Tag Archive | political commentary

There’s A Spider In My Bathtub

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It’s a fact – I can’t tolerate spiders at all.
There’s no way on God’s green earth that I’ll get along
With a creature so ugly with long skinny legs.
It would be no less so if they were but just pegs.
I must kill the poor bastard, and that can’t be wrong.
It’s a lower life form, so that makes it my call.

And this house that I’m in is for me – not for them.
It is mine. By the will of my race it is done.
There’s no sub-human species that will replace me.
If I have to kill all of you black things, you’ll see
That my kind rules this world, and we have just begun
Our world war with all nature by way of mayhem.

I can’t stand to see spiders in my fine white space.
The mere thought of a spider sends chills up my spine.
My unconscious volition says, “Kill them on sight.”
I could rally and gather my kind by torch light.
If I die as I’m killing you, I’ll get the shrine.
I’m superior to you because of my race.

Dream More, Act Less

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There’s a time to make use of the muscle and bone.
It is when I’ve achieved true alignment with me.
I can best reach that place by daydreaming my way
To creative enlightenment day after day.
As my dreams take on character, I can foresee
Any life I’m creating through focus alone.

When I set aside time to find images of
Only things that are pleasing, I’ll more often be
In alignment and in tune vibrationally
With all things I desire. My spirit is free
To receive all that’s worthy and complements me.
I am free to partake in the spirit of love.

In my space in alignment with what is my source
More inspired ideas are common affair.
I can get help from others with minimal fuss.
I can give up my job as an ornery cuss.
My inspired action leaves me quite aware
I’m extremely productive – a dreaming workhorse.

All Is Well

TheMagicRealist.com

“All is well,” say the ones who are anchored in space
Free above seeming turmoil and climate affair.
From a vantage point vacant of rising degrees
Of innate social tensions that stir like the breeze,
Those who watch our world spinning say none can compare.
And, we cannot do harm to it. There’s too much grace!

“All is well,” say some good books and forces that be
Of a kind who are open to all that is good.
Those who tend to play life as a joyful game
And who hang out with others who do just the same
Are the ones to whom living is well understood.
I envision my life by how well I can see.

“All is well,” say the babies and children come here
From non-physical beingness. And from that place
They’d put forth their intentions. Their wills did decide
To take on this world fully with eyes open wide
To the truths that the old ones can no longer face.
They have come to teach us how to live without fear.

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.. ??

cute puppy, TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

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.

 

Aftermath

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Aftermath there is physics; for some, it’s fine arts.
All our children are taught they’ve some measure of choice
In whatever they chose to learn or hope to be.
We could leave them alone. That’s the best way to see
Children’s true heart’s desires expressed in their voice.
If we let them be free, that is where genius starts.

Aftermath is a concept just like math alone.
It’s abstract and concrete all at once anytime
It is used or is studied by scholars worldwide
Who make use of its usefulness with certain pride.
Surely math as a concept to some is sublime
Because well it does model most things that are known.

Aftermath there’s the matter of reaching high goals.
When there’s stiff competition, the pressure gets tough.
Aftermath third world countries’ kids put ours to shame.
Should some think tank take notice? Should someone cast blame?
It’s a myth that our kids are not doing enough.
They will fashion their own world and also their roles.

Brainless Brain Surgery

TheMagicRealist.com

Someday soon the skilled Robot will handle the knife
In a world where most humans will devote their time
To the comfort of Being and living the arts.
We’ll have mastered the tech world with all of our smarts.
We shall live in a world that is truly sublime
Where we all can partake of this treasure called Life.

But that’s all in the future. It isn’t right now.
We are thick convolutions of cortical mass
In a network of raw nerves and some that are rare.
It would take a skilled surgeon to know what is there.
Can a brainless brain surgeon become a jackass
After signing his mind off to then take a bow?

I can tell my grand little ones, “You too can be
A successful brain surgeon, yet not have a brain.
You may even be able to write a good book.
But your soul becomes cabbage when stole by a crook.
If you don’t have a brain, though, you can’t go insane.”

It is shoe-shining shameful. And that’s it from me.

