The sound of the siren curls like a question,
spinning through concrete veins.
Mist settles like smoke from a lie,
wrapping rooftops in guilt,
truth leaking out,
no doubt.
Ey *****, what you say now?
The quick brown fox jumped over a fence
dropkicked a lazy red faced little cow.
Ooh—million attempts at what,
a vow?
You think that pretty little grin,
that “look at me!” skin,
a smile like a tooty fruit troll-face is your win?
Was that enough to stall the fall,
to silence the cracks
in the mirror where you crawl?
get your sad little point through a crooked corridor door,
what a bore.
Fake shouts—“Oh me!”—
****, the picture hangs skew,
naming different artist oh no
what we going to do?
Raise one wait maybe raise two!
Don't you all see,
come quick have look
I think it's the cover of a old stolen book,
but you?
Still posing like it's new, true
like you bought it, distorted
taught the paint colour in a shade,
oh my architecture
Come put on a parade.
Sirens scream,
ambulance or wambulance, who knows?
I called it for you ! 911 what's your emergency?
A thief stealing stained glass and borrowed hymns / from cello kids in cathedral whims,
sky dims.
We hear you loud and clear.
we were already on our way !
It's me ma –it's me ma – it's me ma !
the sound of the siren in the distance while mist settles truth in a darken hue of blue red blue
just definitions oh so clear
words they disappear,
just like you.
Do you think putting a wall between changes my life,
Oh dear me how can this be?
your poetry sounds like Bert and Ernie,
Wambulance pulled out a gurney.
Lights—camera—play your part,
the damsel routine,
the broken-heart art.
Sending smoke signals
into the void,
hoping someone out there
feels annoyed enough to care,
while you hang onto a distant stare,
When you think your poems are:
Rare as dime in a bubblegum machine.
Look everyone—flatter her
while she’s battering,
Chattering
but truth?
Just uncouth.
Yeah, satire packs it in
like a left hook to your chin.
You think you’re special, huh?
Generic tone with a borrowed soul,
dancing all night in knockoff roles,
trading moans for coin in bathroom stall.
under gallery lights you’ll never know,
painting tears you moan, groan "nut"
never own, "moaning Lisa on loan".
Living in a glitch of an AI scheme,
is that where your writing dreams?
Minimal with a lisp, stale not crisp,
just a blur in a comment stream,
boohoo he just being mean!
You shout so loud
for your petty crowd,
like this song must be you
Bet you think this song is about you too
Dupe do dube doo
Maybe it is.
Maybe it’s not.
Maybe it’s just a monkey
at a five-card standoff
Raised the stakes
flinging ****
at signs it forgot.
Either way,
I couldn’t give two *****.
Not three, not four.
**** girl,
you inspired even more.
Chum-chum, here he ****
crusty knight in silicone armor,
itchy little *******,
twitchin’ for trauma,
chasin' **** like karma.
Old ******* always show up to rescue
anything with cleavage and a crisis menu
Then he sends out a drive-by "flex" / like he’s living in the ******* Ritz
quick on the text
running for any pair of ****,
click n' follow!
dam don't wanna sound ******
that’s twenty "likes" right there,
ain’t that the bitz?
Ah just so silly
Not even a real brit
But he give you a "like" for a ***,
excuse the wit..
The next day,
your words decay.
Lovers brawl,
no one’s wrong
but I’m still right,
because I don’t belong
to your broken juries
or boo hoo storybook flurries.
They didn’t hang me
they found you wanting.
So fix your shoes.
Get braces.
Chase your high
at the soapbox races.
Boop-boop-de-doo,
cry me a meme.
I don’t fit your box
I reshape the dream.
Turn corners to clouds,
make square roots bloom
in the garden of my mind,
where there's no room
Kazoom.
You thought the judge
would swing your way
as you wagged your finger,
tried to slay.
Hey hey hey, lies! Barney rubble
But turns out fate had a line or two,
No trouble double double
and now the curtain’s drawn
on you,
maybe you should get a clue?
I’m no status, do I look like facebook
looking for likes,
looking for fights
stars and fake blends
No hashtag trend.
I don’t bend
for clickbait or dead-end friends.
I write for the real,
for those who feel
not ******* in trash bags
with wait - oh fake flags
and empty mags,
not turds in windsocks
Stamp your feet, scream your shame,
twirl like a TikTok user caught in flame.
“What you trying to ******* do?”
Here’s a suggestion:
*******.
Kiss a frog.
Post it on your blog
choke on a log,
“****-sing your lies like a sad lil cartoon”
Bet thats your kinda thing too.
Here’s my *******,
signed in Sharpie
Big, loud, and bright:
****. YOU. FULL STOP
While we all have a laughie.
Copyright Malcolm Gladwin
June 2025
“The Wambulance Diaries”
battle poem for AP - bit of Satirical and Humourous non sensical ranting lol
