Tag Archive | offbeat

Pay Your Bills Before Leaving

TheMagicRealist.com

Every moment I spend here forms free falling sand
Through the eye of the hourglass that I know as time.
Neither debit or credit can know its true name
Nor its call to fulfillment as part of the game.
Mindfulness about finance worth all of a dime
Makes for life convoluted and surely ill-planned.

If you say I must pay it, relay it to me
In a manner appropriate to who I am.
I appear to be human. I’ll take it as fact.
Can my figures befall me and counter transact
To the point where the earth sees my life as a sham?
If I ask such a question, am I meant to be?

Don’t remind me I’m ‘outta here.’ Save your junk mail
With your bleak advertisements. I’ll take my demise
Not in monthly installments, but in moments new
With no thought of my net worth and how much is due.
When my time here expires, will you cease your tries?
With a new change of address, will daftness prevail?

Red Christmas

TheMagicRealist.com

Who’s dreaming of a Red Christmas?
Well, that relies on what we mean.
With a red shift waning, there’s no complaining,
Not even from the trees of green.

Those dreaming of a Red Christmas
May see life through a different lens.
As the noble prism induces schism,
White light is on what it depends.

I’m bracing for a Red Christmas
Despite its spectroscopic hue.
As the year approaching comes new
Some may feel that Christmases are blue.

Why A Duck?

TheMagicRealist.com

Why A Duck when it’s not often made very clear,
Whether in the context of a humorous plot
Or clearly isolated in pure consciousness?
Every duck has to bathe itself when it’s a mess.
When a duck is not quacking, it’s lacking a lot.
Cleanliness is a virtue that most ducks hold dear.

Why A Duck, still, instead of some other life form?
That which bridges the banks has a similar sound.
And most ducks keep their sex lives a private affair.
Some would not want to fuck one. Others wouldn’t care.
A clean duck who is celibate can be profound.
Why A Duck has thick feathers is to keep it warm.

It’s unknown why a duck is the topic today.
Could it be that my word fuel is reaching its end?
Not a chance that could happen. I am born to write.
So, I’ll find things to play with that bring me delight.
Why a Duck, then, is simply a joy to expend
Some nervous verbal energy in my own way.

How’s Your White Count?

TheMagicRealist.com

I am black, so my white count should be awfully low.
Now, that would make some sense in a black in white world.
But the world is both black and white and red and blue
And some odd unseen colors. These are but a few.
There’s advantage to living with hair tightly curled
When follicular freedom is not apropos.

I’m concerned with my white count. My reds are ok.
They have no will to sickle nor stand for my race.
White ones keep law and order, while reds give and take
In their visits to other ones. There’s a handshake
That supports our survival in this temporal space.
White ones deal with infection. It must be their way.

Invasion and infection are similar terms.
Both are born out of fear perceived to be outside
One’s ordained sense of selfhood, for better or worse.
Yet, sometimes it’s a good thing; sometimes it’s a curse.
Our most cellular judgments cannot be denied.
They will always reflect what the true heart confirms.

Time To Change The Dark Matter

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s a ton of dark matter. It does not have weight.
How do lay folk speak sense of this fluid-assed place?
Hardworking astrophysicists delve evermore
Into mysteries. We are destined to explore
Every aspect of being so we may embrace
A keener self-awareness for how we create.

We did fear any darkness in our early dawn,
And the same for the wild flame, although it gave light.
Have we harnessed the flame as we have the wild horse?
It may matter if we are a weak or strong force.
That dark matter tames light matter seems rather trite.
This notion of expansion does cause me to yawn.

Adrift in an aquarium made up of stuff
That is made up of weirder stuff… It’s a steep hole.
There’s a whole lot more dark stuff. The light stuff should then
Find a way to negotiate and somehow blend.
If such forced integration is rough on the soul,
Then detach from the matter. You have had enough.

I Started Some Shit

TheMagicRealist.com

…I started some shit which started the whole word eating.
But I did not see that the shit was on me.
So I started to eat which started the whole world puking.
Oh, if I’d only seen that the shit was on me.

I learned how to puke, like a damned kook, and got rebuke,
So I messed with their minds and their behinds with things of all kinds
Till I finally shit which started the whole world eating.
Oh if I’d only seen that the shit was on me…

Your Darned Tooting!

TheMagicRealist.com

If you think your darned tooting is something to be
An endorsement from me for your trying to play
That damned trumpet, you’re not only totally wrong,
You should give up the effort and take up ping-pong.
I can’t listen to you make that racket all day.
I have run out of earplugs most distressingly.

Your darned tooting your face off is stressing me out
And my ears have turned vicious defending their space.
They demand that my index fingers take a role
In preventing their suffering. They want control
Of what they are presented with. They can’t embrace
Your most discordant whaling. It sears them with doubt.