The Art of the Dump

TheMagicRealist.com

The Dump has much lesser to do with the rump
Than the Art of the business of letting words flow.
With the mind of a child, they flow through me with ease.
I feel comfortable sitting and plunking the keys.
Is the gist of my writing for others to know
Of my heart in small pieces or in one big clump?

Well, the answer to that is I write every day.
It’s my goal to be regular, clear and carefree.
I have cranked up my pace from a slow running start
To the point now that I’ve come to master my art.
I would like that my words are for others to see.
But that doesn’t deter me. I’ll see it my way.

The Art of the Dump is a daily routine
Then I shower and shave, and move steadily on
To whatever the new day will offer to me
To consume and digest more so others can see
What words I have fashioned to offer next dawn.
I enjoy what I’m doing. Is this clearly seen?

The Financial Report

TheMagicRealist.com

The Financial Report is brought to you today
By our sponsors who turn out to be quite a few.
There’s the red, white and blue, conflagrated in green.
There are nods, winks and subtle cues that are unseen.
There are talking heads tethered to outlook askew.
What to make of a leader who must have his way?

Can a nation be run like some southern plantations
With workers for indoors and some for the fields?
Those who like being niggers say “yes, Suh” to him.
They will dance to his antics, although he’s quite dim.
When he’s due for a shoe shine, their loyalty yields
A safe job and smooth sailing, and good slave relations.

I will NOT be your nigger, says one under oath.
I’ll ignore your sweet nothings and perverse embrace.
I do not enjoy being left in a room
With a beast who would just as soon hand me a broom.
When I’m near a slave owner, I’m in the wrong place.
Racist paradigms stifle our ‘financial’ growth.

Payola

TheMagicRealist.com

My brand is ‘Payola.’ It works well for me.
It’s what’s available. That’s what I’m told.
Though this crayon is heavy, I will do just fine.
What I see is, this color is yours and not mine.
What I’m taught, though, is subtle, and feels icy cold.
What is up with this crayon? I’ll say what I see.

I sure feel like I’m peachy, the color of fun,
Most especially when I’m at school with my friends.
And we all feel that way. We just mingle and play.
We prepare lesson plans for adults day by day.
But are they teachable? That all depends
On the bigness of damage that’s already done.

Take a load off that crayon,” some voice says to me
From the pit of my tiny soul. I can hear well.
What it tells me is, I’ll not be part of a bribe.
The reason for that is, I’m part of a tribe.
You will note, my existence is not one to quell.
No skin is a label that others can see.

Conceptual Hypothetics

TheMagicRealist.com

Hypothetically speaking, and straight off the grid,
And with utmost propanity possibly pure,
I must stand by my tank; I have me to thank
For positions I hold. With my wealth, I out rank
Any group that I chose. There’s a possible cure
To most any solution that isn’t well hid.

My tank is a treasure – a place of deep thought
On the puzzles I give it and pay it to solve.
I’m not bothered by facts; I kick back and relax.
My workers work best without me on their backs.
By token the same, though, solutions involve
Quite a bit of pure theory and how things should ought.

Thoughts are real things,” most wealth wizards have said
While the concept still boggles the everyday mind.
It’s a fact that all theory has birth in the brain
And when thought can’t escape, it will drive one insane.
My tank is not fancy nor one of a kind.
It’s a toy for the rich to turn gold into lead.

What Gives Us the Ass?

TheMagicRealist.com

This Ass we’ve been given… this judgment we hold
Toward those nations we feel that aren’t grown up enough
To develop big toys and display their might…
Who has given us right to tell others what’s right?
We are like stubborn children who like to play rough
With strategic mind warfare. This story gets old.

Some old kid on the playground is acting the fool
Like an overstuffed time bomb that’s ready to burst?
Why we pay such attention and crave being tense
Is the same as why others create such events
That then get nations talking and fearing the worst.
The mind of the ne’er-do-well is a fine tool.

Such is life during recess… No teachers in sight…
We have no playground monitors watching our deeds.
And our toys are quite dangerous; our threats are a bluff.
Are we players who know when enough is enough?
Not a player is crazy so no one proceeds
Down the ultimate rabbit hole without a fight.

