One Hundred Poems, Volume VIII

by Tuomas Vainio

I literally have no excuses…

  Sometimes you need to run a distance,

  Ignore your hardship's insistence,

  Struggle on without assistance,

  Go onwards with persistence,

  To achieve any goal distant.

  With all that said: I still push it aside,

  It is not a heavy burden to bide,

  My hands are not even tied,

  Yet today I will let it slide.

  I cannot even claim that it is hard,

  But my spirits remain marred,

  Or so claims this blowhard!

  But tomorrow is another day,

  I will do it then: I do say!

  There is a volume to edit and publish.

  Luke Cage

  Imagine a slow moving train,

  How the wheels creak with strain,

  And you will understand this rendition,

  Its slow and boring by any honest admission,

  But slowly it starts to build up its speed,

  Wherever the story might then lead,

  The plot keeps going onwards,

  Without unneeded wanders,

  To a final fight quite lame,

  Perhaps the outfit is to blame,

  But the real focus lied upon society,

  On the natures of corruption and propriety,

  And there lies what is truly fascinating,

  Preachy messages without berating,

  A look towards things ignored,

  How people wield a sword,

  Against their fellow men,

  Instead of using a pen,

  To work for a better fate,

  Sow seeds for a future great…

  It was like a gospel for stoicism.

  Under the stars…

  The stars are free,

  So I sit in the dark and see,

  And for a while nothing bothers me,

  Even if I can only name mere handful or three,

  I still enjoy the view split by the branches of an ash tree,

  As that autumn wind follows the river and rushes towards the sea.

  But I have to get up and go back inside,

  And find a way to my bedside,

  With worries still aside,

  Dreams can ride.

  Spiller of beans…

  The truth is a terrible weapon,

  A cut of its blade very few can beckon,

  Thus any truth teller can be made into a felon,

  If truth goes against the authority backed deception.

  To strive for truth and honesty is a dangerous game,

  And the level of playing field is never the same,

  Drenched in gasoline you play with flame,

  And only protection is a famous name.

  Thus I respect any spiller of beans,

  For theirs is the risk of becoming sardines,

  If they ever reveal workings of a political machine,

  And fate lies at the mercy of those beyond their own means.

  The last stand (For a fantasy novel)

  Do you hear my heart beat,

  Are you getting cold feet,

  It is not going to be sweet,

  But it is going to be a feat,

  Not just challenge to defeat…

  So will your back fold like pleat,

  Can you stand up with the beat,

  Or is that urine that you excrete,

  Do wish to suckle mother's teat,

  Rather than fight for your seat?

  Do feel the surging pulses of heat,

  This is not a time for any conceit,

  Our city requires actions concrete,

  There is nowhere else to retreat,

  They are burning our city's streets.

  So we stand up,

  We grab your weapons,

  And we reform our lines here,

  Because we are the last line of defence.

  BBC's quest for equality through bigotry

  Bigotry replaced by bigotry is still bigotry no matter what you tout,

  I can declare this sentiment without a single shade of doubt,

  It will not produce the utopia you wish to bring about,

  Those with right skills will be cast aside as lout,

  Simply for having wrongly shaped snout,

  The injustice will make them pout,

  Until the wrong is like a gout,

  Their voices turn to shout,

  But you refuse to hear them out,

  For they oppose the bigotry you spout.

  If ethnicity, disability, and sexuality are what get you hired,

  Rather than the skills which you have acquired,

  You do not get the talent you desired,

  And if the position is something to be admired,

  Some are ready to cheat and claim whatever it is required,

  This has the potential to leave the rest of society quite uninspired,

  Treat ethnicity, disability, and sexuality as a lie conspired,

  And thus your great aspirations have backfired,

  As the people grow sick and tired,

  The way the whole system is rigged and wired,

  To ensure that generations of bigotry continue to be sired.

  Thus I hope BBC comes to its senses,

  Before unavoidable consequences,

  Manifest in the form of offences,

  Born out of their bigoted inferences,

  As the false requirements act as fences,

  To excuse behaviour that is just offensive,

  I wish they abandon this path truly senseless,

  Because morally their position is just defenceless,

  And the nature of bigotry is not changed with pretences,

  As it will only push for a society that remains apprehensive.