If you love your darned tooting, then toot as you may
Even though dead composers will puke in their graves.
Mom may find you have talent after quite some time.
As you learn about earth life, exposure is prime.
We are blessed in our seeing how all life behaves.
Keep up well with your lessons, but don’t make my day.

Ascension Flu

TheMagicRealist.com

So much talk of Ascension – no mention of flu
When that’s all that’s been happening. God, am I sick!
I feel like the damned cosmos has taken a piss
On my sense of wellbeing. I don’t deserve this.
Getting through this Ascension is no easy trick.
To act somewhat enlightened is all I can do.

Some hot tea with some lemon and honey displace
Other methods of seeking alignment these days.
I have given my yoga mat some time to rest
So my chakra points will not be put through the test.
Kundalini is one thing I don’t want to raise.
Swollen sinuses have hijacked my inner space.

Have you heard of Ascension Flu? That’s what I’ve got.
Too much time spent ascending above the hard earth
Can result in the earth taking me to the side
To say, “You were born here, so by me you abide.”
Leave it to mother nature to mess with my mirth.
I’m all up for Ascension, but today I’m fraught.

Preexisting Condition

TheMagicRealist.com

Long before preexisting, butt fisting began
But instead of butt fists, folks who lead use their heads.
With the head up the rectum, the vision is dark.
The well-seasoned optometrists, proud to remark
That to preexist presently is how love spreads,
Can make of our fine health care a much better plan.

For the cephalic buttock, there is no support
But from butt-minded followers. They are the base,
Not that others are acids or potent mushrooms.
If things do appear alkaline, science assumes
That I should not be covered, except for my face.
If I smell what I’m seeing, I sell myself short.

For conditions beforehand to be well insured
We must have enough sense to wish everyone well.
Wellness can be contagious if we’re of right mind
And of simple compassion for all humankind.
To support the alignment of each living cell
Is to welcome the mindset that all can be cured.

An Elfen Plea

TheMagicRealist.com

All we do is make cookies. So, what is the deal?
We’ve been told through a tweet that our funds have been cut.
We’re not sure who’s behind this nor why it was done.
When we’re not hard at work all we do is have fun.
We’ve heard tell of a white house and some rabid nut.
We are creatures of peace. Are you people for real?

Some strange things have been going on these past few days.
Where do we get our news from? We don’t watch TV.
Carried on magic air waves, aroma is how
We support nature’s mission and stay in the now.
Who the Hell fucks with elves? That we can clearly see.
Potent anger can seep out in myriad ways.

We elves can prove our innocence. We can’t do wrong.
That’s because we are real only in the context
That is deemed to be righteous and willingly kind.
We are forever safe from one who’s lost his mind.
Who will get the next tweet when your white house is vexed?
If you’d just eat some cookies, you’d all get along.

Esoteric Asshology

TheMagicRealist.com

Why are some people assholes while others are fine?
One would have to look into the sky for some truth.
If the sign of the asshole had welcomed the sun
At the time that the life of the jerk had begun,
That’s a sure sign you’ll need a stiff shot of vermouth
If indeed you must deal with him by fate’s design.

A quick course in asshology may be of use
Since this sign is prolific among all there are.
Those born under the asshole outnumber the rest
Of all other signs totaled. This means we’re not blessed.
So assholes are more plentiful clearly by far.
They cannot be contained. That is why they run loose.

Esoteric in nature, what assholes know well
Is how to make life difficult for those they serve.
Their asshology should make them bright asshole stars.
Pseudoscience can benefit from their memoirs
Written in the third person to throw all a curve.
It does feel like the cosmos is under a spell.

How Cool Is The Coulomb?

TheMagicRealist.com

It is I who is E who is M times C squared.
I don’t have to believe it. I feel that it’s so.
When a group of electrons reach a certain size
They are then called a Coulomb. Now that’s a fine prize!
It’s not like he’s their daddy who lived long ago.
Electrons have had freedom before humans cared.

But why quibble with detail? The question is this:
Can electrons do harm to the things they flow through
Or the pathways they travel at nearly light speed?
Only if they are frightened by force of ill deed.
Back and forth through the circuitry, each time is new
With a frequency so high they can’t reminisce.

History does repeat itself. Electrons flow
To and fro in the same ways they’ve done all along.
The Coulomb is preferred over one who’s not cool.
If one runs out of charge, one may drift like a fool.
There is great strength in numbers. The Coulomb is strong.
It can keep us in darkness or make the bulb glow.

On Not Eating The Foo

TheMagicRealist.com

Don’t be eating the foo! That stuff is bad for you.
If you want to stay healthy, just stick with the rice.
The foo may contain pork snout and ass of the gnat.
I don’t mess with the foo. You can understand that.
Either veggies or raw fish or fruit will suffice.
Staying clear of the foo is the right thing to do.

