your thing’s out of whack, go to Whackville for fun!

There’s a drought on abundance?  Well, how would one know?
By lack of accessories on shopping carts claimed?
Or maybe by facts hocked and spit on the street
For beggars to stare at while trying to eat…
Can I eat with the homeless and not feel ashamed?
Something seems out of whack; that’s the reason to go

To Whackville intent to cop copious supplies
Of the purest, most wholesome whack under the sun.
From there, I can see there is nothing amiss.
Every actor on stage knows to strut into bliss.
When returning from Whackville, my task is near done.
Spreading whack, I’ll lift spirits and roll a few eyes.

Save

Save

Save

Save

Save

Complex of Inhibition

TheMagicRealist.com

I can’t come to see you because I’m not there.
I know we do plan to meet often; it’s true,
But the fact that I’m not where you are anytime
Keeps defeating our meeting – a fool’s paradigm.
If I could just be there to be there with you
Then there’d be not an issue to craft and declare.

I suppose that I could just get up and go,
Heading in the direction to where you now are,
But, my goodness, the thought of not being there still
Does confound me quite deeply and stifles my will
To go any further.  I’m not up to par
For going and knowing not when to say no.

So, help me, dear friend.  Can I be there with you?
It’s not that I’m coy, or can’t find my way.
It’s just that I’m daft and deficient as some
Who can’t find a motive to best overcome
The inertia of living our lives come what may.
In a dance with resistance, my life becomes new.

Smart Assed Robin

TheMagicRealist.com

I watched a robin after
an early morning rain
others dug for worms… bugs
this lucky one nabbed a baby
snake.  Such a battle so
long the bird has won
head sheared off
tucked away sound
the bird stares at me
another while
as if to say
“Yeah, I ate the son of a bitch; what’s it to ya?”

Wet Tuesday Night

TheMagicRealist.com

When the heavens perspire and dampen the street
It’s a rainstorm that’s standard and run of the mill.
Precipitous prognostication aside,
A Wichita weatherman’s hope’s not denied.
There’s a downpour of wet stuff.  My gosh, what a thrill!
When they do call it right it’s a breath bated treat.

It don’t rain in this town much and I don’t know why.
The forecasts will tease you and mess with your brain.
They’ll tell you, “It’s coming; there’s bukus of chance.”
They’ll have your hopes harnessed and pre-poised to dance…
And then comes a mist puff – NOT torrents of rain.
Indeed when real storms occur, all thank the sky.

By the time that I finish this verse all will cease.
It’s much like the tropics how rain comes and goes.
This courtship of rain dance and man with a tool
Can often make forecaster look like a fool.
But we’re used to it all.  It is how nature shows
It’s the mother in charge.  We just suffer in peace.

Fifty Ways To Move Your Matter

TheMagicRealist.com

The problem is NOT inside your gut,” she says to me.
She nods her head as if she wants me to agree.
I’m backed up bucket loads; dear doctor, hear my plea.
There must be fifty ways to move your matter.

I’ve seen the X-rays; there’s no problem I can find.
Your labs are normal – no disease of any kind.”
I’m hooked on laxatives; they’re always on my mind.
There must be fifty ways to move your matter…
…Fifty ways to move your matter.

Take command of the can, Stan.
Don’t rattle your brain, Blaine.
You just have to believe, Steve,
That your body’s in charge.
Put your mind in a trance, Lance.
Let that snake do its dime dance.
Your resistance must go, Mo,
And then you will flow.”

Just slam dunk the can, Stan.
Prop up your feet, Pete.
Stuff is bound to deploy, Roy.
Nothing’s wrong; you will see.
It’s much like a boa, Noah,
In consort with good protozoa.
Brace yourself for a thrill, Bill,
You’ll be crapping with glee.”

Alas, how rather simple your advice does seem to me.
My ailing rubber hose is clogged with play dough; can’t you see?
I fear that I will reach the point of bowel catastrophe.
There must be fifty ways to move your matter.

