Author: poetryfest

You won’t be able to see yoursel- What the fuck am I saying…
You don’t know who I am, You don’t know I exist.
You’d be in the moment, So present, So Bliss-
Until some traumatic thought consumes you,
And you’re forced to think about the stray cat who
I like to call the bleach cat because he’s black and
white with just the littlest bit of copper on him so it
looks like God fell and accidentally spilled bleach on
the poor ca- I’m doing it again…
Straight masking tape plastered across your eyes,
Bragging about how bodacious you are-
Lemme stop you there because I know right now,
Because I know you feel fucking ugly.
“You need some more shape”
So worried about when you gon’ get some titties
You hate your nose,
Yet I love that we’re so damn nosy.
That’s why I can’t wait for you to love these piercings.
One day, you’ll learn how expression protects us from our mind.
As the world tries to corrode your compassion and
The fear of corruption manifests as the contortion of your flesh.
That ugliness is not you… and on the bright side
You get to choose how you feel- Isn’t that exciting?!
A flashbang alerting you of the present
Endorphins Grinding on the pain,
Finally experiencing pleasure without coercion.
The slick slippery scythes slicing through your skin,
It makes me smile just thinking about it.
Wet rags wiping away your worries.
One day you’ll be lying across the operating table.
Gunshots echoing as they break your bones,
Finally achieving your dream of heavy metal.
It won’t be until 18 ‘til you learn what PTSD looks like
It’s in your community
It’s in your classroom
It’s in the photos of xrays, embellished with a dash
Of suicidal mania
and the comments about how fat that ass is
swallowed away by your spam page.

Why is my size your concern?
You feed me and ignite me,
yet as I rise big and mighty,
you smother your warmth
and leave me large.
Raged, I destroyed.
So I wore a grey veil
to capture your attention.
Ah, you see me now.
Put me out, rescale me,
return me to my most lovely size:
tiny and controlled.

At a country farm stand, hot peppers and eggplants
shine in woven baskets next to celery and melons. Beyond,
acres of tomatoes blush in the pleasure of ripening. News

videos show stiff-faced staff members at the nearby
migrant detention facility leading weeping children away
from their sobbing, incarcerated parents. The aroma

of cantaloupes smoothes the air. But where are the onions?
Still in the fields for lack of hands to pluck them
from the rich soil, to place them beside the baskets

of peppers and eggplants at the roadside market
near acres of tomatoes softening in the eye-baking sun.

Flames chasing after the hall of fame, yet people still refuse to take part of the blame
Embers spreading at the speed of light, all because our “leaders” believe the climate is alright
Buildings burn and lives are turned, all because of lessons some refuse to learn
What will it take for them to see what we see? Or will they always refuse to accept that people
are in misery?
Riots and threats, bombs and bloodshed, all our generation knows and yet somehow our
“leaders” have no regrets
Viruses and outbreaks, attacks and so called “mistakes”, why do they refuse to accept that our
world is at its final break?
We will keep fighting and hope our voices will be heard, because we are sick and tired of
watching the world burn

Implicit impending inured intonations
Illicitly intending impure implications

If I improvise idioms I’ll identify ill intentions
I’d incentivize intuitions into improved interventions

Ignorance inches incrementally into IQs
Insolence itches. Instrumentally it imbues.

Idealizing impropriety; improper ipso-facto.
Infantilizing id idolatry indoctrinates incommunicado.

Imbibe isolation; iconoclastic impudence
Inscribe innovations; idiosyncratic imprudence

Indolent industries insure immortality
Insolent insurees incur immorality

Ignatius ignites insipid infernos
Impatience incites intrepid internals

Ignorant industry inviting insurrections
Incarcerated infantry inciting inflections

Influences indenture indolent individuals
Incongruous. Immature. Impotent. Indivisible.

Bump the Trump.
You’re the chump.
(Or is it chimp?) for Trump.

Not just a few or a bunch but a large clump for Trump
All sticking together,
Yet highly untethered.

Why not just dump Trump?
He’s a frump
that Trump
with a hanging tie
like a hanging chad
rigged.

A grump, that Trump.
Not a Forest Gump,
That Trump.

He’ll always hump,
That Trump,
Women against the wall,
That Trump
‘cause when you’re a celebrity
they let you do it.
Even if you rue it.

Or maybe,
just jump over Trump.
He’s a plump lump, that Trump
Reptilian id and ego,
A close friend to Iago
Sitting under greased palms at Mar-a-lago.

Why not a case or two
Of mumps for Trump?
Courtesy of RFK.

He’ll pump his fist, that Trump.
Smack you in the rump

Searching with his itsy-bitsy stump,
That Trump,
while you’re searching for something
sump-pump up.

So,
Why not
nail him, derail him, impale him,
wack and wump him,
that Trump.
Or what’s a heaven for?

THE END
ROCHELLE NEWMAN

Why must I always look nice , smooth my hair and match clothes, spend money on new
clothes for the relatives at holidays, when the president is already fried?
Why can’t I have a criminal record for selling fentanyl, when, again, the president has it.
Why shouldn’t I speak of my morbid interests, when the Kennedy homunculus is one
erection away from a necro-zoophile?
Why do I have to be an ‘adult’ when the right hand is a toddler! He’s at the top.
Why can’t I be spoiled rotten? They didn’t work hard.

Why do I have to speak nicely of my exes, when one pushed his ex to suicide?

Why can’t I kill that loud, annoying child? Do I have to wear camouflage and exclaim
“I’m defending myself!”? Oh right, you think my autism is cured. Should I accuse the
child of being an illegal immigrant, would that keep you from arresting me?