  > I hope they forget their new firing standards…

  Dishonesty… or honesty?

  Perhaps it is just one those honest human mistakes,

  And email on top of a phone call is all it takes,

  Without any need for additional headaches,

  But perhaps I am dealing with snakes,

  Whose morality crumbles to flakes,

  Dishonesty without any brakes,

  The prospect causes quakes.

  But I am most likely worrying for nothing,

  This will be just awkward huffing,

  Rather than any shoving,

  But I'm not trusting.

  So tomorrow is the day I see,

  How this will be.

  I hope for honesty.

  > Fuck me for being so trusting…

  > But a lesson is learned.

  Yeah… too tired.

  Oh how I feel so tired,

  Rhymes do not bubble as desired,

  Almost as if my brain was faultily wired,

  Therefore I can only offer these lines uninspired,

  Perhaps tomorrow will grant something to be admired,

  Even if it is not the case – it is not quite the time to be retired,

  Thus I must bid adieu until reasonable amount of rest is acquired.

  > 'But that is bit too selfish, even for a shellfish.'

  Oh, how I feel so tired,

  My mind refuses to work as desired,

  It is almost as if my brain was faultily wired,

  Therefore, the quality of my work remains uninspired,

  With rest tomorrow's results will be something to be admired,

  Thus I must ask this day off so that my vigour could be reacquired,

  Otherwise, I will just burn out long before any of us gets to be retired!

  Neo-puritan eunuchs react to pussy

  A mere word should not make anyone slushy,

  Even if it is that dreaded word of pussy,

  So do not huff and puff all pushy,

  If your own remains bushy,

  And reeks quite fishy.

  Thus gaze upon neo-puritan eunuchs,

  And how they quack like ducks,

  On a topic n
ot worth shucks,

  Hoping it becomes crux,

  Pushed on by bucks,

  In the news flux.

  But next week it will be forgotten,

  As the alternative is more rotten,

  Misdeeds upon the path trotten,

  And scandals can only clot in,

  From all that was brought in,

  Email baggage was gotten,

  With the things boughten.

  Exploding Head Syndrome

  I thought I was simply going crazy,

  When a bang alerted me to a world hazy,

  Illuminated by strange lights in hues of daisy,

  Forced me to flee the room for my safety,

  Made me sit on a toilet feeling shaky.

  There was bright light glowing behind my eyes,

  While the world before was hidden by a dark guise,

  An experience that I cannot even barely surmise.

  It did not make sense until I finally stood fully awake.

  My leopard girl

  To me you are the rarest pearl,

  Even after your silly seaside swirl,

  That turned your skin scorched curl,

  So itchy that it even made you hurl,

  And made all those red spots unfurl,

  Thus even if you are going to snarl,

  You remain my dearest leopard girl.

  A new puppy

  So they are getting a new puppy,

  It will be a tail wagging buddy,

  With basically endless tummy,

  A brain most fit for a dummy,

  It is a reason to be little happy,

  Even if the start is a bit mucky,

  Because the fur is ever so fluffy,

  Without the puppy being chubby.

  A stray cat on my stairs

  There is a stray cat sitting on my stairs,

  Someone must have called it theirs,

  Simply due to the weight it bears,

  There is dirt on its ginger hairs,

  But I am not sure how it fairs,

  I hear the little meows it airs,

  As winter hears no prayers,

  And any approach scares,

  Only a cruel fate snares,

  Gone without any tears…

  Yet the shame is still theirs…

  It lies at the owner's heart that no longer cares.

  Words…

  Just a few words,

  Let them fly like birds,

  Above things in large herds,

  And watch out for the scent of turds.

  Tell the truth

  To tell the truth is nothing but a fair demand,

  But it is something that you will not hear or stand,

  Perhaps out of the fear of your own show getting banned,

  Your remaining integrity remains all hidden, bottled, and canned,

  And perhaps you wish that people making demands would just disband,

  You might even be deluded to think that they should act just as you command.

  But they still want you to tell the truth,

  And their voice rings like a pain in your tooth,

  Instead of a propagandist you remember being a sleuth,

  There is fondness when you recall the days of combating untruth.

  Deep down you know what to do,

  Even when you pretend you have no clue.

  Hence, just tell the truth.

  Be a journalist.