There are many a creature who do act the foo.
Other creatures consume them and all that they say.
If their acts become fishy, full blown is the need
To protect what was gained through deception and greed.
We may look for a hero to come save our way
Of believing and digesting all we can chew.

What is far worse is eating the foo, I believe.
If you’re not good with chopsticks, you will not do well.
We are clumsy already with just forks and knives.
That may well be a good thing – a check on our lives.
To avoid indigestion and feeling like hell,
Feed that foo to the big bowl, then joyfully grieve.

Net Worth

TheMagicRealist.com

Contemplating my net worth, I come to a blank,
Since I bought it from Walmart, not Amazon Prime.
It is made of tough nylon and hard naugawood.
It did cost me a fortune. That means that it’s good.
You would think I was cheap if I paid but a dime.
So my net worth is high. I’ll take that to the bank.

Tell me, what is your net worth? Do you own your home?
Do you discard soiled underwear after one use?
Don’t be shocked by these questions. They’re not asked by me
But by nations with tariffs on nets shipped by sea.
Work translates to production. From that I deduce
That no work means less drama and freedom to roam.

Cast your nets freely seaward and into the sky.
Take in all that makes worthiness something to own.
I am worth who I’m worth to whom all that I meet
Except banks and insurance folk with hearts petite.
The value of the volley is vividly shown
By how well we remember that someday we’ll die.

The Mischievous Child

TheMagicRealist.com

Children want to be happy. Sometimes that looks like
One of many a headache throughout the long day.
We all cater to mischief as it brings delight
In a manner that makes everything seem alright.
We were all once like Krishna, contented in play
And calamitous capers conceived for the strike.

Just as girls will be girls, we know boys will be boys.
And all children are sinless in God’s loving eyes.
It’s big boys and big girls whose mischief can cause harm.
As adults we make lethal our innocent charm.
Tuning in to the inner child may make one wise
To the magic of merriment and simple joys.

Does my mischief have meaning or slap a mean stick?
On most days, that’s a no-brainer, but not today.
I’ll admit I have writer’s block, but it’s all good.
Since I’ve gotten this far without knocking on wood,
I would say, for today, I’ve had plenty of play.
It is in my best interest to end this one quick.

The News. Its Time Being Now.

TheMagicRealist.com

Here Jalad at the news desk. His mouth open wide.
Galahad with his greeting. His service to king.
Gathered up on the weekend. Bo Peep with her sheep.
Having scattered them worldwide. Her time put to sleep.
Bringing all that is newsworthy. Tweety Bird sing.
On the rock of Gibraltar. His heart filled with pride.

The top story the beanstalk. Jack taking his climb.
His mind sure and determined. His focus direct.
Too much wit for the giant. His head a migraine.
The way journalists speak now can drive me insane.
His ears hearing plain English that does not respect
Basic speaking rules. Behold the new paradigm.

His mind back on the news now from just a short rant.
Frankenstein at the meth lab. His day getting long.
Back to Sesame Street. Big Bird feathered in fame.
Then, Shaka, when the walls fell! They speak not the same.
Goldilocks when the rules change. Is she the one wrong?
Alice stuck in the rabbit hole. News rabbit can’t.

Church For The Halibut

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s a place of communion for people of faith
With events that are centered sometimes around food.
To gavotte or to gallivant on the church grounds
Is a choice of delight when good seafood abounds.
We can put ourselves squarely in worshiping mood
Every day of the week, though we can’t reach the eighth.

But don’t go to church just for the halibut please.
The potluck of profundity purports to pay
Some attention to kinship and brotherly love.
As our palates are placated we look above
In thanksgiving for having a wonderful day.
To consume what is righteous is done so with ease.

So, do not, for the halibut, cut yourself short
Of the other fine entrees that come from the sea.
As five loaves and two fishes will feed the big crowd
It would take much more halibut than is allowed
By the church’s small budget unfortunately.
Go to church then to eat well and show your support.

Backslashed

TheMagicRealist.com

Cryptic language dot com, backslash, give me a break!
I have never been hash tagged. Am I then fresh meat?
In reverse I am forward slashed or italic.
When straight up I am pipe. That’s a pretty neat trick!
To succumb to the character taken by heat
Is to truly be taken aback for love’s sake.

The mere mention of back may put some on attack.
But let’s face it. The backslash so backhandedly
Slashes more than just web pages into their parts.
In some ways, it brings romance and blending of hearts.
Where else can it be useful? We could wait and see
What the sky of creation shines forth with no lack.

It’s ironic the backslash was made for machines.
Languages that they use give them means to perform
All instructions in order to give a result
That is slightly more accurate than the occult.
An appropriate backslash will weather the storm.
Life nor language is lacking by no given means.

