BUMMER!

Bummer you lost touch
Bummer you know too much
Bummer I came here
Bummer I went back there
Bummer your wife’s in love
with a barman
overworked and underpaid
Bummer for you, man!

Bummer, another body without a name
Bummer, no one’s to blame
Bummer, sexual abuse in the hall of fame
Bummer, you have a black curl
Bummer, it’s a girl
Bummer, swearing goes on air, breakfast’s ready
Bummer, pharmacy and deadly viruses going steady
Bummer, I can’t say a Negro and a fag
without someone seeing red
Bummer, I call both Mom
Bummer, they came to my prom
Bummer, you’re jobless
and healthless
wifeless
homeless
lifeless
(Other than that, how was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?)

Bummer! Pope Francis blesses a pedophile priest
Bummer! Tabloid journalism is a starving beast
Bummer! Sensationalism in presidential elections
Bummer! Politics is no place for political correctness
Highbrowed literary critics
buried one more poem today
out-of-touch elitists, pseudo-intellectuals
and pretentious jerks cheered YAY!!!
leaning over the coffin
Wow, what a bummer!

Bummer, fake news on a nuclear war while
I fucked myself on all fours
I need to get laid
Bummer, you’re a whore!


 

* Originally published at Morality Park

50 SHADES OF RAIN

A dull sky. Rain falling down in perfect vertical lines
uninterrupted by celebratory gunfire shooting vertically into the air
Cold-blooded rain of bullets falling to earth short of kinetic energy
during the liturgy read from the prayer-book by a clergyman.
People killed in the Philippines by falling bullets in the rain.
The body and blood of Christ in the mouths
commemorating the Last Supper.

Dad pounds back a few beers after work. Home, he
pounds on the kitchen table cos dinner’s not served
before beckoning to his wife. Hey, you!
Speculating.
You’re begging to be pounded, aren’t you?
Penetrating.
As she screams into a pillow.
Suffocating.
The little girl’s heart pounds while she stares at warm summer rain
pounding on the window pane.

Envious rain watching us arch and writhe, eavesdropping
pelting rain glistening like lips when I spread for you.
Rain under the sheets grabbed with both hands, dripping.
Thoughts of a sudden burst of vivid sunshine.

Patchy drizzle pregnant with hope. 3,000 per day, they bray,
flee to conquer the sea
Callous rain falling mercilessly on conflicts, persecutions and poverty.
Fat raindrops stinging like mosquitoes. That’s sure bad news,
utters a spokesperson somberly
with the iPhone X in his hand.
Threatening rain whipping asylum seekers in wooden vessels
with pebbles in their pockets. 14 deaths per day
they (almost sadly) say.
Boats wrecked off the coast of Lampedusa, a slaughter of innocents
Europe’s welcoming scorn poured on Les Misérables, a slaughter of survivors.
Indifferent rain hammering relentlessly everywhere they go.

Dark-hued rain stalking
a child suicide bomber, waist encircled by an explosive belt,
and his big brother who never smelled
a pussy. Virgins in his head,
waiting.

A single sunbeam breaking through a thick cloud.
A messenger. So-called.
Text me.
Oh shoot, I forgot my cell again. Age-old
forgetfulness.

Fidgety rain sitting impatiently on a cloud watching a funeral procession for
murder victims
of another school shooting.
Don’t sweat it, shouts Big Daddy. We won’t forget it.
I’m no vulture. But why don’t we celebrate our gun culture a wee bit more
for it’s like horticulture and agriculture.
Substituting, instituting, executing.

A man given a restraining order for punching his wife,
mother of his newborn, in rain-drenched Munich
Savage rain sadistically falling on a prostitute on Bourbon Street
beaten by a pimp with the resurrection cocktail in his hand.

A nonchalant rain of fluffy dandelion seeds along the Danube
blown away high. Make a wish.
I saw dead fish
floating with plastic bottles in a fountain by the Louvre.