Rock Paper Scissors

TheMagicRealist.com

Black Lives – That’s a matter pertaining to me
Just the same as it did half a century ago
When the fear was the white-hooded witches let loose
Wreaking havoc and living by way of the noose
And the lynching and bombings and crimes we don’t know
So, perhaps my believing is now what I see.

There were stereos then, also stereotypes.
Both were loud and obnoxious and prone to the brawl.
There were also those games that are played even now
Where the zero-sum outcomes are preplanned somehow
And uneasiness comes with the sound of a drawl.
Ornate stained glass ceilings have turned to crack pipes.

There is usually a winner and rarely a tie.
We know one beats another in circular chase.
Stiff black Russian roulette can be served over ice.
Black blood does bleed red. This one fact should suffice.
The gears keep on meshing. It’s all about race.
I don’t bark at the bugbear; I know I might die!

Ego: Mirror of the Horse

TheMagicRealist.com

Don’t mind my beast. I’m a bastard today.
I’ve a bit of the bitters; that’s just how things are.
Some government worker said I cannot vote?
When the system is screwed I become the scapegoat.
I become wild and crazy with outburst bizarre
And it seems I’m the ogre; their system’s OK.

Says the system that I voted elsewhere today.
It’s a cock sucking lie! I don’t care what it shows!
I’m a flesh and blood human. I don’t understand
How they bow to machine and give me the back hand.
Maybe government workers are robots… who knows?
Yet, if I am to vote, I must do it their way.

I’m ashamed of the way that I acted today.
I had no idea there’d be an exam.
I feel much like a horse someone’s trying to break.
If I bask in my wildness, is that a mistake?
I’m prepared for the next test. I won’t have to cram.
This damned horse is exhausted with no more to say.

Art of the Autist

TheMagicRealist.com

The Autists are coming. Indeed, they are here.
They’ve been teaching among us for decades by now.
I am proud they are with us. They’ve nothing to hide.
I’d intended to be one myself, but I died
From my wounds incurred wrongly by default somehow.
I am social, somewhat, and that’s my greatest fear.

Where the stronger the Autist from birth through ‘til grown
The more God’s protection is given because
Those who can’t be adjusted or harmed into place
Show that love, unconditional, all should embrace.
It is clear our conditioning should take a pause.
It is wiser, perhaps, to just leave them alone.

It is funny; society says something’s wrong
As they look for a cause as if it’s some disease:
Too much crap in the water, folks, let’s tone it down.
Too severely they’re happy. We must make them frown.”

We’ve the right to let others do well as they please.
It’s a massive inclusiverse where all belong.

Mirrors of Perversion

TheMagicRealist.com

‘If we don’t study past events, we’ll repeat them.’
Now, that kind of Jed Clampett logic begets
Every manner of discord and personal strife.
We can learn from mistakes but not make that our life.
We regurgitate sorrow and brand our regrets
Then we brainwash the young ones – it’s they we condemn.

What to think of a woman’s miraculous meat
Since there’s substance attached and a spirit within?
Some men think it’s a menace; it ties the world down.
Any man who supports it must be nature’s clown.
Any woman who speaks out commits a grave sin.
Although physically real, we are thoughtforms in heat.

Before calling one crazy, it’s good to ensure
That one’s own funhouse mirror is spotless and clean.
We are creatures who speak about God, then we kill
In the name of His Love, then we call that free will?
Our perversions are manifold and clearly seen
Through the eyes of our shadows whose sight is yet pure.

Boomers Bused

TheMagicRealist.com

Someone said that it’s my fault the word is a mess
And that I’m the one who’s been sucking up air
With my head held up high in a narcissist cloud
And with all in my age group fat, happy and proud.
With no thought of tomorrow, we live without care
As we trickle down deep concern to all the rest?

I’ll consider that verdict and treat it as such.
It seems I’m a tower of guilt anyway
By the theory I’ve chosen my home upon earth
To stir up much mayhem beginning at birth.
I have lived a good life and don’t have much to say
About others around, so I’m cold to the touch?

