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Emanuel Martinez May 2013
Teasing the beast
Looking for a feast

Hounds barking at our ears
Vultures flying up ahead
Circling a bald eagle's fresh corpse

Compartmentalizing symptom after symptom
To hide the great systematic sickness
Labeling the suffering, outcome from desire

We, wholeheartedly accepting being
Appropriated, labeled, discarded
As construing our own oppression and sadness

Enduring the **** of our minds
Being castrated of our consciousness
Before we reap the products
Of its bold liberation and grandness

Its the belly of the beast
And its hungry
Insatiable, amoral entrails
Hoping to salvage a feast
From the casualties of d(e)moc(ratic) wars

Hoping we feed our monstrous fear
Thirsting for the greed
Dripping off of accumulating wealths
Impatiently waiting, we keep parceling out grudges

Disfiguring our minds, our souls, and our bodies
Its misanthropic nature lashes out without conscience
Knowing we'll never realize we are masses

Disappearing the individuals who realize their suffering
Ensuring there's no collective opposition or action
Trying to reassure we are weak

Knowing at some point or another
We all act mute, deaf, and blind when anyone experiences:
Oppression
Pain
Silencing
****
Hunger
Fear
Violence
­Repression
Retaliation
Discrimination
Torture
Negation
Alienation­
All forms of mental, psychological, physical, and spiritual mutilation
Fearing death more than fighting for necessary abolishment
Preferring to live out our veiled miseries
Endorsing their continuance
Instead of risking our lives for everyone's liberation
Always ensuring the feast of the beast

By its very efforts trying to decree our very human nature
Ingraining greed, fear, animosity, and weakness as if inherent of us
All parts of its most damaging weapon:  the seed of discord
Its implantation, a socialized deep desire for self-preservation

Sheep bleating painfully toward our ears
Vultures flying up ahead
Circling a bald eagle's fresh corpse
Signifying the impending recapturing
Of our true transformative desires
May 4, 2013
Lawrence Hall Mar 2018
I read lots of Russian lit (in translation, of course) while in Viet-Nam

I understood poor, young Raskolnikov
And read all I found by Anton Chekhov
Remembered nothing about Bulgakhov
Heard naughty whispers about Nabokov
Thrilled to the Cossacks in old Sholokov
And then I learned about Kalashnikov –
This, I decided, is where I get off!



Moc Hoa (pronounced something like “mock wah”) is a now-prosperous town on the Song Vam Co Tay near the border with Cambodia.  In 1970 it was rather down at the heels and was a center of military activity, including mercenaries presumably controlled by the C.I.A*.
Well, golly-gosh, I see the italics are all over the place again.  I meant for the body of the poem to stand tall, and the notes to be in italics.  The Machine does not agree.
I can't seem to rhyme my words
With my breathing.
My heart beating--
Fast..
My lips quiver.
Making my voice shiver.

A salad of letters.
Read. Dare.
Imagine.
I in game.
The eyes.
They see.
A fool hater.
Aloof heart.
Heart of moc in somber
Chamber for emotions.

My universe collapsed.
Yet you remain.
Engraving in me, your name.
Another soul like yours, I can never find.

Relentless. Creating anagrams in my mind.
Anagram rambled in my mind. Like what you are doing to me. Just the mere sight of your name, shudder my sanity.
Dana Skorvankova Aug 2016
Usedla jsem a chtěla jsem
Napsat něco silného a velkého
Ale jak jsem se zaposlouchala
Do bolestné hudby venku
To silné ve mně vyhaslo
A stalo se vším, co dokáže rozplakat -
Ztraceným úsměvem včera
Zábleskem vzpomínky dnes
A tak se vzdávám
A smutnější slova
Jsem jakživ nenapsala
Natož abych se je odhodlala vyslovit.

Nepřeju si nic než
Poslouchat tuhle hudbu
Přestože je hudbou bolesti
Nemůžu si pomoct,
Připomíná mi domov
A tak moc bych chtěla říci
Že to je naposled
Jenže to už jsem si mockrát slíbila
A tak se vzdávám
A smutnější slova
Jsem jakživ neřekla
Natož aby je někdo slyšel.
spysgrandson Oct 2017
for me, the creek may as well have been the mighty Mississippi

too shallow for canoe; mostly carp and crawfish called it home

no great novels were penned about adventures there

though I had my own tales to tell:

sand squishing between my toes on a sultry August day

a water moc I decided to let live

the time my grandfather taught me how to clean the catch--fish guts given back to the sluggish current

most of all, the arm I found on a Sunday afternoon, one attached to a body

who turned out to be a man who had cheated my grandpa

and vanished only days later -- assumed to have absconded to avoid John Law

my uncle the sheriff fished him out and planted him again, without a doc's scrutinizing eye

never was the man mentioned again, even by his kin--whipped white trash

such was Texas in 1940, questions not answered because not asked

drought dried the creek to fetid puddles
the year my grandpa passed

the very spot I found the arm, one of the last places to dry

a stagnant pool with minnows and memories colliding in death throes

and my grandfather buried spitting distance from the man I had found

both now above the creek where it joined
the river Brazos, it too a victim of the sun's relentless sear

