‘Afro-Isms’!

‘Afro-isms’!

GAS, GRASS or ASPIRIN:

Nobody Rides for Free.

Edited by W.Marmoset Yarn

Consequence is drama

Said he who dreamt of a trip

To Bahamas, with Gwen F. Altruistic

Poking her ass like my favorite biscuit

Within the onion of her dome, an area

I might once have called my home, were it

Not against policy while poison rules

Where quarantine separates abstract fools.

I paid my dues when Rome was burning

I played my fiddle when Atlantis yearned

To be paramount to valleys while my life

Was learning to be a substitute fantasy where

Love was concerned. Had I been different

& She been that, we may have died inside her twat,

The Police Asking Questions And What Not. Yet, I might

Have been Rimbaud & marshaled the seamen whose

Sperm I implore, to implode. And Boldly!

Lest I breed carols that

Systems overload, with monkeys rolling barrels,

Churning butter that would otherwise be

Left to spinning sorrows while rabbits chase

A Diamonds carat while merchants will to dare it.

The diamonds sweating what a bunny bears when

Fate is forced to face it, and loosen its embrace

Especially when the cut has left the stone some ways from grace,

And yet one still must wear it.

Gwen F.

(From Plymouth),

I will pay your annual syntax

Just promise me that in dreamland

My phallus you will wax.

It is not that my mind is nasty

It’s just that my thoughts are tasty,

If often hasty in their tracks

And brusque in their breaks.

Very short politically correct poem number 4:

As a hetero-sapiens dude

I have come to conclude

That it is not whether a

Man likes dick

But whether he is

Capable, as so few are,

& Faithful to the

Task at hand

Or just another prick.

My father was

A pussy man and

He said much of it was tasteful,

Though some of it was rude.

Life as it is, with us as we are, is the key to the rainbow bridge.

Having that been said the key to happiness, is simplicity

& Beers in the Fridge, Avoiding Post Nasal Drip.

One man’s morality is another man’s common sense.

One man’s open range is another man’s fence.

Confusion is a new mind.

We accuse the abused for acting abused

Never questioning the methods we use

Shoot out the lights & blame the fuse.

Abuse follows the same flame as misuse

In whose name fortune seeks recompense

For what density it bruised and what it might

Have left buried in a grave and not a trench

Where things might be retrieved

And where grieves lay dormant in fractured fields

Where myths are not believed.

An ID

Looking for his I.D.

Hid Itself Inside A

Squid, though not

One from the factory

But from a Shallow Grid,

That laps Foam on the waves

That slap against the tides that Groan

With Butterscotch Yearnings Of Returning Home.

Mirrors can only make a Goat of those they cannot Kid.

An ID that spoke Yiddish, Nervous & Skittish,

Though not Boorish, but Porous, perhaps frigid,

It dreams of Porsche, though it Rides The Bus

With A Girl Named Brigitte

(At times British, Often Livid & the Other Refractions

That Have To Live With It).

She’s the divide between them & us.

And though Loathe To Admit It, the Brine is the Price

& Texture of the liquid where the ID, looking for his

I.D. Hid, when it’s Pentacles Stretched & Reached into

The Squid, Tentacles Resting on what it Bids &

Keeping the ‘Squid Pro Quo’ Where It Is

& Their Secrets on how they did it.

There was once a young Dexter from Exeter

Who really wanted to get next to her

So he sold his supply

of Hi-Fi for Wi-Fi

So that he could send more text to her.

There was once a lady from Woking

Who tried in vain to give up smoking

She sold her last bong

But before too long

She spent more money coking.

There once was a man from L.A.

Who fell much in love with a lay

He signed a pre-nup

And when his time was up

She sent the poor chap on his way.

There once was a man from Ossago

Who told people that he was from Chicago

When they found him a fake

It was more than he could take

He now sells cheese in Colorado.

There was once a lady from Spokane

Who cried out each time she came:

“Paint me like a starlet

Paint me like a harlot

Just keep it all inside the frame”.

There was once a dealer from Cornwall

Who considered himself quite born well

So he worked out his formula,

Moved to California

& now he invests in porn well.

There was once a market for Limericks

Before it succumbed to gimmicks

That gave it away

For a penny a day

& traded its mimes for mimics.

There was once a sailor from Eden

Who took his boat S.W. to Sweden

He opened his sails

& got eaten by whales

& so now he’s bottom feedin’.

Take 2:

There once was a sailor from Eden

Who took his boat S.W. to Sweden

He opened his sails

And got lost in the swales

And now he’s in Iceland Breeding.

ROBBED BY THE MOB,

He Was A Man Without A Country Record.

He Couldn’t Buy A Waltz,

Nor Would They Give Him Much to Work

With that Had much of a Pulse.

And He Didn’t like coming in Second,

He fought the Hedgerows while in Heat

And Reeling from Feeling Fecund,

Gripping in the trenches fists,

That Wingspan failed to greet

As it wallowed in Swelling

From Its Broken Wrist.