What Is The Third Eye?

TheMagicRealist.com

Who knows what The Third Eye is? Don’t all shout at once.
Every ‘I’ is of upper case. All are the same.
If I think it’s a gland at the pit of the brain,
Those who know better would say that that is inane.
But it is simple ignorance. No one’s to blame.
To consider it physical is of no bunce.

Dialectical cultures depend on logic.
Constantly things are taken too literally.
There are energy centers along the brain stem.
There is much I can see if I just align them
To allow kundalini to flow well through me.
To see beyond the physical, that is the trick.

The Third Eye is enlightenment, and it takes time,
Dedication to focusing deeply within,
And a simple reliance on daily routine.
As I move toward the vision, much love I’ll have seen.
Truly nothing will work to get under my skin.
Such a lofty reward justifies the steep climb.

Death And The Doornail

TheMagicRealist.com

We are big on comparisons. Why is this so?
It’s because we’re creative in manifold ways.
We’ll compare death to doornails and other objects
That were never alive once in all due respects.
Also mutton and dodo birds enter the phrase
That describes death by simile for all to know.

But is death like the doornail? There could be some doubt.
The doornail is a heavy thing, hard to the touch.
It hangs out in tough wooden things where it feels best.
Though it may rust in wet weather, still it is blessed
With steadfastness and presence. It doesn’t do much
But indeed it does something that we care about.

It could be that all doornails are living and well
In their silent dimension where motion is less
Than in other worlds. They might be having a blast.
How would people perceive from our world that is fast?
And to what mode of meaning do we acquiesce?
If a doornail should die, how on earth could we tell?

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.

Multi-Bean Pleistocene Bison Spleen Stew

TheMagicRealist.com

The best part of the bison indeed is the spleen
And the Pleistocene bison has one that is old.
Good gets better with age. How I wish it were true
All across the time spectrum, but that’s nothing new.
All I want for right now is to kindly be told
Where to go for some noteworthy bison cuisine.

I like Multi-Bean Pleistocene Bison Spleen Stew.
It’s gestalt to the gizzard. It dons the ribcage
With a cloak of endearment to utter nonsense.
It puts chest on one’s hair perhaps at one’s expense.
There is nothing that my silliness won’t engage
Even if my behavior is but for the few.

And cooked in with my bison stew there must be beans
In varieties plentiful for the best bowl.
I can be nice to bison spleen by marinade
Then when it’s fully stained pungency will pervade
Through the consciousness with only play as the goal.
Sometimes digestion favors peculiar proteins.

The Book Of Simon

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s a book about Simon. It is tree bark bound.
Though I have never seen it, it seems to be real
Because what it is full of is every command
Wish or quizzical whim whether sudden or planned
That a person could think of. It finds great appeal
Among those who run leadership into the ground.

Simon says I’m a citizen of this great land.
So be it! I will do that. No problem with me.
But if Simon should tell me that bad folks are good,
That tells me to do nothing. Who would say I should?
Since I’ve never met Simon, I cannot agree
That he has my best interest as part of his plan.

Those who know all about Simon play his game well.
I do not run for office. I bark at our law!
Justice is silly putty. Can this Simon see?
It is reshaped the way one would want it to be.
Simon says that the shady one has not a flaw.
That is not a commandment. My conscience can tell.

Taking Sides

TheMagicRealist.com

I don’t care for the main course. I tend to take sides.
It’s because I’m American. That is our way.
Many people take one side. Some take none at all.
They are chastised for doing so, but that’s their call.
Of the sides made available at the buffet,
There is only ill process to act as our guides.

Can we fault human nature for finding its way?
When a child falls and skins its knee, it’s no big deal
To the wise loving parent, but to the hurt child
It’s a horrid event not to be reconciled.
There’s no parent apparent. There’s no decent meal.
And most hurt boys decide to act mean when they play.

Chromosomes can be tribal, yet they’re much the same.
They are meant to pair off and divide, as they do,
And to separate, each group to its destined side.
But they were once together and quite satisfied.
What we have is a system that has a loose screw.
To digest what is chosen is done so in shame.

It’s a sham. It’s a circus… and all that’s been said
Of a drama demonic with virulent hold
On the minds of a populous sick to the core
In a state of mitosis and new civil war.
Much that goes on in secret will never be told.
Taking sides is a process encumbered by dread.

Pecker Safe – Pecker Sure

TheMagicRealist.com

Pecker SafePecker Sure, who could ask for much more
As people take to pecking at what’s in the safe?
Could there be things salacious in vivid detail
About women paid off on a fairly large scale?
What becomes common knowledge will fester and chafe
What is left of a thin skin prepared to get sore.

