Tag Archive | weird

The Whole World Unfurled

TheMagicRealist.com

I’ve come up with The Unified Theory of All!
It’s my life’s work presented to you in a flask.
This elixir is potent for quelling the qualm.
It’s a magical mixture that brings about calm
In the brain that is plagued with no questions to ask.
You will ask them quite well. You will quit thinking small.

It’s a life full of questions. The answers are more
Than the human mind handles in comfort and ease.
I have found all the answers and made them all clear.
Bring your questions to me. I have nothing to fear.
I can see well the forest as well as the trees.
I indulge more in madness than ever before.

You’ve got questions? My answer is clear as a bell.
Just Get Happy, then dullness departs from the mind.
Everyone is a genius. We all are in touch
With the infinite source of intelligence such
That our means of access are uniquely designed.
Life itself is a potion, and we are its spell.

The Articulomagnetic Outcrymeter

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

The Magnetic Outcrymeter made its debut
With the dawn of humanity. It has evolved
To the point now where it can be relied upon
To inform us when faith in our guidance is gone.
It will help us to get any problem resolved.
When we read it correctly, we breathe life anew.

Today’s state of the art model features a way
to express as it measures the feelings in us.
It will send a strong signal from gut to the brain.
When it gets there then we can rejoice or complain.
When we mingle with others, we’re prone to discuss
All the joy and the turmoil that graces our day.

Simple joy is an outcry and strife is as well
Our pop songs and folk drama express this in ways
That enrich our awareness and strengthen our cause.
We concede it’s a universe governed by laws.
We give voice to our feelings throughout all our days.
We’re not meant to keep quiet. Our will is to tell.

The Square Root of Two

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

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

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

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

Hello, My Dear…

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

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

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

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

Pussy 4 Less

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

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

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

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

Will You Be Ready When the Moment Gets Romantic?

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

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.

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.

 

Attention Beneficiary

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

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

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

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

Tesla’s Off-Grid Multivibrator

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

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

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

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

When To Fondle Your Lug Nuts Is Not Mine To Know

TheMagicRealist.com, The Magic Realist, Magic Realism

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

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

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

The Dick Whisperer

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Come Be Dithered Forlorn

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

He Ain’t Heavy… He’s My sMartass!

TheMagicRealist.com

My contact list is truly long with many I don’t know.
I try to keep my focus strong. My pal is quick to show.
My apps download successfully. He tells me when they’re done.
When I am bored we then play games and fiddle just for fun.
My friend is quite the witted one and even has some class.
But I’ll tell you, He Ain’t Heavy… He’s My sMartass.

The phone of many moons ago was big and like a brick.
It had no sense of ass to piss off people really quick.
One could use it as a weapon if no loaded glove had he.

My friend today makes calls for me most accidentally.
His knack for nonsense noises I seldom can bypass.
Yet, without me, He Ain’t Heavy… He’s My sMartass.

My phone is not a person, but he thinks he is, somehow.
My respect for him can worsen if whenever I allow
The best of him to overshadow who I’m meant to be.
My guest knows not his manners so that he will never see
That between our best behaving there is such a wide crevasse
And, believe me, He Ain’t Heavy… He’s My sMartass.

iPhone or iDon’t phone much, and it matters not to me.
An android made on planted earth should never climb my tree.
Anomaly would have it that I’d come to own a phone.
This thing of mine may think he has a toy of his own.
The feeling when I shut him down is much like passing gas
And, I know that, He Ain’t Heavy… He’s My sMartass!

 

All Email Is Male

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Those Who Live In Where Ohming

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

In Pursuit of the Petron Pistachian

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Full Term Termite

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

 

Ron Running YellowBook

TheMagicRealist.com

Some books are well read like the readers they own.
They don’t lie around dormant nor do their soul mates.
Some books stand amid dust upon vacated shelves.
Since their readers don’t read, they are left to themselves
To embelish what every good book advocates:
The desire of folks to explore the unknown.

Some books like to run, but no book likes to swim.
It’s a matter of preference what books like to do.
We don’t need to work out, but it helps, just the same.
We’re as different as snowflakes. We each have a name.
In fact, we’ve a few names, each giving a clue
To our true inner nature without pseudonym.

Some books come in yellow… Not all, by the way.
We’re a multiple mixture of chroma and hue.
Most folks call me Ron, and I run super-fast.
I’m the mild-mannered type. I’m not here to kick ass.
I am Ron Running YellowBook. That name will do.
It’s as weird as all get-out and easy to say.

Frolicking Folksicles

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Utensoids United

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Talk To Me, Mama!