  Autumn

  Oh these autumn skies,

  And this grey blanket,

  A cold joy to my eyes,

  Birds seeking banquet,

  But where is the prize,

  For search so thankless,

  As none whisper advice,

  And so endures gambit,

  As wings soar so high,

  Frost forms in ankles,

  Until last warmth dies,

  Under snow so tranquil.

  Dinsee Nuffin!

  > 'Officer, I dinsee nuffin, there was no crime.'

  Stop and just look at that misguided smug smile,

  It has been a while from seeing something so vile,

  I wonder if that brain has had any thought erstwhile,

  Because all common sense appears to have gone exile,

  When that head was filled with crudest ideological spile,

  It explains that hostility towards anyone deemed a gentile,

  As the required mental gymnastics have left brain immobile,

  This intellectual inflexibility makes a person practically senile,

  Thus even the slightest dissent can only be met with acts hostile,

  This is a path that always leads to deeds humanity cannot reconcile,

  I do not think there is enough empathy left to shed tears of a crocodile,

  And we have the face of someone ready to commit acts the rest of us revile.

  A poem in a minute

  It is getting slightly colder,

  With the roll of an iron hearted boulder,

  Circling that hydrogen based nigh eternal beholder,

  And I must wonder how many have the chance to grow older.

  There is an echo of a drumbeat,

  Upon these grim times of universal deceit,

  All decision making appears to be simply self conceit.

  I must admit fearing for the future,

  Because there might not be anything to suture.

  As fear pushes men into a dark corner.

  Tyrants on the rise

  Tyrants are on the rise,

  They see the office as a prize,

  They will utter half-truths and lies,

  Like crocodiles they shed countless cries,

  Just in order to fool whoever is not all that wise,

  And so their actions only pile until democracy itself dies.

  Perhaps all we can hope is a tyrant the people chose,

  Regardless of whatever reek might hit our nose,

  The other should be washed away by a hose,

  It is possible as the odds are still close,

  But as fraudulence already shows,

  It might not be how it all goes.

  ---

  So I ask again; who should be winning,

  The one that wishes to see his name on a building,

  Or one whose growing lust for power power is ever chilling?

  Who wins a debate?

  It should be a very easy thing to rate,

  Based upon the arguments found great,

  But with so many different needs to sate,

  The answer does not come all that straight,

  Thus whoever gets lauded winner of a debate,

  Lingers on as yet another topic up for open debate.

  Let me try writing a eulogy…

  > Waiting a day to be over,

  > To push aside the final boulder,

  > Fill that bath tub with a live toaster,

  > Rather than allow myself to grow sober.

  These were the final words of an eternal joker,

  Before he passed away during last October,

  And he was buried like any commoner,

  He didn't get to ask out the coroner,

  With a flat line on that monitor,

  A life by a fool's moniker,

  Ask any chronicler.

  Nasty Woman

  > 'It is a brand new rallying cry for feminists… '

  > 'This new meme is now the best thing ever…'

  > 'Women have claimed back a nasty insult…'

  - The usual suspects

  But the thing is that I actually checked the quality,

  There is more self-righteousness than jollity,

  More virtue signalling than frivolity,

  Thus I can only groan audibly,

  Towards this colloquy.

  Where are the works of talented online artists,

  Where are the clever jabs that hit targets,

  Where is laughter of the tarnished,

  Where is your 'meme' harvest
?

  All that you have is just plain dull and sour,

  And you persist all toothless and dour,

  Pretending that it is your hour.

  'Nasty woman' is just a polite euphemism,

  Used to soften the edge of criticism.

  But feel free to label yourselves with it.

  > Indulge in banality of a hive mind.

  Autumn melancholy

  When night's frost covers the earth,

  Leaves are torn down by winds of north,

  It marks that change has come forth,

  The end of a year and what it was worth,

  Everyone seeks the warmth of hearth,

  A time of slumber before revival and birth,

  A blanket of snow will cover the earth,

  Finally marking the arrival of season fourth.

  Hello darkness…

  Hello darkness my old friend,

  You are both a terror and godsend,

  Never the arm one could truly depend,

  Nor a shield under which wounds can mend,

  Your friendship only carries through a set extend,

  Yet even knowing all this I chose to befriend,

  Acknowledged all that I cannot defend,

  Things none could hope to amend,

  But you are means to an end,

  Thus I call you a friend,

  And my hand I lend,

  So go; ascend.