Perceptions are many; I’ve said this before.
It’s a pleasure to catch them and put them to words.
I take comfort in my choosing not going there.
I heed the heart’s warning, “Dear writer, beware!”
I’ve no will to defend myself; that’s for the birds.
Way before our departure, we’ll even the score.

Coon Cranny

TheMagicRealist.com

I do have a coon cranny. What’s up there these days
May be of some interest to those hating blacks.
After all, since it’s up there, let’s talk about why.
When a coon has a hair, it is hard to deny.
When my speech gets grotesque, it’s not substance it lacks
And the smell of wet chicken flesh tends to abrase.

We are quite the bald eagle. Its right wing is right
In its hatred of niggers. There’s still ‘civil’ war.
When black folks see my talent, they swear that I’m white
Yet when whites view my work I’m ignored out of spite.
There’s a thing about hatred my soul does adore.
When I’m pushed to a limit, my black ass will fight!

What a mess has been made. This is ugly, dark shit
From the pit of a toilet marked ‘colored’ somewhere
Live on stage in a Twilight Zone plantation scene.
Don’t forget, I’m a nigger; I’m born to talk mean.
My job is to ‘nig’ and give white folks a scare.
If you think I am truthful, then you’re the nitwit.

At the Behest of Ben Benigniac

TheMagicRealist.com

Now, Ben is a man who has lived through some strife
So his war scars are rigid, as stout as his stand.
Although he is usually friendly and nice,
Warm and agreeable, not thinking twice
About lending a hand to his lost fellow man,
These wars that are raging mess with the man’s life.

He listens to people and has a few friends,
And his neighbors appreciate good-natured ones.
That’s why they’re together in common affair.
As birds of a feather, they flock and compare
All the news about killings of daughters and sons.
Has he come to expect this until the world ends?

Well, he looks to his soul. There is comfort within.
In the long run, such matters work out on their own.
When his mask is a scowl, people see the way through
To his true heart that rarely does take on a view
That would pull down his temperament form where it’s flown.
No need to preach peace, Ben, as war’s not a sin.

Fart Mother Smuckers

TheMagicRealist.com

I’m amazed as I’m lying here resting my bones
Just chilling and munching and checking things out.
I’d be nuts if I said there ain’t much on TV.
There’s all kinds of crap that might interest me.
If it weren’t for my living and breathing no doubt
I’d be grooving to tunes with my spirit headphones.

There’s a truth to my living. I’m doing without
The hustle and bustle of everyday things.
There’s a way to my knowing. This too is true.
If I knew how to think, I’d be dangerous to you.
I just keep to my world and accept what life brings.
From point A to B, that’s the easiest route.

So, life is great. I am comfortable knowing
I don’t have to know much. That suits me just fine.
There are plenty of fart mother smuckers, you see,
And they all have ambition to help you and me
To relax in wellbeing made to their design.
Don’t ask me to move; there ain’t no place I’m going.

ApocaLips

TheMagicRealist.com

Often speaking through doom colored lips is a breeze.
The still air of boredom and restlessness plots

And conjures all manner of sick tale to tell.
Deplorables paint a nice picture of hell
But then so do I while connecting my dots.
Whatsoever one chooses is then what one sees.

If you don’t have a good thing to say, then don’t speak!”
Is the scolding I’d get as a talkative child.
When in error I’d take what goes on in the world
As a sure sign that meaning itself has unfurled.
Like bats flying rabid, ideas run wild
From prophetic scriblings in language oblique.

‘Hope my gisting is clear; I’ve no message to bring
As I reign in my placated prison of thought.
If there’s war against evil, bring scripture to bear.
Then if that doesn’t work, perhaps joining in prayer
Will bring all to whatever treasure is sought.
Absolute peace on earth – Would that make our hearts sing?

Additional Remystification of the Current Situation

TheMagicRealist.com

Lowly Grass Rooted 1, this is Mission Control,
We roger your status, and do please stand by.
We’re assessing your mess. It’s the least we can do.
In the meantime, try praying – perhaps best for you.
Don’t you know it’s the privileged who learn how to fly?
Keep your hopes under radar and muzzle your soul.