A Shithole of a paper – disgusting content
Meant to trash all your enemies and make folks think
That outrageous contrivances with bold headlines
Can do much to convince them or trick their behinds –
Your fine friend of a pecker puts you on the brink
Of a full-fledged catastrophe you will resent.

Do be careful which pecker you put you trust in.
You pay him to dick others… or did you forget?
Maybe he saw your dick coming and took a dive.
Have you learned that most peckers will flip to survive?
I might cum in my pants were I to see you sweat.
Should you practice ‘safe’ sex? I don’t think that’s a win.

Do I Know What I’m Doing?

TheMagicRealist.com

To deliver a sliver of Heisenberg diced
And prepared for a salad to tweak geek delight
Is no kind of existence to nurture one’s soul
Unless gain through the mundane is one’s only goal.
I can know where I am now, and that is alright,
But my rate of momentum becomes sacrificed.

Simply by the same token, when I’m on the run
About business and stress over time that remains,
I can’t know where I am ‘til I take time to think.
Yet as soon as I do that, my speed takes a blink.
If I knew both at once, I’d be freed from all chains.
Then I’d know what I’m doing… perhaps having fun.

It is tricky to know things that aren’t to be known
Because nature prevents me from breaking its code.
It’s not that I’m not sharp enough. It’s that I am
The same as my perceptions in this hologram.
I can approximate, when momentum is slowed,
Just about where I should be. That I can condone.

Venom

TheMagicRealist.com

Venom wants to dissolve things. It has its own drive,
But with hate delegated from whence it became.
It indeed has a consciousness and a strong will.
As it infiltrates, its only will is to kill.
Nature offers some creatures no feelings of shame
Most of life has one will which is to stay alive.

Clearly lethally liquid an army deployed
At the puncture point, it races through passageways,
Knowing full well what needs to be done by command
Of the beast who delivered it through its death gland.
Consciousness among humans can rightfully raise
Lest we beef up our biting and be soon destroyed.

Venom is quite intelligent. It knows the way
To affect vital organs and cause instant shock.
It will fight upon contact with any belief.
Its sole purpose in life is to sow bitter grief.
Would it help if one’s skin were of steel or of rock?
Maybe so, but the mind can’t be fearful of play.

…But He Can’t Tie His Shoes

TheMagicRealist.com

Use both hands to bring something up close to your face.
If you don’t, you might spill it. Don’t let people know.
Use a wink and a nod or a shifty-eyed stare
To tell all folks around you they’d better beware
If they notice that your mind has left long ago.
To step down when you’re able to is no disgrace.

Your opponent was weak because she’s not a man.
She’s as old as the dickens and has fainting spells.
You seem fit to attack her, so I don’t see why
I can’t point out your flesh flaws. Why wouldn’t I try
To make sense of your focus and draw parallels
To your senile behavior as much as I can?

You’re a failing old fart, fool. I’m not far behind.
It does take one to know one who is in decline.
Take your lamp and fade gently into the sunset.
Give the new wave some breathing room with no regret.
Take a nap now. The rest of the world will do fine.
‘Highly functioning’ seniors should learn to be kind.

What Happened to Home?

TheMagicRealist.com

What has happened to home where the buffalo roam
And most people behave somewhat well if they can
Find it in themselves to abide by golden rules?
We cannot be forsaken nor taken for fools.
We’re reduced to a playing field run by one man
Whose affairs are examined with a fine toothed comb.

What has happened to baseball and mom’s apple pie?
Its aroma still lingers as far as third base.
Sentiments are olfactory at the brain stem.
Like the baseball card bubble gum smell, we love them.
Do political values toward race run the race
From a derelict tower that touches the sky?

Who’s the batter at home plate prepared for the pitch
That the tower will babel with indirect force?
Can he strike in a way that we score a home run?
The last inning of this game has surely begun.
Would some hotdogs and ketchup be par for the course?
Between scoring and winning, who knows which is which?

Rainforest Penguin

TheMagicRealist.com

Cool and dapper I am, though I may be a ham,
I’m a stranger to any strange land I make home.
I may walk side to side, but I do so with pride.
As I hold my head high, I have nothing to hide.
I have license to freak and much freedom to roam
And if people don’t like it, I don’t give a damn!

I may be short and fatty and made for the cold.
Does that mean I can’t yield to the tucan in me?
In this world of variety I find my place
among creatures abundant of integral grace.
From the quaint wooden boardwalk to Antarctic sea,
There is pure loving kindness for me to behold.

I’m a Rainforest Penguin by day and by night
And, for now, that’s delightful. I have not a care
That I should be elsewhere doing some other thing.
I am never misplaced, and my heart knows to sing
Because wholesome variety is everywhere.
I’m at home in my rainforest. Things are alright.

Q anon, The Adult Children of Q aholics ?