  Scene at a train yard

  Where goes the midnight train,

  Rails creak and moan under strain,

  While heavy clouds release their rain,

  And one lone observer finds it all in vain,

  His own leg he has managed to sprain,

  Flinching and groaning from pain,

  As the fate happened to deign,

  There is no time to disdain,

  Lights flash to detain,

  Fleeing is insane,

  Without cane,

  Not again,

  Twain.

  …

  …

  Dear Elaine,

  Please unchain,

  As I cannot remain,

  You can with an ordain,

  I was wrong guy to obtain,

  Set aside this mistake profane,

  And you will never see me again,

  Just let me board that train,

  And fix world insane.

  Witnessing that addiction to power…

  Those who are addicted to power,

  Will not snap out of with a cold shower,

  They have to muster every ounce of willpower,

  To abide with a vote that sends them from the tower.

  And as the election day approaches,

  To them will of the people is that of roaches,

  A manifestation to be wiped aside while it encroaches.

  When they should just let it happen,

  Just abide and wait for that chance to once more fatten.

  But they have chosen to their sword,

  And demand that their will should be adored,

  That is the only mistake they cannot ever truly afford.

  Because it sets forth their downfall,

  Their own backs are now against a wall,

  And there is no more room for them to crawl,

  They have reduced themselves to something small.

  > Addictions reduce decisions to those of short term,

  > The need for the next 'fix' makes you squirm,

  > And it eats away foundations once firm,

  > You are far too blind to ever affirm,

  > That you have attention span of a worm,

  > And you do not see what is clear at midterm,

  > How the problems keep piling up in the long term.

  > There is a rude awakening after the final fix…

  Documentary: The Red Pill Movie

  Personally I have not even seen it,

  But some already have an angry fit,

  Try to ensure none can see even a bit,

  Perhaps they find a woman's work unfit,

  Her efforts as a documentaries target of spit,

  A clear sign of misogyny in society – I must admit.

  Oh, my bad, it is the feminists who want it banned,

  A portrayal of the other side cannot stand,

  For that might tarnish feminist brand,

  Reveal the lack of facts on hand,

  And aspirations far from grand,

  Thus their shrieks of demands.

  Thus many will go a mile to see it…

  Adults among children

  And now adults are among children,

  Partaking school activities in the same building,

  Economic migrants that chose to keep their own age hidden.

  Children can be cruel on their own,

  But this situation is not something to condone,

  Yet so many just refuse to rediscover their own backbone.

  The children are abused and raped,

  And so many would rather keep mouths taped,

  Than ever admit their own role in how things got shaped.

  Thus they laud their own humanity,

  While the situation has already fallen to insanity,

  Because they are free to consider truth as a foul profanity.

  Perhaps they just believe in education,

  A way to make new citizens for their own nation,

  Delude themselves thinking problems are false sensation.

  And now adults are among children,

  An entire generation at the mercy of any villain,

  This is a truth that simply refuses to remain forever hidden.

  An investigation 're-opens'

  Oh… Oh my,

  Look what fell from sky,

  It might turn someone's plans little awry,

  And my smile just took a turn to look somewhat wry,

  It is a bombshell none can hope to deny.

  Yet for someone so sly,

  Do laws apply?

  Scandals act like infection,

  Thus the volume of voter defection,

  Might even costs the upcoming election,

  Thus this is a moment of reflection,

  That requires inspection.

  Who is truly the lesser evil,

  A question causing mental upheaval,

  One that offers no reprieval.

  This vote is now yours to decide.

  A hero of free speech

  I raise a toast to Dr. Jordan B. Peterson,

  It would have been easier to just play along,

  Just toe the line with this current Marxist twang,

  But luckily the academia has someone headstrong,

  Someone who publicly dared to point out it as wrong,

  And be willing to oppose it all even if it might take long.

  I hope that you will never be fined,

  Or imprisoned for speaking out your mind,

  Because if you ever are – then this world is blind.

  You are a hero of free speech.

  '#GamerGate' mentioned by UN yet again…

  In times of universal deceit – truth becomes a revolutionary act,

  And therefore enemies are painted without a single fact,

  In hopes that it is enough to prevent all contact,

  And ever better if they are then attacked,

  As truth gets no chance to detract,

  The world turned abstract,

  As lies carry impact.