Well, Mission Control, this is Grass Rooted 1.
Your assessing is messing with many a mind.
We didn’t elect you to go here and there
And to mock us poor losers. That wouldn’t be fair.
We are not really cattle. We’re much more refined
And our soul as a nation is second to none.

Lowly Grass Rooted 1, we don’t doubt you one bit.
That is much why we fear you, but don’t get us wrong.
You’re the life of our party, fools. That much is true.
If you can’t join in laughter, then that is on you.
Someone’s Ordered a New World where you don’t belong?
Kindly don’t look at us. That we wouldn’t admit.

My Pupils Are Not In School

TheMagicRealist.com

As portals draw their shades unto the brightness of the day
Discerneth not beholder seeming either be the seam.
The night is not my mystery, Intuit I what may.
Behold my heart and soul devoid of inter-placed extreme.

What stare at you… not eyes of blue nor pools of emerald green
But quantum singularities a pair and focused from the earth.
The grace of ancient majesty in this day intervene.
The hearts of men in leadership may hinder our rebirth.

My eyes do see a glory that is here and ever now.
The older blood is tainted, misaligned and disagreed.
My glory knows a passion deep yet practical somehow.
Who dares to know that I may glow? Do I appear in need?

A War Against War

TheMagicRealist.com

Give Me War! I adore blasting living daylights
Out of anyone. It doesn’t matter whose side.
There’s assault against drugs. There’s a bight out of crime.
There is war waged on poverty. It’s about time
That we blow the whole notion of war open wide.
We should war about warring because we love fights.

I delight in a war I can watch on TV
While munching down popcorn and sipping on Coke
If it’s fictional strife, I pretend that it’s real.
I crank up the audio for better feel.
I’m all out for mayhem and going for broke.
There’s a yank of a doodle inherent in me.

I’ve no problem with peace, so do not get me wrong.
I do tiptoe through tulips and frolic and play.
I’ve seen ladybug buses beneath tie-dyed dreams.
Let’s dispense with our coyness and pert social memes.
The lion and lamb may lie peaceful someday.
But since lions get hungry, they won’t get along.

The Receptive Mode

TheMagicRealist.com

What fruit from a tree with a hard-rugged face
In a garden somewhere and some long ago now.
As did God command each to ignore the damned snake
Nonetheless weeping willows weep for woman’s sake
In a present-day Eden above the world’s brow.
Let it be that ‘deplorables’ win the big race.

One would think we are cattle, yet that’s not our name
As we listen to talking heads blither with ease
Of just what might happen and keeping the score
In a game that’s eluded us forever more
It’s about time this nation got down on its knees
But to praise NOT the incoming master of fame

Am I bitter this time?  Not at all.  Should I be?
I spoke my hand gently and played by the game
I am thankful this nation has spoken its mind
I’m reminded I’ll always be part of a ‘kind
I’ve been told to go back to where once my kind came
Well, we’re all poised to do that because of that tree.

Pinball Wizardry

TheMagicRealist.com

It’s that time of the decade… A week left to go.
Clear the ‘coons from the basement‘ and ‘drain the swamp.’
What manner of subtlety spoke from the heart!
There is language to color – a nuance a part
From persona prepared and paraded in pomp.
Our nigger is ‘feckless‘?  Some folks don’t think so!

So he’s that and so many other bad things.
It’s a wonder the man ever made it this far
What with faithfully feckful, well-armed to the mouth
With no god above them and spirits gone South
Hurling insults and ready to ‘heat up the tar.’
He is not the Almighty, nor is he King of Kings.

Yet neither is either successor-to-be
Because feckless-lesness is a relative thing.
If the job is to keep the world held in one piece
What Manner of Gonads Would Cause War to Cease?
Pin the balls on the president to whom we cling.
Will world war be avoided?  We’ll just wait and see.

Neuter the Damned Cats!!!

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s a House that some families make home for a while
In a city that’s known to be contra A.C.
Within it a chain of male cats have held reign,
But the smell of the place does drive folks to complain.
Does anyone know what the hell it could be?
There are nothing but Cats there, and they don’t defile.