My friend, I think another pill will do no good.
Your body’s putting up a fight, indeed as well it should.
When you let loose the shock will surely rock the neighborhood.
I know there’s fifty ways to move your matter…
…Fifty ways to move your matter….”

Characteristic Toxicity Index

TheMagicRealist.com

The dust of a world swirls about in a wind
As it forms into clusters and clumps of some mass.
Does dust ever settle? Most seemingly not.
It is breathed by both cosmos and nation a lot.
Out there, it forms stars with a lifetime of gas.
Down here, it wreaks havoc for all who have sinned.

Many indices rampant among human doing
Are helpful in giving our best selves a clue
As to just how much toxic dust made at our hands
Becomes real enough, dust mites make their demands.
Now, since they are the many, and we are the few,
If we don’t treat them right, then ourselves we are screwing.

The dust mites among us are noble indeed.
They work for dead skin cells; ‘ain’t nothing much cheaper!
They keep to themselves in the dust we create.
They live out their lives in nirvana-like state.
When it’s time to move on, they will greet the grim reaper.
Their CTI’s low, I think folks would concede.

To Unlock An Ibis

TheMagicRealist.com

Many issues with giblets folks think are secure
May find resolution though not in the courts.
The bowels of the bird can be put through the grind
By anyone with enough intent to find
Some info on bad guys and all their cohorts.
The Ibis, though diddled, its heart remains pure.

I don’t have an Ibis; I’m not in the groove
By choice or by happenstance – I don’t know which.
Had I plenty of reason to make a bird call
I would soon forget I had reason at all.
To peer up the bird’s niche with such ease and no glitch
Is to render it egg faced with not much to prove.

The Ibis has had its rear end poked into.
But it will survive and won’t just fly away.
Some features come standard with woman and man.
Among them we handle whatever we can.
The smart ass in a pocket could lead you astray
As feds feeling frisky form out of the blue.

Gravitational Wave

TheMagicRealist.com

Can black holes dance the jig?  Astrophysics says so.
Political science may say they cannot, yet
Sometimes it’s a tango performed on the air,
And others, a salsa consumed in much flair.
Whereas each school of thought knows the other’s a lot,
The War of the Stars generates what we know

Today as a wave front of tremendous power.
It ripples the minds of the populous swirl
Of the lesser, light beings caught up in the dance.
As above; so below,’ seems an apt circumstance.
Gravitational Wave sets a nation to twirl,
Keeping up day by day, and then hour by hour.

Some wise man ago knew that it would be proved…
All those massive events – some most grave and intense,
Do send out their vibes which can warp one’s space-time.
For big stars it’s ok, but for us, it’s a crime.
If I am caught red handed, I’ll plead self-defense.
Because proof has become us, we are then moved.

The Point Not Taken

TheMagicRealist.com

Two separate beings converged into one,
I stand astonished.  Which choice is clear to me?
My one self sees that its life someday is done.
My broader self knows that all has just begun.
I’m a soul in a briefcase hand carried most casually.

Though born to wonder… to share what I feel,
Sometimes I wander; I’m lost along the way.
To know what is not just as well as what is real
Is to know that one may have something to reveal.
But to share it, indeed, I’ll put off for another day.

I know by now that I’ve been here before
At this same juncture.  The sign before my face
Now reads rather oddly as life does at its core.
The next time around, will I even up the score?
The true self knows every journey is one of grace.

Wellbeing knows all who travel aground.
The signs are plenty and placed along each way.
If I just yield, then my bounty will abound.
I’ll know my worth, and I’ll speak without a sound.
Perhaps then some may hear what I have to say.

Honoring the Inner Being

TheMagicRealist.com

The roadway in life, though rugged and smooth
Can often get potholed when etched by the rains
So, the vehicle’s sturdy – this too the road bears.
It is built for abuse, and it knows no one cares.
‘Heavy rubber to road, people go to great pains
To move about swiftly with no need to soothe…

…The ‘Baby On Board’ who does need some attention…
The self’s inner child floating free at the wheel
Is aware of all motion by way of its wave.
In his dream, he knows that there’s no one to save.
If he wakes, the illusion becomes the real deal.
The ‘driver’ distracted then claims note of mention.