  Dear Kai Sauer of Finland speaking on behalf of Sweden,

  One of those countries is no longer any Nordic eden,

  And the demand for ethics was not the reason,

  You suggest a wrong target to be beaten,

  Unless you simply oppose freedom,

  With ignorance as your beacon.

  One of those countries is among worst rape capitals,

  But you lack the spine to name the true radicals,

  That have made a nation to that of animals,

&
nbsp; Where you must ignore the damages,

  The growing rot under bandages.

  Thus you have just blindly attacked online dissent,

  To ensure that censorship maintains its ascent,

  Expression limited to a specific segment,

  Thus freedoms will sink with cement.

  It does not matter if you are a malicious fool,

  Or another well meaning brainless tool,

  You work to make this world cruel.

  Thus I view you as a human bag of shit,

  And there are still worse words to spit.

  You might be male but you are no man.

  A long ride

  This is a long ride,

  All I do is wait and bide,

  And my gaze leans to the side,

  Watching the fields and trees slide,

  While clouds shift with the wind's tide,

  And strangely the world seems open wide.

  Twist in my sobriety

  Now my eyes are but hollow grounds,

  Burst of creativity follows with downs,

  One creation after another out of bounds,

  I pushed those out as if I were firing rounds,

  Now it is only feeling of tiredness that surrounds,

  As I once more played this old game of hare and hounds,

  And perhaps those minuscule works will act as mechanical gowns,

  But it has been nothing more but a twist in my sobriety,

  It is not an achievement that gives crowns,

  Some might greet it with frowns,

  While mockery expounds,

  Upon this playground,

  Without countdowns.

  Here's to my sobriety…

  Old friends and enemies alike!

  Brink of doom (For a fantasy novel)

  A fate our eternity no longer stalls,

  Look how they storm against our walls,

  Look how they make way to our halls,

  This is how our mighty city finally falls,

  It is our death the howl of wind now calls,

  This moment is a disaster none recalls,

  Why did ancient seers gouge their eyeballs,

  If they could not see how our city falls,

  How they have shattered our walls,

  And slain us in our great halls,

  None hear the wind's calls…

  This American need for lube

  Whether you deny or not – people have sex and jerk off,

  And now there is something I cannot just scoff,

  A simple realization that acts as a cut-off,

  I used to laugh but now I just cough,

  Lube is used due a piece cut off,

  As victim could not standoff,

  Oppose a decision one-off,

  A theft others will scoff,

  When truth is a turnoff,

  This practice remains far-off,

  Along with denial of negative trade-off,…

  Thus baby mutilation is cultural whooping cough.

  How else could you explain circumcision?

  Imagine all the faces…

  Imagine all the faces,

  It is very easy if you try,

  When the reality embraces,

  And these people can only cry.

  Imagine feeling good,

  With a result none can deny,

  Upon the very spot you all stood,

  For a change is all that it shall imply.

  Imagine the bitterness,

  And all their fears of a falling sky,

  As they loathe democracy with eagerness,

  Just because their whims and reality do not comply.

  Imagine steps for better,

  All the things the #brexit vote dignify,

  Whenever goodwill runs out people send their debtor,

  And if Trump loses this election – the anger itself will just multiply.

  The Rubin Report

  Whether an episode feels like a hit or a miss,

  Whether you agree or aggressively hiss,

  I find this show difficult to dismiss,

  It approaches intellectual bliss,

  Helps see what lies amiss,

  Lift minds from abyss,

  And tighten wits.

  It is something quite rare these days,

  And this show has earned my praise.

  Snow falls

  Oh,

  Look,

  The snow falls,

  It piles against trees and walls.

  The cold air comes with a constant bite,

  Day is almost as cold as the night,

  And kids long for a snow fight,

  As world lies blanketed white,

  The frozen world is a sight,

  And also a time to write,

  As if you were a playwright,

  Aspiring to capture the limelight,

  With a work quite far from contrite,

  And thanks to the cold time is not tight.

  While snow piles upon everything there,

  It is the warmth that ensnare,

  Thus you ought to beware,

  As snow touches hair,

  Born of cold air.

