The reporter for the local newspaper, fueled with excessive amounts of caffeine, is typing away like a mad man. His editor loves his work, even though he his in his own world, no one dares to tell him to slow down. The reason is, that a colleague told him to take a break, and that turned into a big mistake. The madman told him to shut the fuck up, and to mind his own fucking business. Needless to say, that was the one and only time that anyone would have the balls to say anything to him, about his habit.
The streets have an eerie feeling.
Orange man doesn’t save the day.
A dyed-in-the-wool jackass.
He’s known as the number one, incorrigible asshole.
Sleep walking in a mid-town, trash filled alley.
Clairvoyant said, “The future looks bleak.”
The unicyclist, loves to entertain the folks while playing the fiddle.
All aboard the train of thoughts.
Without you the days seem to be meaningless.
The maker of a sentence launches out into the infinite and builds a road into Chaos and old Night, and is followed by those who hear him with something of wild, creative delight.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson
Now that you are gone
the chair at the table
will always be there,
if and when you
decide to come back.
When he speaks, he can put a fruit fly to sleep.
He’s a loose cannon, extraordinaire. Yup!
He plays solitaire with a deck of 51 cards.
Speaking the truth is beneath him.
Write down the thoughts of the moment. Those that come unsought for are commonly the most valuable.
Opening the door to the unknown.
His boat is slowly taking on water. The crew are disobeying orders and jumping ship, one member at a time.
His train of thought has gone off the rails.
His brain is in sleep mode.
He’s known to be the worst of the worst, for making bad decisions.
Now boarding, the ship of fools.
Now that his ego got the best of him, he wonders what his friends will think.
The members of the local chapter of the rainy days blues fan club, is now in session.
He is oblivious to his surroundings.
Skeletons can be found in his closet.
He can never tell a lie with a straight face.
Born: March 12, 1922 – Died: October 21, 1969
She sleeps soundly on a mattress filled with stiff straw.
He’s a nonstop babbling brook of misinformation.
He’s in an inebriated frame of mind.
Wherever you write is supposed to be a little
bit of a refuge, a place where you can get away
from the world. The more closed in you are, the
more you’re forced back on your own imagination.
Smoke filled room
with cigarette butts
and remnants of Chinese
The life of a down
and out bachelor.
I like to do the Two Words posts, hoping it will make you, the reader think of the words that come to my mind.
Anyways, it just me, writing whatever comes to mind.
She’s lying naked on the grass, staring at the puffy clouds and pondering, what if …
What can one say, about the guy who is known to have shit for brains.
For no reason, she is all grins and giggles.
Having an enlightening conversation with a clothing store mannequin.
Born: February 8, 1925 – Died: June 27, 2001
Throughout the city, the blanket of dense fog, has that eerie feeling.
Waiting for the train to nowhere.
The well known eccentric man of means, takes his battery operated toy poodle for a walk. When asked he walks a toy dog he replies, the dog needs to do its daily constitution. He tells people, that he is sick and tired of waking up in the morning, to see a puddle of pee, and a mound of shit on the floor. He never did say what he supposedly feeds the so-called dog, besides new batteries.
The planets are on a collision course of mass destruction.
He’s prone to having delusional thoughts.
Mr. Idea Man is down in the dumps, because he cannot think of any new ideas. He’s hoping it is only a temporary lapse, as people of all walks of life, come to hear him. If he doesn’t, he may have to look for another line of work.
She dreads writing her final paper.
Born: August 17, 1943
He is so full of shit, there’s absolutely no room for toilet paper.
The local potty mouth club, is now meeting in the town park, with coffee and donuts, for their weekly gabfest of gutter talk.
He said, “Oh shit.” She told him to watch his mouth. So for the rest of the day, he looked into the hand held mirror, never to put it down.
He’s known as the bloviating airhead.
He uses a fork to eat potato chips.
by leaps and bounds
chasing the hounds
He’s known as the man with the dead pan voice of ribald humor.
Standing under the spreading maple tree, he is fretting, and mumbling, as what he will say, to his long lost daughter. It’s been at least 10 plus years, that they had any contact.
She finally showed up, and it was an awkward feeling. A few minutes passed by, and the angst he was feeling was gone. They hugged, and we’re both misty eyed, then the conversing began. They told each other what they are doing with their lives.
The happy father and daughter went to the corner deli, had a nice lunch of sandwiches, coffee and let the bygones, be bygones.
He is the master of manipulation.
By day, he lives the life of a monk. In the evening, a con artist, is his vocation.
A night owl on the prowl.
The young couple, love dancing in the rain.
Poetry is the rhythmical creation
of beauty of words.
Edgar Allan Poe
Gusty winds sweeping, across the plains of desolation.
Jack had a snack
at the local chicken shack
when he heard a quack
from a duck in a crack
it’s time to give it some slack
The aroma of beef stew, is intoxicating,
Joel would do anything, to see his long, lost love. He would walk bare foot on hot coals, a bed of nails or a flooded street. She meant so much to him, but he could not understand why she refused to see him. He would give it one more try and talk to her and if she still would not give him a satisfactory answer, as to why she ended it, then he would just go back home, and sit in his favorite chair, and stare at the four walls, to ponder, what if, and there were many what ifs.
She has the flair for like minded people.
He’s known as the man with the ogling eyes.
He tells a story, using flashcards.
The usher wore a speedo and flip-flops, while seating the guests, at his best friend’s wedding. It did not go well, for most of the people made sure to keep some distance from him.
On almost any given night, the insomniacs congregate at the mid-town diner, with cups of coffee to discuss the different reasons, of the whys they cannot sleep.
Preaching to the choir for harmony.
The green look on his face says, he had something to eat, that certainly did not agree with him. Hello bathroom.
Moaning and groaning is his calling.
After watching the hamster wheel for who knows how long, it made her drowsy. A few minutes later, she fell asleep, face down on a plate of scrambled eggs, loaded with ketchup.
His boat doesn’t sail on water.
Snake oil salesmen, awash in Washington.
She has a bad habit of mincing words, and she will never change. Its in her DNA.
The look of love is showing in her eyes, while lust was in his heart. They hit it off.
Whenever proven wrong, he won’t apologize.
Write, write, write she says.
Right he says, as you are right
for telling me to write the right stuff.
Stuck in traffic
Late for dinner
is pissed off
Try to explain
why you are late
She didn’t buy it
The meal didn’t go
down to well
Finally arrive at
End up sleeping on
the couch and
needless to say
you made her shit list
Spotted Jack Kerouac and a few of
his beat friends, discussing how
life could be beautiful.
Thought I would and give a listen
to their back and forth ideas, and
believe me, it was all good. It seems
the flow of their words was all
encompassing, never shouting, smiles
When they are done, they will go their
separate ways, only to meet up again,