We don’t need to keep our eyes dead on the road.
If we do then we’ll drift into sleep like the child.
Focus is all that’s required to move.
Though blind we may seem we are locked in the groove
On the roadway of life where the baby has smiled
And has kept the race going in cruise control mode.

It’s nice to be hungry when eating a meal

It's nice to be hungry when eating a meal.

A blessing it is to give thanks for a meal
As to have what’s not tasty be tossed to the side.
Our gratitude is to the beast and the plant.
Their life force supporting our own they do grant.
When we’re young and with all those five senses applied
A bit may be eaten, much to mom’s appeal.

We may hunger for wealth; we may lust after glory
And that’s all well and good if what’s wanted’s not yet.
Getting juices to flowing means talking about
Whatever that makes one’s heart stand up and shout.
If done well, this attitude you’ll not regret
Because then you’ll have realized a well-rehearsed story.

I may fancy a salad of tossed verbal greens
From the Garden maintained on the plot of my soul.
I prepare and may share with no hint of abash.
Very little at hand ever goes in the trash.
And as time marches forward, my meal takes its toll
In pursuit of Digestion for all that that means.

A Virgo’s Signature Is Usually Legible

TheMagicRealist.comThe body must move just as well as the mind.
Idle hands and sheer boredom will lead me to ill.
If I lie in bed lazy past break of daylight
I’ll be hard pressed to craft a good dream for tonight.
I’ve a fondness for logic as well as free will.
With the mind as a map anything I can find.

I am prone to walk barefoot in my special wood.
The Path is the Mother Earth and the life force of green.
And as bright as its ending, its journey’s the way
Of divine light through living my life day by day.
The world trapped in a looking glass is what I’ve seen
So, much less than much more is what’s now understood.

A most practical one and adaptive to change,
I master the meek minuscule, mired and mundane.
If I have enough detail, I’m given great wealth.
I work best in the background; my credit is stealth.
As the blueness of sky and the freshness of rain
I’m at home in a world I can well rearrange.

A Fiddler’s Duck

TheMagicRealist.com

Who would care how a fiddler does with his thing
Whether out in plain view or behind the closed door?
If he did play the ‘organ’ we’d call him as such.
Other than strings, he won’t fiddle with much.
Though his thinging is bringing him love life galore
His heart lingers warm with a duck under wing.

A fluffy young ducky with wobbly feet –
A remnant of Easter and kids’ sticky fingers,
Detoured from tradition, this ducky’s in luck.
A kind hearted fiddler’s a bang worth a buck,
But his love for his duck is the one that will linger.
The thing peeps as he’s playing. He thinks that is neat.

You will rarely find his duck running amuck
As the critter is certain he’s found a good home.
He was gifted once, then was gifted some more.
He knows a duck giver’s no one to adore.
People getting these ducks give them free space to roam.
The question is: Who gives a fiddler’s duck?

Faith and the Fixerman

TheMagicRealist.com

How ya doin’ there, ma’am? Is there something that’s broke?
Point me to it; I’ll take a look at the thing.
Any job I can handle; I’m your Fixerman.
I’ve a toolbox of smarts gathered since I began
Giving service to folks and that makes my heart sing.
Things can’t be that bad; I don’t smell any smoke.

I’ll just tweak on this gizmo and see what it does.
Now, if it tweaks back, then the problem is found!
If it does something silly, I’ll have just a clue
And from there perhaps I’ll know what else I can do.
If it draws a deep breath then emits a shrill sound
I’ll call in a musician to play just because.

I can field strip a flabbergast down to the floor
Then bang its belligerent being back whole.
I’m all about service, ma’am… No need to fear.
I’ll finish this job if it takes me all year.
I may have to move in and be mate to your soul.
Why not give it a thought since I’ve been here before?