  The end of an election cycle…

  As the end nears,

  As surely as twist of gears,

  Some are shedding all their tears,

  While others go about their silly fears,

  As none seemed to lend another their ears,

  Because what voices carried were but smears,

  I am sure some are ready for their joyous cheers,

  Until they recall that it will all repeat in a few years…

  Day of the vote…

  They have barely started voting,

  And already some must be gloating,

  Due to voting difficulties worth noting,

  It proves what they have been promoting,

  But not for the mere purpose of scapegoating,

  Because the trust has been slowly eroding,

  And today there is a new wind blowing,

  With tension ever near to exploding,

  Even without anyone provoking.

  So all I can hope is for the best,

  No matter how some feel stressed,

  When buttons refuse what is pressed,

  As some cannot put disagreement to rest,

  But as long as the will gets expressed,

  Regardless who is forced to protest,

  The result is something to digest.

  As the votes slowly drip in,

  A handful can determine a win,

  There are goosebumps on my skin,

  Who will be the last one to grin,

  Who will bear winner's pin?

  This is the day of the vote,

  Whose support remains afloat,

  Who seizes nation's throat?

  Some thoughts as we wait.

  Trump won…

  It was Trump that won,

  And now the butt hurt is fun,

  As some realise that they are done,

  With the falsehoods they previously spun,

  I wonder how many will actually just start to run?

  But let us make no mistakes here,

  Winning a vote does not ensure a listening ear,

  Therefore none of the real issues are yet to simply disappear.

  > Trump got what he wanted,

  > And his head lies upon the chopping block,

  > Perhaps he remains undaunted,

  > But many are now gazing for weakness like a hawk,

  > The office won remains haunted,

  > And he might have to fight hard to change a mere sock,

  > The alternative was more unwanted,

  > Thus I expect that many of his 'supporters' are ready to mock.

  But the fact remains that he won,

  There is a chance for something new under the sun,

  And for a while at least – many will find the pouring of salt rather fun.

  'Literally shaking'r />
  I am literally shaking,

  Trying to hold in laughter breaking,

  Even my knees are quaking,

  As the stupidity remains so breathtaking,

  Those reactions so painstaking,

  When emotions rule those in need of waking,

  This sight is also rather heartbreaking,

  Because any maturity would result in handshaking,

  But they stomp hoping to be earthshaking,

  Not really realising the common sense they are forsaking.

  But, I am literally shaking,

  Because my laughter is breaking,

  And it is loud enough to be breathtaking,

  Until it turns to something deathly painstaking,

  Because they have imagined nightmare with no waking.

  Election aftermath

  'If I do not get my way – there is something wrong with democracy!'

  > A sentiment shared by a multitude of self-serving authoritarians.

  A wise man tries to understand reason behind what went wrong,

  What made the will of the opposition grow so strong,

  How they could no longer just scrape along,

  But you insisted on using your twang,

  And still no change in your song,

  You lack means to prolong,

  As change comes along.

  Whether this is for the good or worse,

  Whether it is greatness or hearse,

  Whether we hope or curse,

  We must first: observe.

  But winds of change are here,

  The howl is in your ear,

  It will not disappear.

  The next domino will fall,

  In Germania or Gaul.

  Mere wonder of a democratic vote.

  The salt price has collapsed…

  With this recent outpouring of immature tears,

  The world has certainly verified all of my fears,

  The salt price has now collapsed for many years,

  As the is no end in sight for their growing tears,

  As all words of reason appear to avoid their ears,

  And their wits are not sharp enough to be spears,

  It will be forever before this salt mountain clears…

  Just a cold spell…

  Oh, the lovely snow is melting away,

  It almost lasted for a mere day,

  And mud rises from clay,

  Under clouds so grey,

  Snowmen pray,

  Or a puddle they lay,

  As the cold refused to stay,

  And fall underneath sun's prey,

  Just a mere cold spell, a cry they bay.

  The current year… ?

  Our world could be better off,

  That is the truth none can scoff.

  But there is a growing undercurrent,

  A growing hope that previously weren't.

  And those cursing this very year,

  Who previously used to cheer…

  Well, it is fuck you wankers,

  Because you are bonkers.

  We avoided world war three,

  And – yes you will never agree.

  Because the candidate stoking nuclear conflict,

  Did not get the oval office for her own personal profit.