Why should I birth a child just so you can rape it later? I might as well kill it when it’s
born. Postpartum psychosis
doesn’t exist in your statistics
made in the money clogged colon.

The fear of pregnancy outweighs
the loneliness—
one that doesn’t even exist,
it’s a propaganda piece
heteronormative must lie
to continue.

Your body my choice,
your baby in the microwave
Your running to your mother
who denies your accountability.
Perhaps I will be better than Cassie Anthony
and mentally saner than the postpartcum psychotics
by keeping my pussy clean.
Plastics,

Your grief? Where is it? Aren’t you mad?
Ah, you’ll see it in the news.
Nothing is concrete until you
hear it from your favorite pipers.
his baby in the trash,
his child starved
beaten raped drugged
The priest may forgive you
But I know God won’t-
He’s not an idiot.

Nothing rhymes with orange.
But plenty of words work with dumpster fire.

Why write an ode
to such a chode,
when there are better things to do
with our lives?

He wont be here long,
just hang in there strong,
and he’ll fade away like a lingering stench
or an echoing fart.

How much can one man ruin!?
what is he even doing?!
Handing out favors to our enemies,
and wrecking the American empire!

Hire a felon,
have some Elon.
Elect a clown,
expect a circus.

We are watching the end of a political era,
Is it the end of the Whigs or the Social Democrats?

What should we make of a country that takes
Donald Trump as its leader
a second time?
The first time could be seen as an unplanned marriage –
that pounding head waking up the morning after in Vegas
married to the wedding singer moment.
But the second time? Knowing what’s passed between you?
After finally getting the chance to raise your unheard voice –
who would make this choice?
They know he won’t change but they’ve missed the wild swings of their Toddler King.
Apparently.

Oh, imagine Donald Trump the toddler.
No, not the grown man behaving badly but the real boy
small and stumbling and awkward, the occasional bump on his knees when he fell
counting on others to teach him how to share his toys
how to keep breathing when the focus shifted from here to there.
Someone should have shown him how to win and how to lose – with grace,
should have lit up at his delight, that smile on his little face.
Maybe someone did. But the unquenchable thirst to be first
came from somewhere and I can see past those burned down places in his heart
to that small boy still not sure of his worth.

And now? He crashes through the world like a dime store King Kong
poorly manufactured and smelling like fear
to all who come near him;
climbing his way to the tops of tall buildings
with pulleys and strings and ropes and things
hoping no one will notice he’s plastic and broken
and made mainly in Moscow.

He’s not content to simply be President of those United States,
to fix all that’s been broken with each word that’s spoken. It’s not enough.
He wants more. He starts with his nose pressed close
against the window of the Oval Office –
not even President yet, he proposes Canada be the 51st state,
supposes Greenland can be his with a cheque (payable at a later date)
and demands that the Panama Canal be returned – to him.
I imagine him stamping his tiny feet
as he wanders down empty and echoing marbled halls
chased by the unpaid debt of promises unmet at home
before he throws his sprawling ambition
against everybody else’s walls.

Canada won’t riot when the Toddler King calls our Prime Minister
the Governor of the 51st state. We’ll stay quiet.
But Greenland’s tied to Denmark and the Danes won’t play
the toddler’s game. They don’t ignore him or redirect him.
They firmly decline his offer and a biting satirical claim makes the rounds
in their name:
Why doesn’t Denmark run the States
if the job is too much for him to handle,
why don’t they create world-class education
and health care without corruption or scandal?
Under their cool and steady hands, the satirist reassures us
in a social media post
the country could be transformed from an empty mass of land
into a great nation. Again. He hopes.

The real Danes have a storied history of pushing
their Viking longboats out into the nearest sea
when the tides are right
reaching boldly towards their goals even if it means they have to fight.
These modern-day Danes aren’t looking for trouble,
don’t joke about conquering their friends
but, like all reasonable folks, they look for fire
every time they smell smoke.

Some people treat the Toddler King’s extra-territorial posturing as humour.
Can’t you take a joke? they say grimly
but nobody is laughing. Nobody dares smile.
Even Canada speaks up –
Isn’t customarily sorry after a while.
United for once from rural to urban
we give up on our neighbourly ties one by one
starting with Kentucky bourbon.

My mind wrestles me from sleep most nights
eyes still burning from the shock
of my latest social media feeds I lie
wide awake and wondering
If it’s too late to turn back the clock
so that Donald Trump the man
could let Donald Trump the boy
out of his frozen ice castle to play
before the Danes release their Vikings
and the next Great Age of Invasion is on its way?

Let the Americans and the World rise again
From the turmoil of the morose and docile dream.

When the News was meant for voice and information,
Now, the fairness dies to a fossil of a dream.

When children did not fear waking during nap time
To lose their rights by the apostles for a dream.

The Orange God who liberated terrorists
From prison to escape a jostle for a dream.

Mothers and daughters, sisters and friends, who want to
Escape foul leeches, but indocile to your dream.

Where the Gov’ restricts our bodies, hormones, and mind;
They bind and shove us through a throstle for a dream.

The MAGA Disciples who refuse to see woe,
As Thomas doubts as an Apostle for a dream.

God who was larger than life vanish to a husk,
When God was confronted by a colossal dream.

God and All Their Androgynous Glory despairs
When God knows that their love dies for an awful dream.

To watch neighbors, families, and friends wet their lips,
For the deficit Regime’s Brothel for a dream.

I, Aldous, who listens to the morning turmoil,
Where God passes with one last grovel for a dream.