Children of an Elder God

TheMagicRealist.com

My Supremeness! I must have dosed off for a spell.
What day of Creation…? Where did I leave off?
Seems the kids are begetting much faster than mold.
When I said, “Guys, be fruitful,” I guess you were sold
On spreading like wildfire spurred by the quaff
And running ‘round rampantly raising up hell.

Now that I did not create, little ones.
I remember that much, so ask nothing of Me
About sickness, or pain, or displeasure or doubt
Because love and abundance is what I’m about.
Go ahead and be fruity, but do it with glee.
You are here for a good time, My daughters and sons!

My grayness of beard and My whiteness of face
Is folly, dear children, conceived in your minds.
You may note that I’m single – a stay at home Dad.
‘Been around since forever, and more, I might add.
You may flourish and partake of fruit of all kinds.
The Garden’s for all folks no matter what race.

Correctness Politicale

Correctness Politicale

An Insurance Enabler am I – not a thief.
I procure valued merchandise usually by night.
When I stir up some trouble, the system improves.
In a big way, I’m why the economy moves.
You could call me a crook, but you wouldn’t be right.
Take care with your mind; I may snare your belief!

A Reliable Fictitian am I – not a liar.
The choiceness of wording’s the key to it all.
With mouth shot from the hip, too much truth is revealed
So a blither of bombast does make a good shield.
The slicker words are the more minds that will fall
In line with my thinking. There’s no goal that’s higher.

Of the many of genre of funny there are
Political Correctness does tickle me most.
No humor so dry in its gross understatement
Does cause of the heart, the mind’s sole re-abatement.
Every con man’s an artist with hot air to boast.
A silver tonged devil’s the winner by far.

A Goal Is an Excuse to Enjoy the Journey

 

A Goal Is an Excuse to Enjoy the JourneyA Love Supreme is one blessed by God’s Hand.
It’s a dream one must focus on, knowing just how.
If it happens one doesn’t (though never the case),
The desire alone knows wellbeing and grace.
I’m alone, as I like it.  I’m justified, now,
To blame bad behavior on subconscious plan.

All you lovers out there… I’m not jealous of you
For the love you are, wholesomely balanced and sane.
The illusion of sadness I’ll lose in due time.
My job, until then, is to make feelings rhyme
Perhaps for the sum of us who cain’t talk plain
Or just for the deeply disordinant few.

The calendar year’s a reminder again
Like a clockwork of greenery tunneled in love.
A leisurely stroll hand in hand with oneself
Might just make one believe he’s a lost Santa’s elf.
Who would put a damned rose in a fisted glove?
Someone rip snorting desperate to make a new friend?

A Person of Office

TheMagicRealist.com

The Leader of Nations – a president’s call,
As a fireman sleeps right up close to his pole,
Or the radar tech poised in a dim radar room
With status lights blinking and circuits to groom.
Soon comes the time to put one in control.
Should that person lack ‘Office,’ then God help us all.

So just what is this quality judged by our minds
When candidates line up and tell us what’s wrong
With this country and those who are right now in charge?
Some quite gentle and calm… Some with egos too large.
The persons we chose from perhaps all belong
To secret cult orders and royal blood lines.

That may be a myth or big shark attack tragic.
The myth of the ‘Person of Office’ remains
The major criterion guiding our voting.
There’s little to do with what whom is promoting.
Maybe most make selections detached from their brains.
How else does it seem they’re elected by magic?

The Touchstones In Life

The Touchstones In Life

There are stones that, when touched, will touch back in due time
In the heart where they’ll ripen in warmth duly claimed.
These stones are the anchors that strengthen the soil
Of the soul’s inner garden that blooms without toil.
The stones are life gems though improperly named
Because most of our moments cost dozens per dime.

A grandma once overheard granddaughter say
One day while on picnic with family and friends,
This nice, shiny rock, all speckled and blue…
I will keep it for Nana.  She’d like something new
.”

She’s not one to confuse any means for their ends.
She just wanted to fill grandma’s pocket today.

Shy of people to know and of people to love,
One can still gather touchstones of living in grace.
When e’er the world, pebbled, beneath humbling feet,
Acknowledges selfhood in all there’s to meet,
A pocket to tend keeps a smile on one’s face
And a strong steady flow of pure light from above.