  And thus even Russians are incredibly happy,

  There is less pressure upon their nappy.

  In fact they had their 'blue' scare,

  To an extent you're not aware.

  So it was not all that bad,

  Just mostly very sad.

  Political landscape of a nation…

  It is just a slow process of alienation,

  As your protests go on without cessation,

  Your affect comes with a measurable duration,

  Where once stood notions of honest elation,

  Now greet back grim stares of damnation,

  And persistence is your own castration,

  You cannot move from your fixation,

  You are now a source of frustration,

  And irritation results in vexation,

  Your fall becomes a celebration,

  Without a single complication,

  Something of past generation,

  As winds take new direction.

  An exercise of incompetence

  If politicians do not have to face any consequence,

  Their efforts become exercises of incompetence,

  And therefore problem solving avoids prominence,

  If they are not kicked out by the general populace,

  That is the only thing keeping in check pompousness,

  And the arrogance born out of political dominance…

  Therefore European Union will continue to fade,

  Slowly fragment as if carved by a butcher's blade,

  Because bureaucrats as leaders cannot be swayed,

  Nor replaced so that better decisions could be made,

  Thus all problems fester and grow wherever laid,

  A fate that closely related to the usage of a spade,

  And the fall might not even take another decade.

  Idealism does not ensure the ring of a lovely bell,

  But it paves the road wherever sulphur does smell,

  There is a lesson that our history could simply tell,

  Rome rose and fell when it became a living hell,

  And this union is already a much harder sell…

  Wishful thinking

  > I refuse to believe it so,

  > No faltering blow after blow,

  > I will ignore all facts laid in row,

  > Because ad hominem are my ammo,

  > This is pretty much all I will ever know,

  > And wherever the bar is – I will go below!

  Wishful thinking is the crux of someone in the wrong,

  What enables them to carry on and stand strong,

  Endure and cling to see argument prolong,

  Because they see it as a goal lifelong,

  They continue to scrape along,

  All until their last song.

  Once it helped us climb beyond distant mountains,

  Dig the soil and stone for natural fountains,

  Overcome difficulties so countless,

  That our reach is boundless,

  Out of only prowess.

  Yet without real challenges for us to tackle,

  This trait become our binding shackle,

  That ties us to any political battle,

  Not even worth all the hassle.

  Thus joust the spears of wishful thinking,

  Even when numbers keep shrinking,

  They must carry on unthinking.

  Unable to ask what they have done,

  Because it is like staring to a gun.

  I hope it will never be my fate.

  Something little cheery…

  Today is the day it came out,

  Some old with new things to flout,

  And I feel like a bean sprout,

  With a new same old game to go about,

  So no reason for me to pout,

  As I hunt down a version of speckled trout.

  Fake news…

  Whenever they respond with this claim quite outlandish,

  I suppose it is the very last resort of a propagandist,

  They accuse that others spew out the fake news,

  They think this claim alone is a clever ruse,

  But if even the fools are turning away,

  Your words do not hold any sway,

  That is the price of fake news,

  And its time to pay dues.

  Lost trust is very difficult to reclaim,

  There is no one else left to blame,

  You chose to play this game,

  And it defines your name.

  Made up gender pronouns…

  This demand to respect gender pronouns is something truly vile,

  There is malicious intend underneath a demander's smile.

  And this
is a battle that will not be over in a while.

  Giving in to these demands is like going senile,

  You might as well plug a mouth with a spile,

  In order to ensure that truth does not rile,

  And that lies form a big steaming pile,

  That prevent lives becoming worthwhile,

  Because lies upon lies make us all immobile,

  The society itself slowly becomes more hostile.

  It is not much longer before people do acts they revile,

  After all – none of the obvious falsehoods were put on trial.

  …

  These new gender pronouns pushed on by the academia,

  Are nothing more than excretion of marxist uraemia,

  A class system that is simply societal leukaemia,

  It limits brain activity by means of anoxemia,

  To produce the chains of cultural anemia,

  A society best described by parasitemia.

  …

  Go, image any argument between us,

  It doesn't need to be heated enough to cuss,

  Just merely something I would not wish to discuss,

  And a mere accusation is now enough to see you concuss,

  Life and achievements brought to nothing for I deemed it thus;

  I just need to claim that you misgendered me and you are under a bus.