though not so willing to give up secrets, to
cast doubt on legends, or let ghosts rise from the mire
Justin  Oct 2019
De"moc"racy
Justin Oct 2019
If the freedom we seek is inside of us all
Then why does it seem that we constantly fall
I look up at the tv and what do I see
Pornographic teens and liars on screen
Industrial revolution privatized into dreams
Edgar Allan had it right
A dream within a dream forever in our sight
Cuz that’s all we’ll ever truly have
First it was white on black and then black on black
Now it’s kids on kids
Where the **** are we at?
A nation that was great is now upside down
Liberty, Justice and Freedom sold for the crown
You see it’s a power trip and always has been
Whether it’s the Devil or human sin
We take what we please and **** in his name
The lesson we learn is we all bleed the same
I think I’m ok I think I’ll be fine
I really should say I know and not think but that is alright
I’m dark and morbid like DC Comics; I like it
My anger is energy just like a mosh pit
I wish I could’ve prevented corruption from it’s birth
And **** every ******* who destroys this blessed Earth
Some may think I’m politically incorrect
In all reality they’re scared of the truth
They rely on the word of puppets and expect nothing less
In a culture of immoral ******* ignorant sheep, God bless
Nothing is sacred; nothing is real
We justify lies for truth and then we appeal

Advertisements psychologically used to make us think
Should we buy this? Do we need this?
I’ll **** in a PETE 1 water bottle and call it a drink
Sell it for a price that’s higher than life
That was used to make our brains shrink
In a blink of your eye and it’s gone
Kind of like the money you get on payday
It’s just the same old song
Bills hit and then it’s MAYDAY
The world is a business
And capital is its tool
What does democracy really mean to you fools?
When we the people are dumb deaf and drool
In a catatonic zombie like state
Waiting for the next big cell phone release to date
Everywhere I go people ****** into social media
Like it’s giving away free cheese
No privacy makes it even creepier
Chemically addicted narcissistic ***** please
Get up off your knees and make a real living
Do something for the world
And not just your commitments
What has happened to the human condition?
We’ve corrupted our own minds for the glory of vision
**** but that’s just it
We were never meant to see into the future
Now we play God and act like Lex Luthor
One of the greatest criminal minds of our time
And yet we’ve learned nothing except
How nicely they shine in the wake of a lie…
Lawrence Hall Jun 2021
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                           The 7th of June, 1944 and 1970

My father beached at Normandy on the second day
(He was okay with having missed the first)
From there through France to Belgium in the mud
For a ****** Christmas in the icy Bulge

Munich, Buchenwald, Dachau, Zwickau
For me DaNang, Saigon, Ben Luc, Moc Hoa
I met a child in a Japanese army cap
But he wouldn’t sell it. We all have history

I wish I had that Japanese army cap
And that we knew what any of this means
A poem is itself.
Lawrence Hall Aug 2022
Dear Anonymous Google Accuser:

Thank you for your note, the contents of which sound much like the block warden’s caution (“Your attitude is noticed, comrade.”) to Yuri in the film version of Doctor Zhivago.

I have re-read the column, which I wrote nine years ago, and find nothing offensive in it (although it is rather puerile), nor do you detail exactly what is offensive in it and why I should be sanctioned. You are being Kafka-esque, and I say this as someone who has read Kafka: you do not tell me what offense I have purportedly committed nor do you face me with an accuser. You do not even face me with you, for you do not give your name. You employ the passive voice in referring to an “Adult Content policy” and to “Community Guidelines,” which sound like something from an episode of Patrick McGoohan’s The Prisoner: “The Committee won’t like this, Number Six.”

Google (and one could find “google” offensive, with its history of mocking someone’s physical characteristics) is a private company, and so is free to publish or not publish, as is only right.  And I am free to pity Google for moral, ethical, and literary cowardice.

But you say that I am insensitive.

I was raised in situational poverty, barely graduated from high school, and spent 18 months in Viet-Nam. Upon returning to the USA (with life-long skin cancer which the DVA denies) I worked straight nights (double shifts on weekends) as an ambulance driver and later an LVN to put myself through university. I taught for almost forty years in public school, community college, and university as an adjunct instructor of no status whatsoever. In retirement I volunteered with our local school’s reading program until the Covid ended that, and I still volunteer with the lads at the local prison. I volunteer in community cleanup after our hurricanes (tho’ I’m getting a little old for that). I’ve worked hard all my life, paid my taxes, paid off my house at age 70, receive only half of my Social Security because of some vague law, and never gamed the system. Indeed, I would say that the system has gamed me.

But you say that I am insensitive.

In Viet-Nam, by the way, I was not the shooter; I was the shootee. I served as a Navy Corpsman in the ICU at the Station Hospital in DaNang, in the outpatient clinic at Camp Tien Sha in DaNang, and finally at Moc Hoa on the Cambodian border. Several hundred people, mostly young Americans, but also ARVN, VC, NVA, Vietnamese civilians, and Cambodian civilians survived because I was there for them.

But you say than I am insensitive.

And was all of this so that some frightened committee of anonymous inquisitors staring at an Orwellian telescreen or a Mordor-ish Palantir could find an innocuous scribble insensitive?

Pffffft.

Sincerely,

Lawrence Hall
Google is creepy.

— The End —