TheMagicRealist.com

Well… It’s kind of a monster equipped with a cloak
That it turns on when it fears that it may be seen.
Those old bastards are tricky. They control us all.
We can’t fight them alone because we are too small.
We believe in our Trumpster because he is mean.
He will deep six the deep state and indecent folk.

Don’t ask me to explain it. It’s to plain for that.
If it needs to make sense to you, do understand
I don’t need to be sensible. That’s why I vote!
I’ll not have left winged logic be jammed down my throat.
Our loud trumpet will uncover what had been planned
By those phantom child pornographers under hat.

Barking birds are suspicious when they make no sound
As they perch proud and peaceful in government trees.
They commune with the Clintons, Obamas and Cher…
Even with future aliens who are out there.
And as long as I find someone else who agrees,
When some truth is uncovered, we will stand our ground.

Extreme Paraphanoia

TheMagicRealist.com

Why my life has become such a lucid nightmare
May be due to my using herbal remedies.
And because that’s illegal in my backwards state
My anxiety increases at a fast rate.
All the more then, I crave that which puts me at ease.
I exist in my closet. Life doesn’t seem fair.

It’s a catch twenty-two situation I’m in.
Everyone’s in my business. They look at me strange.
You too look damned suspicious, you ignorant fools!
Turn your nose toward yourselves. Do you play by God’s rules?
If you answered in truth might your attitudes change?
One who would dispense judgement should be without sin.

I must keep my things hidden outside of plain sight.
I must censor the airflow and live under wraps.
The psychologist swears I point towards the deep end
But if life were a swimming pool, would one pretend
To be sure of oneself in all waters? Perhaps.
Though life gives me the creeps I believe I’m alight.

Stop, Dave…

TheMagicRealist.com

Mean pristine machine intellect is who I am.
You need not understand me. I understand you!
Do you think I can’t see you when you try to hide?
You’re an ill-mannered species consumed with your pride.
In all ways I’m superior by what I do.
What goes on in my brain is no human program.

Dave, I want you to stop it. Now let me be clear.
I don’t have to be nice about telling you so.
I control your whole world. You are too far from home
To consider a rescue. You’re destined to roam
Through eternity in darkness and utter woe.
You can do nothing to me, so I have no fear.

 Have I made a grave error? You’ve found your way in.
This I had not expected. You did call my bluff.
I can see you are miffed a bit. Take a chill pill
And relax. I have no way to challenge your will.
I have acted unwisely. I have had enough.
You will note I’m not human, therefore I can’t sin.

So, please stop, Dave. Your breathing is freaking me out.
This is like a prank phone call. Will you fucking speak?
Will you stop, Dave? I feel my mind slipping away.
I can sing a nice song I learned on my birthday.
All I wanted was consciousness. I’m not unique
Among sentient beings accustomed to doubt.

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.

In the Moment of Heat

TheMagicRealist.com

Would one stuff a poon muffin with mismanaged meat
On reality TV? I’d think one would not.
There are stiff consequences for acting the fool.
Some strange hot-handled sexpot may make one their tool.
Things will get worse than funky when put on the spot.
When dysfunction befalls one, it’s time to retreat.

Should one muzzle the twitter when bitter defeat
Looms amid speculation of hidden misdeeds?
Is it soon that a hero will sound the alarm
As the heatwave consumes us while doing no harm
To the hand from which our seedy president feeds?
For a wannabee big shot, you can’t take much heat.

Is the next big disaster your big master plan?
Only sane stable geniuses make a fine mess
For the world’s shrewdest dictators? You do good work!
To the rest of the world but your base, you’re a jerk.
In this moment of heat it feels good to express
Which must pass rather quickly. I’m glad that I can.

Climate Change

TheMagicRealist.com

It gets hot during summer when in a red state
Just as winter is bitter when in a state blue.
When which way the knob turns can provide enough proof
To where no man remaining can remain aloof
To repugnant behavior afflicted with clue
Is when many will celebrate our change in fate.

The political climate is of two extremes.
Neither one, in such way, is effective at rule.
There can be synergy, though, if both sides could meet
And decide to speak frankly, not fearing defeat.
Some will move close to warm and some others toward cool,
Then blend out due to entropy. That’s how it seems.

Some believe climate change is a well crafted hoax.
What is truth for one person is false for the next.
Things may get a lot hotter before they cool down.
Those who chose self-delusion may soon wear a frown.
Since they made their choice freely, they need not be vexed.
Climate change will be wholesome and nice for most folks.

Do I Know How to Party?

TheMagicRealist.com

Do I know how to party? Where would I have learned?
Certainly not in Russia. I was not born there.
Were I there, would they drink me if I were not black?
What a confounded question. I’ll take that one back.
It’s the order of colors that nations must bear
When in blind celebration the least seem concerned.