Yet, claw marks on furniture are most telltale.
Random rips in the fabric were missed by the crew
Who make sure the place glows and that it smells clean
For the next worthy, tom-catted purring machine.
So still that damned smell comes up out of the blue
And the people, downwind, become ripe to assail.

In the Oval Office, the smell’s still pretty rank
Though an atomized mist of a fragrance did work.
It had done so ‘til now, but the smell has returned.
Now it seems that both candidates’ voices are spurned.
So being a woman is NOT such a perk.
Since she married a Tomcat, she has him to thank!

Down Ticket

TheMagicRealist.com

Face down in the Kool Aid” ‘deplorables’ lay
Yet, it’s not just mass suicide ordered by one.
We’re a sore that’s been hurting for quite a long time.
That WikiLeaks weasel’s a master sublime.
He will rip that wound open, and do it for fun,
By releasing a few crumbs – a little each day.

But, maybe he’s not the big whiz after all.
He seems more a puppet – a fine-crafted tool
Whom Putin employs to play the board game.
Earth’s a scratch and a match, and resistance to blame.
But a powerful game needs a powerful fool
So pump that limp Trump up to stand hard and tall.

Trump women don’t know sexual crime when it’s felt.
He has brainwashed their bodies as well as their minds.
He’s a powerful fool, folks – a matter of fact.
Even a boy scout knows how to act
On a Tour Bus or  ‘locker room’ scenes of all kinds.
People’s problems, he feels, are the cards they’ve been dealt.

Cards like being a woman, a Muslim or black
Are the rungs on the building-block ladder of life.
The two at the top of our choosing are true,
Each to an outlook of divergent view
From the other’s.  The call to eliminate strife
Could be paramount instead of vicious attack.

On the trickle, down ticket, we vote for ourselves.
In the long run, we convince ourselves we’ve done right.
But do we do the choosing by conscious intent?
…Or genetic pre-programming?  Could the extent
Of our human behaving be righted in spite
Of the world ticket player in whom darkness delves?

Turm Oil Trot

TheMagicRealist.com

For ages the Turm has engaged in its trot
To the drawing and quartering work of the world.
Red war, and black famine and pale green disease
Are the Horsemen who’ll bring mankind quick to its knees.
Knowing it’s about oil, our minds are unfurled.
Then it’s possible we could avert this onslaught.

But what of the white one – that one with the bow
And that arrow insisting it knows its own way?
Does it shoot from the hip and preach red, white and blue?
Does it speak with a bias toward me or the Jew?
We will know – or we’ll not – by the end of the day
Who the third antichrist is by which line he’ll tow.

We are living, indeed, in most interesting times
Yet, how many times have folks said that before?
It seems as though we would much like things to end,
But our ending just seems like an ongoing trend
As we nitpick old prophets and texts by the score.
[My Gosh, I do fancy a good verse that rhymes!]

 

Backfire

TheMagicRealist.com

When a Fire gets going, what’s there to be done?
The first thing might be: Get the Hell out of Dodge.
But a fire can move at the speed of a thought.
It’s ignited by anyone feeling distraught.
One could end up a guest in some rogue fuselage!
Does it make any sense, then, to call 911?

One may speak of the first bomb – that bursting in air,
And the horror it rained by the dawn’s early light.
Some powerful whoop ass did cause earth to cower.
Who’d have thought that mankind could have wielded such power?
The big war was won, yet things just don’t seem right.
We now spew whoop ass worthiness instead of prayer.

The fire that burns from the will of the heart
Is the same in the atom that makes of the flesh
A carnal aroma – cooked meat in the air,
And mass devastation and death everywhere,
As memory filters through smoke laden mesh,
And consciousness struggles to make a new start.

We do call ourselves righteous and let others know
That we don’t take a beating then run away pissed.
We have enough nukes we could blow up the moon!
If and when all world leaders will reach that point soon,
There’s potential for Fireworks… Hard to resist.
And the earth will survive us, as once long ago.

Misfire

TheMagicRealist.com

I can beat myself up at the drop of a hat
But the world does a much better job by design.
Try cashing a check with no mark of the beast.
You’ll be pointed to Hell or mistook for deceased.
As a world remains troubled, my worth’s in decline.
Between you and me, though, I’m better than that.

