Plague of the Oxy-Morons.

Plague of the oxymorons.

The human race has been 'clutching at straws' for centuries!

You are your worst own enemy, have indifferent countries, different strokes, different viewpoints and different folks.

Religions are still fighting for peace, calling it a just war, for justifiable genocide, justifiable paranoia, justifiable rape. It truly is a fine mess you have created, and almost exactly the possible impossibilities of the negative gain, the negative impact, the new cliche, the new tradition, a classical future like a non-alcoholic wine, that never amounts to much, except a zero-deficit with an endless beginning!

You are half dead, half dressed, half empty, half naked, half full and dishonestly true. Your minds are enormously small, equally diverse, explicitly ambiguous, yet extremely average, extremely bland, and positively neutral. You walk with eyes wide shut, living with extended deadlines, expected serendipities, searching for essential luxuries when there is never enough time.

Life is a genuine imitation, so are genuinely fake, capable of creating, great depressions, minute pandemics that hides the grotesque beauty, becoming the liberal conservative, the liberal fundamentalist, with legitimate conspiracies, legitimate rape, legal justice with the lesser evil.

But the long and the short of it all, is always the love-hate-relationship you have with yourselves, creating easy labour, economic reform from an educated guess, a calculated reckoning for enthusiastic indifference, just to find a balanced insanity, with baggy tights and bureaucratic efficiencies, that are beyond infinity, in such big detail. Oh such a blurry vision you are.

Sad clowns, sadly amused, using safe guns, looking for the same difference, in a sanitary sewer, becoming second best, running the shortest distance, silently yelling out simple calculus, like a silent scream for a single relationship in your snow white-tans, listening to the sound of silence as you attempt to specialise in everything.

You have created steel wool, that is still moving, in a motionless wind at a straight angle, both sweet and sour, which often creates systematic chaos, and a systematic variance just to become a stupid genius in the quiet noise.

It is quite sadly funny, how you hasten slowly, in harmonious discord waiting patiently for the white chocolate, that you find wickedly good, but willfully neglect, as wise fools, who have a whole half of the painless torture, as passive aggressives, and paid volunteers, engaging the peaceful riots, which is just premeditated spontaneity, in search of the pleasing pains, that are so positively wrong, and pretty ugly, to problem solve pure evil with obedient defiance, for an organised mess by a group of individuals, in the gentle turbulence of nasty politeness.

Never again will the noiseless sound, like non-fat ice cream, from non-profit organizations, with nameless celebrities, create the new classic, as an accurate estimate, with anxious patience, being alone together, with lame skills, and long shorts, or loose tights, finding mandatory options, even mildly abrasive, be dead right, in the delicious torment, with the democratic leadership who has diminished growth, with divided unity, and dynamic stability, providing the calm winds that are cheerfully mournful but clearly confused and as clear as mud, like a colorless kaleidoscope, completely unfinished, with consistent discrepancies.

You provide constructive criticism, and conventional wisdom, with countless numbers that have a current history, of a baby giant, once a bankrupt millionaire, from benign neglect, as a boyish grandpa, in casual formality, certainly unsure like a cheerful pessimist, consistently inconsistent, with the cruel kindness of explicit innuendo's.

So where will it all end with your peacekeeper missiles, planned exodus, progressing backward, as a questionable answer, for the quiet revolution, and random logic as rehearsed improvisation, with resolute ambivalence, of rustic elegance and scripted spontaneity, as a single pair who sit up in slight exaggeration, with slow speed, and spoken thought like the sweet sorrow of a waking dream.

( This poem is a satirical word play on the use of oxymorons. Most of them can be found here: http://www.oxymoronlist.com/ )

Thanks to those of you who made it this far.

Peace and Love Always

Teriu