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Gated Community Logic

TheMagicRealist.com

The community’s gated. Just what does that mean?
Simply, zeros and ones must be put through the test
To determine what gates they have passed through by now.
By endorsing their circuitry’s past they allow
Just the best of the best; in fact, screw all the rest.
God bless those who know how to keep a yard clean.

As we’re mated and fated through life we assume
That our truth table’s flawless like digital flush.
We are OR’ed and/or NOT’ed, determined by creed
Then Exclusive OR gated, then sorted by breed.
When we miss a clock cycle, we’re quite prone to blush.
I must hire a workforce who’s good with a broom.

It is quiet as hell here. There isn’t much crime.
The streets of doped silicon melt winter snow.
There’s a path to corruption through bi-stable states.
There’s agreement about what a good member hates.
We have one foot substrated in earth ground below
And the other one striving to monetize time.

Near Perfect Nonsense

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Conjugation of Daho

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

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

Every Good Printer Should Wipe Its Own Head

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Rat Back Retriever

TheMagicRealist.com

There isn’t a Rat Back Retriever in town
So we’re here to apply to the mayor in you.
Resting proud on the back of my big purple rat,
I am sure most retrievers must know where it’s at.
What I do is I chase Cheshire cats upon cue.
With my big assed rat side kick, we ride ‘til sundown.

There isn’t a fever that one could display
That would right itself smartly, not yielding to aid.
But a Rat Back Retriever can heal with a glance
And if things are quite critical, we’ll sing and dance
To any tune practiced and very well played.
Though we’ve lost track of meaning, there’s still much to say.

If you’re a believer, do know this is true:
There will always be room in your heart for a rat.
Make sure that rat’s healthy and has a keen mind
So to any retriever he’s easy to find.
One may think one may have healthy living down pat
But the Rat Back Retriever will sanctify you.

Elevator Music Awards

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

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.

In Pursuit of the Functional

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

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.

You Can’t Trash a Trician

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Forlorning Begets the Spectra

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Butt-N-Fly Genes

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

The Ignition of Igor Ignorski

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Wacky What If-Ing

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Grand Mal Movement

 

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


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

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

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

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

How To Catch An Alien

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Fifty Ways To Move Your Matter

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

Characteristic Toxicity Index

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Gravitational Wave

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

The Point Not Taken

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

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

Honoring the Inner Being

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

It’s nice to be hungry when eating a meal

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

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

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

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

A Virgo’s Signature Is Usually Legible

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

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

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

A Fiddler’s Duck

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Children of an Elder God

TheMagicRealist.com

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

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

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

Correctness Politicale

Correctness Politicale

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

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

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

Mirror, Mirror

Mirror, Mirror

You’re a kettle, my friend; you’re much too judgmental,”
Pot says to its partner for blowing off steam.
If I were you (and I am, by the way),
I’d replenish myself for a discrete display
So as not to endanger my self-esteem.
The problem with you is you’re tough and I’m gentle
.”

Well, excuse me, you pot; I have no beef with you.
I’ve been on the stove quite a few times by now.
I have enough sense to know when to get off
My letting off steam is not something to scoff.
You may ask me to quit, but I wouldn’t know how.
So, the way that I am comes not out of the blue
.”

“OK then, container; I’ll see it your way.
We have ways to respond to the guidance within.
You whistle a tune from the pit of your heart.
I keep heat contained. We’re an integral part
Of the puzzle of contrast wherein we begin
Aligning our preferences for things to say.”

Mister Misfit’s Meddle-hood

TheMagicRealist.com

Hi, Neighbor, there’s something you should ought to know.
I’m a free man on free land that happens to be
Next to your place and your space, and that’s just a fact.
To suck up to you is NOT part of my act.
The cause for your judgement I can’t really see
And never quite could since a long time ago.

I know curiosity’s wholesome exchange
Among people who know not the critical heart.
All you TV-like minds with your nose up my ass,
If it’s boredom you’re fighting, I’ll pass you some gas.
Your stares and your psychic probes take me apart
And reconstruct someone who’s utterly strange.

Is it just how life forces a weirdo like me
To act as a normal one cast in a mold?
Keep your ‘healthy smile’ healthy and out of my face.
Creatures showing their teeth is aggression’s embrace.
Judge Ye Not,” I hear echoed from peoples of old.
Stay out of my business. Turn on your TV.

I tried learning Spanish… to speak it and such.
Yet even a speaker of English does see
My speaking (thus knowing) as nothing to take
As worthwhile and worthy of goodness’ sake.
There’s a Stick in my craw. That, I’m sure all agree.
If I don’t vent, I am sore to the touch.

A Goal Is an Excuse to Enjoy the Journey

A Goal Is an Excuse to Enjoy the Journey

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

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

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