Another smart phone hit the pavement today…
Yet a childish outburst from my chamber of hell.
I’ve contempt for millennials smug in their game.
Did we fuck up your world?  I will take the damned blame!
Take your tissue technology’s volatile spell
And swipe it in the most natural way!

Sometimes I can’t handle the rage that I feel
So I tend to speak softly and feign a limp dick.
Should my words tear the flesh as mere ordnance do?
I will NOT own a gun! Does that satisfy you?
I am ready to leave here, and let it come quick.
I’m an old, burnt out bastard, and folks, that’s for real.

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.

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America the Mutable

TheMagicRealist.com

Oh beautiful for friendly skies
Kept safe as best we can
For politics and sports combined
So folks know there’s a plan
America! America! God has His eye on thee
As entertainment fills the air
From sea to raging sea

Oh beautiful for points of view
That show our colors well
For arrogance and much ado
What good is there to tell?
America! America… A frontier yet today
Performers swing inside the ring
And grimace as they play

Oh beautiful for lethal blows
And shots below the belt
As spirits reach the lowest lows
That ever had been felt
America! America! Don’t keep God up your sleeve
We can do good in brotherhood
The world will then believe

Oh beautiful for front row seats
At lively staged events
For caucuses and campaign feats
And polls that make no sense
My love for you is bitter sweet; by happenstance, I’m here
And when November comes around
I’ll vote and have no fear

Depletion Region

DR

A rat’s ass for a gift I received just today
From one of those scientists wanting my vote.
But electoral physics are quanta to me.
If I could but know them my mind would be free
To make a decision arrived at by rote.
Thanks for caring, dear carrier.  Speak what you may.  

The currency wanting through popular force
Is prevented from flowing to circuitry’s roots
The barrier’s there when no force is applied.
It gets even stronger when rights are denied.
Human Solid State nature has some attributes
That make issues of governance par for the course.

As the sides come to scrimmage which path does truth take?
Can grass-rooted bias the State overcome?
Our electors are carriers charged just the same
Whom can turn either way with protection from blame.
The process is like rocket science to some.
And for we the vast ignorant, our souls are at stake.

Vetting Spree

TheMagicRealist.com

Hasn’t anyone heard of a Vetting Spree?
Aren’t you bored with just shopping and watching TV?
A few troubled nations are helping us some.
What’s the matter with others?  Our best blessings come
When we’re aiding our fellows cast out like debris.
A great moat has evolved of the vast, raging sea.

We’d applaud the world media drowning you all
With our plight, had we free hands and some air to spare.
Perhaps no one knows what a drowning is like
But the will to survive, unlike riding a bike,
Will consume the soul wholly.  Does anyone care?
It is much like a lynching designed to enthrall.

I am better than seaweed and now it’s just me.
My family and friends have all drifted beyond.
Lungs are salt water packages shipped Next Day Air
From a world left behind in a pit of despair
To another one where no one needs to respond.
I’m worth vetting, then letting my humbled self be.

Blaine Hussein!

TheMagicRealist.com

Blaine Hussein!  Life’s a tax on my brain.
When I pray to Allah ‘seems the Pope answers back
When I tell the man, “Go away; you’re not the one,”
He gawks at me sideways, the son of a gun.
Much ado about scripture… it’s hard to keep track.
Such a mess of a matrix; I’m driven insane.

We are all but a mixture of this thing and that.
Even cells that we are are not really our own.
And as thought forms become us, we’re well on our way
Toward believing enlightenment rules come what may.
Do I cling to my act like a dog on a bone?
Too many groups, it seems, know where ‘it’s’ at.

Blaine Hussein with no gain for an alien mane
Does dwell well among us as Jesus once did.
If you glance at a mirror you might see him there.
If you spot him in public, don’t shout, “Bomb; Beware!”
Don’t vote for a person hell bent to get rid
Of ‘those’ rag-headed weirdos so dark and arcane.

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.

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.

Global Warning

TheMagicRealist.com

There’s a consciousness keeping this marble in place
As it spins on its axis and circles its star.
It’s been doing that eons before man arrived.
It’s astounding how much we believe what’s contrived.
The force who created it all knows by far
How to maintain its temperature through ‘random grace.’