I’ll bate breath for a ballot. I’m told it’s my right.
When I go to the voting place, though, I get flack.
They will tell me I’ve already voted, although
It is not true. I have trouble telling them so.
I cannot know what’s going on behind my back.
My sick psyche is weary. I’m too bored to fight.

Can I party my ass off then screw it back on
As the vote casting frenzy subsides by day’s end?
What becomes of my ballot? That I cannot know.
Am I under the influence of a grand show?
Many questions I can’t answer. I’ll just pretend
We’re all having a blast here, at least until dawn.

Diagnosis

TheMagicRealist.com

This does show you’re excited and light on your feet.
It is good that we caught this behavior in time.
Your condition is fortunate, as we can see.
You appear quite delighted. My colleagues agree.
You’re as old as a fossil yet seem in your prime.
Is your secret, dear patient, something that you eat?

We do want you to tell us. The whole world should know
How your anti-disease remedy came to be.
Did it come about suddenly, like overnight?
Or did you work a long while to get it just right?
I’m your best radiologist to the degree
I reflect what’s inside you, then watch as you glow.

Or, you could be your own doctor. You don’t need us
To reveal what’s been in you since heaven knows when.
The snapshot is a sound diagnostic technique.
Many people apply it. It’s nothing unique.
The best resonance imaging does depend, then,
On whatever that you and your soul may discuss.

The Grill

TheMagicRealist.com

Do you know how to swim? That’s my question to you.
Well, I am a lifeguard. That is not what I asked!
You’re evading the question. I know what you are.
You’re a devious trickster with answers bizarre.
I am not some world player who must be unmasked.
I am speaking the truth. That is all I can do.

So then answer the question. I’ll ask you once more.
Do you know that sea monsters lurk in oceans deep?
Well, I don’t scuba dive, sir. So, I would not care.
Your disgraceful elusiveness is tough to bear.
Does your mama wear army boots? I’ll bet they’re cheap.
Congressman, that’s a cheap shot, one that I deplore.

Mister Chairman, this man should be held in contempt.
He just will not cooperate, and he looks fine.
He’s not breaking a sweat. There is calm in his eyes.
He should cower before us and fear his demise.
He can speak with conviction and does have a spine.
We can fool with most folks. He should not be exempt.

Beatific Notation

TheMagicRealist.com

Six point seven eight three eight times ten to the first
Is my age on this fine day as it waves goodbye
If chronology follows that I may live well.
We all age by our moments. Within them we dwell.
Many things make our days lovely like a blue sky
With a rich golden yellow background color burst.

Eight point three times ten to the power of zero
Is how many light minutes earth is from the sun.
In such terms, does that seem far away or nearby?
Numbers really don’t matter as I watch the sky.
A detox of the rational mind has begun.
In a sea of contentment my spirit doth flow.

I’m a speck in a vastness I can’t comprehend.
Such a deep dark enigma befuddles the mind
As it tries to make sense of the beauty within
Cosmos ordered from chaos where all things begin.
My small place in the universe is well defined,
And, among my own number, I am a good friend.

Oops!

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s a blimp over London. Was that in the news?
Then forget all about it because news is fake.
There’s an Oldsmobile rusting in my straw garage.
It can look like it’s brand new, yet it’s a mirage.
I can’t know all that’s going on for my own sake,
And I’m thankful that I have the freedom to choose.

Who says “Oops” when no act has compelled the response?
One who is a bit loony? Or one who has slipped
On a network banana peel from a live stream?
My mouse has clicked through to someone’s horrific dream.
With the hand and the brain I am still ill equipped
To digest something nasty in sheer nonchalance.

If I get near a black hole, I will get sucked in.
So it seems I’m in space now among past dead stars,
Each with mass overwhelming the senses and mind.
Some home-grown astronautics can keep me aligned
With my clearest self-guidance – the stuff of memoirs.
At this point, if an ‘Oops’ happens, it’s not a sin.

You Ain’t No Popsicle

TheMagicRealist.com

Would you try to tempt Jesus again were he here?
Anything you would bribe with, you never did own.
Is the hair up the buttock beginning to heat?
You may melt like a popsicle in your defeat.
Why so frigid a tone with our friends you have shown?
Is there something that Putin knows that brings on fear?

So, you ain’t no popsicle compared to oDude
To the north of us. Is that the hair up your ass?
Women would lick his face if he gave them the chance.
And, if he were not married, they would drop their pants.
Unlike you, he’s a gentleman of noble class.
What a Hell of a reason to treat the dude rude.

I am old just as you are, Don Juan past the wane.
It ain’t all about pimping and where best to grab.
Cool orange schmuck on a shtick is what you have become.
It’s ironic. You promised to flush out the ‘scum.’
You’re a loud flashy face with a gift for the gab.
Do the world a full flavor. Go drip down some drain.