Sometimes the Middle Finger becomes

The fiddle’s final twist,

Some Translation Always lost in the Telling,

Though If the Pictures Hold up

The Mind is kissed,

Stabilizing Mental Health.

And Picking Fights If Not Much Else

(& Picking Noses,

Which He Blows

If He Supposes

It Knows Too Much & it Shows

& Falls Flat on its Feet & Toes

Back to Abraham & Moses,

Burying the Gentiles in

Chrysanthemums

& Roses

While Tombstones Beckon Bones

& Widows Seek their Wealth

& Fires seek their Hoses).

He wrote ‘Dragon Lines & Valentines’.

He wrote the ‘Ballad of Money Shot Jones’

Who Came On Time & Kept His Throne

While living in a Shelter He Called His Home

Where in Summer He Sweltered

Or he shivered when winter delivered

Winds to Him Alone, Knocking Over Signs,

While Stirring Up Tension That Whisky Unwinds

In the silence of a cone.

If PLASMA SCREAMS

Vision Dreams of the Time It Spends Atoning

For the Limits it has Dared To Stretch when Appetites

Foam At The Mouth Of Paradise,

Where Seeds are Sowing,

Winds are blowing &

Foothills find their Streams.

Even if the Price is Keeping Pace

With promises Kept &

Urges tamed, if not in God’s

Then in Vanity’s name.

The Mississippi Flows

Both In & Out Of Heaven,

Bread to Stone Remains Unleavened

Unless the flood bestows

Derailment on the Southbound train

Whose Clatter precedes its Sheen

& Whose passengers are the types

Who only Spirit knows

& Travel Sight Unseen

(Their lives Assumed more Pleasant).

While Sturgeon operate beneath the

Surf turning 6’s into 7’s.

But Still, Estrogen’s Farms Can Hover Near

& Spank Above their Rank, While

Pluto’s Revenge

Is to Hide the Waters & Steal

The Balsamic

& Wine from the Cellars’

Tanks & turn it into Vinegar &

Then let Circumstance & Accusation shake

Before They Comprehend,

The Pirates from the Plank,

As Right Hand Men refused to Split Grain with

The Left hand of the Sinister

Who might render your death an Afterthought

With the Same Gesture used to Thank.

And who anyway overtax whatever they administer.

Where numbers are growing &

Heart rates are slowing &

Revenues find their stream.

Coughing up their Dollars

From the Rafters & Beams,

Each Man Repeating What the Last Man Hollers,

Completing the narrative of his frame.

AND HE UNDERPAYS WHO CAN

AFFORD TO HAVE HIS NAME

CHISELED ON A GRAVE

Beyond What Stones He’s Already Paving.

And driven by the Horses now limping

To the Barn they’re Braving,

Reduced to what they have.

These Fine Men Die So that the Waves May Swell

While those who bury them beneath their tears

Prepare the Context their Stories tell,

Buffered by the bonus years

And where the bias leans,

Knowing that all sirens save

One Last Song To Sell,

Tailored to its genes

As Well as to The Silver

Tales That Will Bear Engraving

Purchased within their means

From lives they are improving.

Though Nothing Changes That He Was

ROBBED BY THE MOB,

& Is Now A MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY RECORD.

Of His Own Accord He wrote ‘Chemtrails & Cocktails’

& ‘Have You Hugged Your Banker Today?’

& ‘If You’re My Mother, How Come Your Name Is Bill

& Why Do You Live In L.A.?’

And Now He’s Hanging on to Hand Rails,

Swiss Visa Revoked, Suffering Promotional ‘Underkill’

& Feeling the Pinch as they say, with

Few resources left for hoax

His pockmarks feeling the stress from the growth

That poked at his profile after the stroke.

The wives got rich, the lawyers went broke.

While impressions pale beneath the

Fence of his Dominance & his Sleeping Will

Locked out of his domicile for being

More Italian than French

& For Losing Touch With Common Sense.

Weeping Willows Stain their Pillows

With the leaves they choke.

He Could Have Gone For Broke.

He might have asked for recompense.

He Might Have Thought Before He Spoke.

Instead He Stood by the Things He Wrote

And wouldn’t move an inch.

And trusts that the Days Will Pay

For any Vows he May have forsaken

Or Any Hearts Betrayed in the Days

That Never Flinched & the Monsoon Nights did Soak.

Delayed only by what might have

Awoken suspense,

Or depressed those who easily took offense

Encumbered with foreign elements.

When Earls Were Men Instead Of Girls

& Counted their Blessings before their Pearls

Got Stuck inside their Throats.

And The Harlequins Last Cigarette Is

The Butt of Every Joke

& Frogs Are Existentialists Since Every Day They Croak

And Even the Ones that Smoke, do it to be Sensationalist.

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