It seems to make sense; we’re an untidy bunch
And we’ve grazed every grassland like wild wildebeest
But we haven’t thrown enough dirt in the air
That it forms its own orbit and makes its home there.
Who would know why the heat in the air has increased?
Those with harsh, toxic outlooks and minds out to lunch.

A few men from this world have now romped on its moon.
‘Not a boner for science for all that it’s worth
But the few families running this word as we know
Would just as soon see all the rest of us go
To heaven knows where… surely off of their earth.
Yes, the temperature’s rising. Whose soul is immune?

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.

Farewell, Judge Soprano

TheMagicRealist.com

A justice departed, seems moments ago
What with all that can happen within a short time.
I am someone whom you would have treated unfair.
Your body not cold, yet debate’s in the air.
Your replacement’s the issue; so is it a crime
That a nigger selects one amid present woe?

I am sure that by now you don’t care what goes on
With the sculpture you’ve carved of this thing called the law.
There’s a thing about justice one must understand:
There is office for everyone – even the klan
In a nation so free that it sticks its own craw.
I will learn to look past you before I am gone.

My disgust, now, is only with mankind – not you
I disliked you, dear justice, but now that you’re gone
As politics scavenges fruits of your passing
And as arguments for and against are amassing
The prayer is the hope that we dare to move on.
Released from this world, now, you have broader view.

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?

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!

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.

The Psycho’s Path

TheMagicRealist.com

With the path of the psycho, perhaps I’m acquainted
So well I will venture discussing it here.
Sometimes there’s a thing that goes off in my head
Where I feel that all life would be better off dead.
Most of the time though I find life quite dear.
I do wonder how my outlook becomes tainted.

It is episodic and has nothing to do
With you or the world as it is every day.
It could be my chemical balance is wrong
But that feeling I get never lasts very long.
My hormones and germs may control me by way
Of their consciousness linked and a plan well thought through.

If I were locked in a pit of despair
For longer than now with no one at my side
There’s no telling where my sick body might go.
The thing’s not my own; I must go with the flow
And know when to engage command override.
In that way I stay out of people’s hair.

If most psychos were girls, there might be the excuse
That premenstrual madness may well be the cause
Of psychotic outbursts directed at all…
A remnant meme from the myth of ‘The Fall.’
It’s behaviors of men, though, that gives people pause.
There are worthier ways that a man can let loose.

Boomers Basking Blissfully

TheMagicRealist.com

A Meet Once a Week Gives the Spirit a Tweak

By the fruit of the loom as we entered the womb
At a time after warring, our parents relieved
Of a chapter of strife that had happened before
As this one had cursed at the soul to its core
Now was time to make whoopee, thus we were conceived
‘Twas time to look elsewhere, beyond the war tomb

I am honored to be here in so many ways
Too many to count but to try anyway
With a bunch of neat Boomers who cackle and moan
As a humorous pastime without a smart phone
Is to once again revel in laughter and play
This career shift does all but insure happy days

The cycle repeats as we see our way gone
Like raindrops released from the volatile cloud
The in flowing mist as it forms into being
Is passed the baton with a new way of seeing
New rules ever changing must yet be allowed
Our nature delivers an ever new dawn

Black History Life

TheMagicRealist.com

Welcome, dear son, to this planet earth.
We’re so proud you’ve joined us. You’re here just in time
For a burden of schooling refueling the story
Of Blacks overcoming with pride and in glory.
If Blacks were just facts, could I make this verse rhyme?
My Blackness, in fact, is emblazoned with mirth.

I am not the first Black to have pissed in the wind
And not get a drop on him despite the slim odds.
Nor am I the first Black who can tell what’s the matter
When issues of race mass consume us in chatter
The business of race is no matter but God’s
And He alone deals with the one who has sinned.

I am proud to be just whatever I am
By way of the gene or by merit my own.
I’ve tried this Black History Life on for size.
It fits rather well, and that’s not a surprise.
Because some have suffered, others have grown.
That’s reason enough why I give a damn.