Drops of wind-driven water falling from the sky
after a rear-end collision on Highway 17 near Lexington Parkway.
The driver of the fifth ejected from his car. Motionless.
Multiple insurance carriers determining fault.
A boy hit by the thunderbolt
in central Laos when he
saw her dancing barefoot in the torrential rain.
Thunderstorms strike southern England overnight
selfies under the sky dropping icy stones
the size of grapes interrupted by a bolt of lightning. A lucky escape.
Occasional gusts of wind expected in days to come.

Driving through the car wash
splashing and squelching our way through
a sudden downpour of kisses.

An autistic child kicked off a commercial flight
in Belgrade and Portland. A threat in sight followed by a frantic rain of insults.
Mary Poppins forgot her umbrella.

A war veteran soaked to the skin
in a country that doesn’t even begin
to deal with anything, let alone him, soaked to the skin.

The intoxicating earthly scent when rain falls on dry soil.
Stone and fluid flowing in the veins of Greek gods
rain-smelling air, much needed rain in
African and Australian droughts.

Praise rained down on recent grads in
a transition economy changing from central planning
to a free market. Promising rain.
The daunting future, fear moms and dads
waving proudly at their grads.
Rain’s thudding. Hopelessly.

Rain falling on her head like falling in love.
A tap left running.
Rain in my heart. Rain running down my cheeks
on a wet winter’s day when
I thought I lost us.


* Originally published at Morality Park

JOURNAL OF A MOM – SHORT FUSE

My son B. may be the spitting image of his dad but he definitely takes after me with his short-temperateness, determination, perseverance (or stubbornness?) and reluctance to make concessions. 2.5 seconds he needs to go from ‘What a beautiful world’ to ‘I want to smash everything, especially your head’ has been a sign that couldn’t be denied by anyone, his mom in particular. However, whereas we tend to get upset pretty quickly, it may take us ages to cool down. Everybody knows that and over the time they have learned the tricks to cool off, unlike us.

If we’re tired or stressed, we tend to get irritable pretty fast, whining about and to the world so better get used to it.

When somebody pisses us off…what do you want us to say?! Run and hide.

We are drama queens. (OK, I am. Mom can’t beat me.) So what?!

Being impatient is second nature to us and it’s incurable, mom says. Long (or short) lines at the supermarket, closed ice-cream shops, and hunger lasting more than 5 seconds are not our thing. The ‘if my fruit smoothie doesn’t wait for me as soon as I open my eyes, I’ll scream’ type of reaction is quite common. Trust us, everything’s negotiable (sort of), except an empty tummy. When we’re hungry, we bite and you’re the guilty one. So don’t come near us. That is, you may approach the bench provided you have that smoothie or milk shake. Make it quick and warm.

We’re cranky long after we wake up. Just shut your mouth and stop breathing. It’ll pass…in a couple of hours. (Who’s impatient now?!)

We like to tease just for fun (not to make you angry) so don’t freak out every time and don’t you dare raise your voice. We’re highly sensitive to high-pitched sounds.

Try not to make us laugh or, even worse, make fun of us when we’re annoyed and busy throwing a tantrum. You’ll make it worse and then you’ll be sorry. Very sorry. I’m better at ruining the world around me, meaning pens, pencils, phones, books, mom and dad’s stuff, toys, nothing is safe when something doesn’t go my way. Mom, on the other hand, is not prone to smashing objects around the house (though she could definitely make use of an anger room), but is much better at holding a grudge than me.

The bad thing about us is that we never actually know when exactly our trigger might go off, nor can we remember at all times what/who hurt us in the first place. Be that as it may, hardly anybody can beat us at being mad for hours. Mom says we’re just uncompromising.

Though we are generally sociable and talkative, we appreciate our alone time and silence. If we don’t feel like talking, don’t ask us questions. If we need your company, entertain us. Our refusal to be cooperative or cheerful is temporary. It could however turn into a long-lasting (not to say permanent) thing unless you (learn to) read the instructions clearly written on our faces.

We are terribly stubborn and might see things differently sometimes, which means we’ll eventually do whatever makes us happy (though often others miserable).

We rarely feel guilty for losing our temper ‘for no reason,’ as you call it. You see, we strongly believe that every ‘why’ has its ‘because.’