Just Terrified of the Life Review

Just Terrified of the Life Review

I don’t fear not being for how would I know
That I couldn’t know anything – not even not being?
With no memory of life having ever been lived
All deed that were doing must then be forgiv’d.
Nonexistence is futile. There’s no disagreeing
Unless not to be is a good way to grow.

I don’t mind dying; I might as well not
Since death is a thing that will happen to all.
I’d much rather go in my sleep just the same.
To perish in mishap would carry no blame.
If by sickness its quickness will strengthen its call
But it’s not that I think about death quite a lot.

Even the afterlife worries me none
If there’s a place where we all reunite.
The only thing that consumes me with terror
Are acts I committed while living in error
All shown before me in the brightest of light.
I’m remorseful for some of the things that I’ve done.

Doubting Thomas

TheMagicRealist.com

Yo, Thomas, get in here! Don’t chill in the yard.
I’ve something intended for your doubting ass.
I know well why you’re out there. It’s obvious, dude.
You’re a skeptic. Get over it, and don’t be so rude.
If I ran a Christ school you’d be ass of the class.
Stick your hand in my side, and don’t think very hard.

Why my Father made you so Dad blasted thick
Is a mystery still. I must ask Him some day,
Hey Dad, if you make a man dumber than dirt,
Does he always become, then, a doubting expert?”
Perhaps not worth asking… I will anyway.
My love for you, bro, is more solid than brick.

When I told your behind I would rise from the dead
Did you think I was smoking some weirded out wick?
My Lord and my God,” you say there on your knees.
I can see your believing’s no act to appease…
Well, Tom, that’s terrific; don’t lay it on thick.
We don’t do Shakespeare. We do gospel instead.

Open Mike

TheMagicRealist.com

At a call center once when I worked as a call
A colleague of mine had a customer who
Would get on her nerves to the point where she’d say,
One moment please, ma’am; we will pause if I may.”
While on hold, then, this woman would spew
Obscenities certainly heard by us all.

For a brief moment, she’d take control of her plight.
She’d act out a short little fantasy skit
Where she’d play the role of the Empress of Terror
Her customer, that of the Empress Wrath Bearer.
She’d return whole and healed having just thrown a fit.
Her act was thus polished. Things turned out all right.

Psst, your mike’s on,” we would jokingly say.
She’d scoff at us as if no drama took place.
The urge to let loose… is it something to tame?
If we let it run riot, we’ll wallow in shame.
Our mikes are on always. We live by the grace
Of our fellows’ behaviors incurred day by day.

Writer’s Block

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s an engine I work on whenever it needs
A Tuning. I like when it purrs like a kitten.
Content to run idle or placed in high gear
Someone might just speak of my writing this year.
Were that to come true, I’d be totally smitten.
Perhaps it’s by fate that the writer succeeds.

Nonetheless, I have nothing to fear of my block.
I am one who will own it despite its great mass.
As an anchor, it keeps the mind running in place
Yet it holds the soul tight in a captive embrace.
Other blocks on the highway… I’ll yield; you may pass.
If my octane’s not high, my poor pistons will knock.

Writer’s block is a myth. I will tell you it’s so.
It was figmented long before mind had a man
And long before apes said farewell to the trees.
If I’m stuck on some verse, it reminds me to seize
Every moment’s transmission the best way I can.
This verse is finished, now… no more to go.

Fickle Fate and the Fatted Calf

TheMagicRealist.com

Please don’t stare at me, there, with that stupid look.
Say you want me to moo just for shits and why not’s?
I don’t play that no more; I’ve an attitude now.
Life seems big on the bull for the average brown cow.
That’s what happens in nature when man calls the shots
As he claims to the world that he plays by the book.

My own prodigal son… I won’t see him again.
That’s because fate would have it some runaway brat
Tried to handle the bull in the world on his own
He returned beat and broken and bummed to the bone
But the dad said, “Go find that young calf that is fat
And kill the poor bastard. We’ll celebrate then
.”

