With each passing day we’re bombarded with exponentially increasing tidbits of nonsense from Washington. We run out of room and breath for the increasing requirements of outrage at every new scandal and tantrum and fourth reich callbacks. Read this one aloud, as quickly as possible, possibly more than once.
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Mounds of mountains mounted like fountains still amount to nothing. Tell you one thing.
The mother fucker wasn’t bluffing. Sniffing, spitting out snuff and coughing.
Snuffing. catching birds, rip em out for stuffing.
While hands are a cuffing I can handle with the coffee that I’m cupping.
For my mounds of miles amount to mountains of nothing.
Minor moments amassed, minutes minused away. Mashed to matters made of mercury.
Forged in furious fervors of forever, for the lunar glow of indigo was soon to fold to beautiful.
View too full.
Are you the fool?
A nail biter,
to the cuticle.
Miniscule minutes minus away as moments moving minorly to a bitter end.
The letter N, never bend, whereever the tether has tensioned in.
Settle in. The metal did.
Reveled in levels of medicine.
The better kid is the celibate.
The devils have mettled as ever been.
In matters of morsels, so delicate.
Latter of letters are hesitant.
Another friend.
A mother tends.
Cover for brother so militant.
Well isn’t it?
What is it then?
The merry-go, here we go.
See the trend.
The musical chairs then sit again.
The musical chairs then sit again.
The musical chairs then sit again.
My tissue tears(airs) to issue tears (ears)
By this you swear on which you hear.
Considering when it was written, a time of behave or leave.
The baddest of mad hatter chatter who you think made his tea?
For the mice still squeak of the cheddar.
To govern a V for Vendetta.
Weaving a huge ego so big I named it Hugo.
Day-Lewis said man’s flesh is of pork ossobuco.
My genetics work on a new code of high kinetics more than two fold.
If I could fit it in a Uhaul, I would pay only if you go.
To a Tank Girl, I’m a Boogo, hoppin like kangaroos, yo.
Through the roof, though with a Jet flow so retro,
The watts would spin Naomi backwards like “I moan!!”
I’m yelling “die clone” at my iPhone in a high tone that’ll zygote an eye chromosome.
Latinas are all like “My Corazon”.
© Chaney McInnis – 2017
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For the first 100 days of the Trumpet administration, this blog will feature a new poem of protest, by my own hand and by others. They will be polished gems, or rough cut drafts of rage, or in process pieces searching for peace. They may be haiku or tanka, limericks or lyrics, verses free or fettered. If you would like to submit to this endeavor, please send an email, with poem saved as a word document (.docx) to waxyandpoetic AT gmail DOT com. All rights remain with the author.
VISUAL ARTISTS ! Do you have something visually poetic that you’d like to submit? GO FOR IT!
Please address any formatting preferences in your email. I will post submissions time permitting, with at least one per day. Editing will be limited to obvious errors of spelling and the like.
Read, follow, share, re-tweet, submit, live, love, spread light! Don’t forget to use #100Days100Poems !
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Waxy & Poetic 