Many have given us anger management tips, suggesting yoga, meditation and counting to 10 but we think that kick boxing is more in line with our character.

When we’re in distress, you better steer clear of us. It’ll pass (maybe soon, maybe never). Go on pampering us, playing us Peppa Pig and feeding us. What are you waiting for? A thank you card?

We love our mom and have strong separation anxiety, crying every time she leaves. Show some understanding when we can’t come down.

If you don’t do anything when we’re not behaving sensibly, things may (will) go from bad to worse. Talk to us. Be there.

Though we are no strangers to sudden bouts of sullenness, we are generally enthusiastically fond of smiling and being happy.

Finally, we’re cuddly. When you see something’s not right, make sure you give us a comfort hug. The bottom line is all we need is love.

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Help

Gwen has the heart of a warrior. She is one of the best people I know, but unfortunately has had to handle the worst. Life has so often declared war on her, and yet she’s still fighting.
She is a young amputee but disability hasn’t been approved yet. Please reach out if you can help. Thank you.

Kintsukuroi Life

Desperate times call for desperate measures, no?

I haven’t had a paycheck in over a year and disability hasn’t been approved (everyone always asks) yet adulting is still a necessity like paying bills and fixing cars and paying for medical expenses insurance doesn’t cover. If you can help, that would be great. If you can’t, please pass it on anyway.

https://www.gofundme.com/medical-relief-for-gwyn

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PUTTING OUT THE FIRE WITH GASOLINE (OR DID YOU CALL MOI A DIPSHIT?) ~BOJANA STOJCIC

MORALITY PARK

The Balkans is often referred to as a barrel of gunpowder because of its constant tensions and turbulence, which is something you inherit from your parents, like high cholesterol, and something you leave behind when you kick the bucket. Unless you learn to swim in its tempestuous waters, you stand a higher chance of drowning. If you are from down there, rest assured you’ll live in times of disorder, commotion and unrest, no matter what generation you belong to.

We were sitting in a jet, cruising at some 30,000 ft (9,145 m) somewhere above the coastal mountains of a better tomorrow when we began to shake, rattle and roll again. For a brief moment, it smelled of hope. It seemed as if someone had turned off the engine and let us glide down gently onto the runway. However, a short period of peace and quiet after the 1996-1997 protests was…

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Who Am I? – A.G. Diedericks

There are things worth reblogging. This is what poetry is all about.

MORALITY PARK

you-talkin-to-me.gif

Self-proclaimed, self-aggrandizing
self-published, selling yourself
for a shot at infamy – you still have it in for me

Who am I?
you ask sheathed in traced
stanzas
words languished by voracious artifice
remixed for myopic consumers
I watch you milk death and brand it catharsis; canvassing for the masses

I am an intervention
I cook doubt like a junkie and drip it slowly..

into your marrow

I rip you away from your warm bed
and leave you stripped naked
on the side of the road; chalked
out of line
As I drain your ink & slip back down into the gutter
like a rat
blowing an inaudible whistle

Who am I?
I’m the Punkture gaping your ego
an aberrant- carved
out of failure & disappointment
I bask in rejection
while you prance around with
counterfeit applause

Who am I?
I’m the fucking TRUTH

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SLEEPWALKING THE MINEFIELD~BOJANA STOJCIC

MORALITY PARK

I bet you liked the seesaw when you were a kid. Remember the pleasure of riding up and down, up and down, but only enjoying it if your friend on the other side was of similar size and weight? Well, the seesaw in relationships between Albanian and Serb communities has never been much fun because one party always had the upper hand at one time or another. Pent-up emotions and inter-ethnic tensions have been a reality in Serbia’s (ex-) southern province of Kosovo for as long as I can remember.

Kosovo pic.PNG

Fast backward. The late 1960s witnessed first protests by the Albanians who felt downtrodden as Islam had been repressed and the government, security forces, and industrial employment largely dominated by Serbs and Montenegrins. After a demand that Kosovo be made a republic, it gained major autonomy by the mid 70s, that is ‘its own administration, assembly, and judiciary, along with…

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