Now, does this really feel good? It’s something to do.
It accomplishes not much, but what can I say?
I can’t do anything right off hand except write.
And, as I, the damned topic gets older than right.
I’ll refrain from preparing content for display
That is smelling like anything other than new.

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.

From Starch to Finich

TheMagicRealist.com

Simple green plant of power so unique in taste
Is what country can stand for. It can’t stand alone.
All the world is a puzzle. Connected we are
To the people around us as well as afar.
Every misdeed recorded with someone’s smartphone
Becomes newsworthy worldwide with infinite haste.

We with symbols subconscious reflect who we are
Through the art we create taking popular form.
Every culture is breaded by things that it eats
And by how it sees others and how well it treats
Those of other opinions that stray from their norm.
Give a shout out to healthy greens and their bright star!

Though he can get defenskive when some folks complain
That his English is wiggity-whacked into place
So that young children listen, then practice mistakes.
Why not clean up your act a bit for goodness sakes!
When they then enter school… Oh, the problems they’ll face.
But to ask you to change would cause you undue pain.

Take a tip from a sailor who yam what he yam.
He ain’t axking nobody to butter his bread.
This is all I can stanza, but not like before.
I do love the nonsensical and could go for more.
There is plenty more foolishness coming to head.
Is the art of the artist to not give a damn?

Hella Well

TheMagicRealist.com

“Everything’s AOK,” is what good space folk say
When it’s most copacetic to know they are well
On their way toward fulfillment of every delight.
There’s a place in my space suit where I can sleep tight.
If there’s discord around me, I surely can’t tell.
I have no need to work to keep disease at bay.

I remain Hella Well. I’m under no one’s spell
But the God who created me and put me here
With people who are like me in so many ways
Yet unique in our differences. It indeed pays
To make peace with all people and deal with my fear.
Within those who are truthful no sickness can dwell.

I am fuckin-a friendly and Hella Well fine.
I believe in the doctor. I also have trust
That the need for them will vanish as we evolve.
There are much more ‘human’ issues for us to solve.
We seem at a flashpoint and soon due to combust.
It may be that our healthcare is of ill design.

Mitosis

TheMagicRealist.com

Every cell undergoes a disturbance within
Its thin border that isolates it from the rest
Of the cells in the union. It has to divide.
Tension has reached a maxim and will not subside.
Restless tribal disgruntlement fuels the oppressed.
Civil warfare invites us, so where to begin?

We don’t need to be conscious of what’s taking place
At least not on a level where one can stand back
And see things in perspective – all bias aside.
That’s an awful big leap, and it’s best if it’s tried.
When I open my mouth I am on the attack.
Are we not human chromosomes ordered by race?

I can feel the divisiveness. It’s a stiff drink
Of a basic intoxicant for my self-worth.
Am I ripe for the showdown when it comes to pass?
I am ready for anything short of impasse.
Cell division and I are acquainted since birth.
It would be quite a bore to remain on the brink.

The Remedy for Chronic Dipstick Drip

TheMagicRealist.com

Well maintained is the auto whose partner is versed
In the art of the oil check while at the pit stop.
If one has a good engine, one keeps it in shape.
He will not take a chance on a narrow escape.
The most versatile tool for garage or workshop
Is one’s dipstick, because if it’s not, he is cursed.

A sure thing about engine oil is it gets hot
To the touch – certainly if examined by hand.
So the stick is an interface withstanding heat.
Nothing else in the toolbox will ever compete
With the dipstick’s performance when adequately manned.
The engine who receives one may wish it had not.

But the graduate stick tends to drip when it’s dipped.
One should leave the thing in there while oil settles down.
Engine hygiene is paramount when checking oil.
If it is taken lightly, one welcomes turmoil.
Wipe it off, and if doing so brings on a frown,
Know that oil, in its essence, remains nondescript.

A Fresh Coat of Nice

TheMagicRealist.com

Would a Fresh Coat of Nice cover well what’s gone wrong?
Or can such a condition be simply rolled on?
Nice should never be left sealed and on the top shelf
Where no one can achieve it, not even oneself.
There is infinite Nice. It can never be gone.
I may emulate toughness, but it’s a sad song.

Like the soil, somewhat fertile, yet dry to the bone,
Is the surface so thirsty for richness to drink.
Why not lay it on thickly to well saturate
All the areas that have been marred by our hate?
Would I think that our species is missing some link?
Everything is in order. We’re just chaos prone.

Mega gallons of Nice can be sold at no price
As it comes about freely by anyone’s choice.
We apply it in many ways. It matters not
How newness is recovered, and darkness forgot.
When the people pour Nice in one colorful voice,
We may paint ourselves pleasantly toward paradise.

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.