  …

  These new gender pronouns serve no one but the power hungry cunts,

  Those who are taught to believe that the reality itself affronts,

  And this arms misguided mobs of retarded grunts,

  With a moral justification for violent stunts,

  They bully down all that confronts,

  Then start the purity hunts,

  This is clear at once.

  …

  I reject your pronouns.

  > 'Or do you want to use my preferred gender pronoun: His Majesty Glorious Attack Helicopter?'

  Winter shower

  A moment before the break of dawn,

  Heavy rain began to fall,

  Clouds swooped down like a swan,

  There was no cover to crawl,

  Nor a sound of thunder to fawn,

  The cold rain just fell like a wall,

  As warmth lied all but gone,

  Yet there is beauty that shall enthral,

  Past the traveller's yawn,

  As falling rain is far from worst to befall.

  Six minutes…

  Time ticks away,

  And I have nothing to say,

  As we approach the end of this day.

  What could I hope to say in mere six minutes,

  Break some record in a book of Guinness,

  Even if I did – where are my witness?

  The media is digging its own grave,

  There has been no change to how they behave,

  Whatever they engrave is washed away by the next wave.

  After all – it is so very easy to write upon beach sand,

  To have the same age old accusations fanned,

  While it erodes trust in their brand.

  And I actually wish you had real fangs,

  So you could do your job to stop nefarious plans,

  But you already pulled them out with your own bare hands.

  You focus upon the irrelevant and obviously false,

  As if it were some kind of grandiose waltz,

  You watered down the smelling salts.

 

  Imagine an actual genuine scandal,

  Even with solid evidence you hold no candle,

  You will be swatted aside as if by hit by a mere sandal.

  It is nothing more than the lying media,

  Just same old lies of mere ophidia,

  No different from ascaridia.

  So ends my six minutes…

  Ash and smoke (For a science fiction novel)

  I wade knee deep through ash,

  All alone within a mist of smoke,

  What little remains of the clash,

  Now slowly falls upon my cloak,

  This silence makes me want to dash,

  And hope there are still townsfolk,

  Or just a puddle of water to splash,

  But there is no help left to invoke,

  It all ended in less than a flash,

  Dryness makes my throat croak,

  As I search for scraps and trash,

  Smoke I breath makes me choke,

  The ash now covers my eyelash,

  Until my heart's last beat and stroke.

  International Men's Day, six days later…

  If international men's day was mentioned somewhere,

  It was by feminists ranting about their very own cunts,

  This factoid kind of makes this celebration quite bare,

  And for the real egalitarians this state actually affronts.

  For a moment: let us discuss the male suicide rates,

  For a moment: let us consider the male imprisonment rates,

  For a moment: let us acknowledge the hostile education environment,

  For a moment: let us not ignore the violence men can face in any environment,

  For a moment: let us look at the actual male unemployment numbers,

  For a moment: how about we actually seek out these numbers,

  And perhaps just for a day: we could find solutions?

  Audit the vote?

  They think someone has 'hacked' Michigan's paper ballot,

  Because their candidate fell off the electoral ballast,

  And thus rings this year's final election ballad.

  How they demand new vote recounts in states that she lost,

  Not in the ones she barely managed to get crossed,

  Therefore the die has already been tossed.

  The funniest thing is how they claimed it couldn't be rigged,

  And this one loss saw their stance become unwigged,

  As if their own guts were somehow swigged.

  But I am quite curious for the total number of voting dead,

  How much illegal immigrants helped her go ahead,

  I suppose it is a vote audit result they dread.

  Therefore, I doubt this audit will actually ever take place,

  Trump won it – and it is a fate all of us must brace,

  It is just nature of reality rather than disgrace.

  Castro kicked the bucket…

  So long old dictator,

  Your legacy could have been greater,

  If paranoia had not made everyone seem like a traitor,

  And ignored the ideology that has only produced an economic crater.

  Fools cry tears to fill a bucket,

  Rest will cherish and eat a capitalistic macnugget,

  And this is the only eulogy that I could ever hope to ever trumpet.

  Sooner than later so dies your 'beloved' brother,

  And more than likely he will not be replaced by yet another.

  Perhaps at long last your nation will finally flourish.