So every time some young jerk takes a stroll
Then runs back to daddy with tail between leg
Some unfortunate calf whom had thought life was grand
Is led to the chopping block all as preplanned.
It would seem clear to me there’s a pardon to beg
‘Cause you runaway rug rats are out of control!

Bastions of Billowing Blitheracy

TheMagicRealist.com

Today I failed an ill-blitheracy exam.
It was proctored by people I meet every day.
It seems I can’t blither the way others do.
Lord knows I’ve tried ‘til my pride turned pale blue
There’s nothing that’s said that is new anyway.
I don’t make normal sense; that’s the way that I am.

Were it hard to speak freely as most do with ease
There would be not a word from my tongue or the pen.
There’d be silence within all the chatter around.
My own little bubble… Oh, how sweet the sound
That saved a rich resonant wretch once again
From casting his own sense of worth to the breeze.

The want ads are screaming, “Dear blitherists please
Take note that we hire most all of the time.
If you can speak nonsense and keep a straight face,
You’re Hired! We value a seasoned nut case.
We don’t even care if you make lousy rhyme.
The world is your oyster. All nature agrees
.”

Alfalfa Male

TheMagicRealist.com

There are molds that are made of the traits we admire
In real folks and characters whom they portray.
Some will look at that casting, comparing themselves
As self-esteemed merchandise placed on store shelves.
If one walks well on water that’s well worth a display –
Not necessarily something to which all should aspire.

There are models enough I can look at and try
To mimic attempting to make myself ‘better.
But who in hell am I trying to please?
If It’s you, then I suppose hell’s about to freeze!
This Omega Male’s value no thought form can fetter.
No Alpha Male sty will take root in my eye.

Some of those traits I can claim as my own
Right off the bat without giving a thought.
Others are ways I may never become.
That doesn’t mean that I’m less than street scum.
In the living of life I am generally taught
That a letter-less man is quite true to the bone.

Fine Cheese Cutlery

TheMagicRealist.com

It Seems I’m a cutlery connoisseur
Carved from the standard manifold cloth.
I know, ‘parts is parts’ and it’s sexist and crude.
I ain’t here to please no one; my truth ain’t subdued.
Some good hawty cutter’s the flame to my moth
As it stiffens its wing and takes flight from what’s pure.

Cups and saucers are good; I will take them or leave them.
They’re not part and parcel to good table setting.
But a lady with cutter makes my flatware to stutter.
It will slice through my man mind as if it were butter.
I’m the butt butler’s cuddle no cutler’s regretting.
A girl with big bounteous behind is a gem.

It is locked in my jeans to track walking machines
That jiggle that butt from one side to the other.
Such cutter with grip handle hub double wide…
Were my gender reversed, I would wear that with pride!
There are still many things I would not tell my mother.
Spend some time in the Kitchen by whatever means.

diculous dabble

TheMagicRealist.com

Is it really true that the light will go off
When the door to the frigid air is closed?
There’s no eye to perceive it behind that thick wall.
The veggies and fruits could be having a ball.
The meat and the bread might have long since proposed
Unbeknownst to left over beef stroganoff.

Dear Plato and Socrates, this one’s for you.
The chicken and egg thing I’ve got figured out.
But lights behind closed doors must play by the rules
Because if they don’t, we’d be taken for fools.
Equal Justice! That’s what I’m talking about.
The law of the loony’s not meant for the few.

That light should be off. There’s a switch that’s depressed
When e’er the door closes; that saddens it so.
But that throw with a pole could be putting on airs.
In cahoots with the crisper drawers for whom it cares,
The acts of the door moves the pole to and fro
But that doesn’t mean the damned thing ain’t possessed.

I’ll make sure that light’s off; I’ll just drill through the side.
With a whisper jet bit in a silencer chuck
Those goods and their cronies won’t suspect a thing.
I’ll catch them red handed; my heart will then sing.
And from then on, I’ll have much better luck
In convincing the stove and the sink that they lied.