Trevor Blevins
Trevor Blevins
20 hours ago

Convenience store where I stopped to buy poison gum balls,
Here I am baptized in the light of the new genesis.

For new life sprang up on the oil rigs
In the industrial world,
We live in a future no one dared to comprehend.

We blew up the old world with new ideas,
We couldn't resist the urge to push the button any longer,

I sit under my bed
Duck and cover Cold War safety,

Safe from communist war criminals,
So when is the bomb going to drop?

No, I don't believe the Earth is going to be reborn as a paradise...
A land of altruistic Eden.

The lost garden is doomed to burn up in the sun,
As is the mausoleum for my memory.

Best guesses say we aren't exactly advanced,
But what if there's exceptions in our numbers?

What if we sat awake in our tombs for all of eternity
And your soul keeps locked
Waiting for the oblivion of the unburnt citizens separated from the material world,

How great were our ambitions if they didn't stretch to something after this course of existence...

Then what right do we owe the Catholic church that was not there at the beginning of our symphony.

I'll show you a great story of illuminated migrations and books about the lights of the pillars of creation,

When they tell me that Walt Whitman's work here is not done,

And so walked into the bathroom to lock the door,

Wash his face before yelling on both coasts of the American Empire.

Our Prime Minister has flawless memory and offers us codeine syrups of all flavors to vote for the Environment.

You'll have me yelling about the importance of taxation,
You can't have me acting like this if I've already bought us tickets to the art gallery...

And can you even now believe that toddler's first reaction was to destroy that giant biblical oil on canvas.

Maybe it was the violence,

And the same God who gave us our nuclear training wheels.

The same God who kills men of euphoria under meteors

And the same God whose name was in the air on Inauguration Day.

When I drove down the rode with you and your new ideas about where to go...

You had words I didn't know,
But we had Prince on the radio,
And that's something I know well.

I have a Wilco CD in my backpack,
I have every reason to just set my alarm
And pass out in the passenger's seat.

#politics   #abstract   #modern   #beat   #putin   #trump  
1 day ago

sign something, care, tell someone
yeah, that'll do it
you're safe where you are so why should you give a shit
you let things fall apart because they're irrelevant
to your further existence
you can just stay there
where you're safe
where not giving a shit
gets you so, so far
because you've never needed someone
to give a shit
about you

not caring isn't a defense mechanism
it's a step closer to nothing

Oppressive silence
Brings me to my knees;
Embracing the hopeless despair
That accompanies the same quiet
That comes before calamity strikes-
Before the storm touches down over land;
Before all hell breaks loose.
This forbidden orchestra
Of bodiless volume,
Plucks invisible strings
of the Fates, intertwined
To tug at my faithless heart
As I survey the scorched earth below.
How hollow it all seems now;
These trumpets of victory
Sounding choked and strained
Cracking under the weight of their lies,
Bursting the brass
as they bugle out a call to rebel-
For who could call this bitter resolution a victory?
Who could name it clean,
When all but the truly frightened
succumb to this heinous masterpiece
Why think to make a new tune,
It asks us;
Why make a new composition,
When the old one will suffice?
Rolling over and over again,
Into new hands with the same minds,
The cycle begins again;
Exchanging one facade for another,
As the musicians warm up,
Ready to play the music that we've always danced to;
Mere puppets to the Maestros
That conduct and direct
Our shattered hopes and dreams.
Shall we not contradict
The balance of power,
Or else leave it to sit in the hands of fools and tyrants?
Once composed,
It can still be unwritten,
A performance piece we won't allow any longer,
A dying art that deserves the dust that we've crawled from.
We are not pawns in a chord that will not harmonize with us;
We are not weak, shallow things that crawl
beneath the feet of these giants;
We are music itself,
A ballad of shared ideals,
A melody of minds,
unsullied by the temptation of power,
Our discordant notes falling away as we remember our worth in this world.
Like a crescendo,
We can join,
We can rise to change the music,
Rippling and reverberating across this vast auditorium-
For the whole world is our stage,
Our audience;
And they are looking to us,
To be better than what we've known before.
I can hear the beginning notes,
Wavering at first,
Whistled on lips in back alleys
Whispered on the streets,
In our hearts-
Calling to us,
Pleading with us to change the outcome this time,
Asking us the only question that matters :
Will you stand to ovation?
Or will you fall to devotion?

1 day ago

We tend to separate monsters and men
Simplifying and beliving that such things can't happen again
But if we could only resurrect the dead
The sole answer would be "that's what we said"

We call abhorent acts of criminals "inhuman"
Thinking cruelty only comes from bestial men
But animals never threaten holocaust or world war
And even big brother was a child before

Joe and Wendy were good friends,
But they never thought of one another as Lovers.
Ever since Donald Trump had become President,
They had hit the Streets togehter
In Protest Demonstrations.
These Demonstrations
Helped them feel a bit less Powerless,
But not much more Hopeful.
Finally, after a particularly wearying and worrisome day,
Joe approached Wendy,
"Wendy, I don't want to be inappropriate or rude,"
"But I think I would like to fuck your brains out."
"I'm feeling burnt out"
"From all this Politics."
Wendy know that Joe was a compassionate and caring man,
But she knew that even a Saint has his limits.
So, she just said,
"Let's take a break, Joe,"
"And check into the Ramada Inn together."
"Some clean sex....."
"A clean shower....."
"Well feel a lot better in the morning."
"Better able to deal with"
"Donald Trump's shenanigans."

Feggyr Citack
Feggyr Citack
2 days ago

-a prayer for Jan 24th, Day of Shame. From the year 2217,
from the service book of a future denomination

It is time for repentance,
the annual pilgrimage.
To the doors of heaven
and the odours of hell.

     Let us visit your creation,
     the blessed pipe that bleeds.

Let us cross the barbedwire,
let us enter the tunnel.
Let us hear the trickling stream,
let us smell your ineffable breath.

     Let us visit our souls,
     our inner vagrant selves.

Let us look down into the black current
and watch your great flowing face.
And through it, in it, while we watch,
we sinners recognize ourselves.

     Let us visit your revelation,
     our tested veins that bleed.

From the deserts of the great plains
to the drowned cities of the coasts...
Your whip on our spines
confirms the evil that we host.

Inspired by Dick/Zelazny's novel Deus Irae, about the survivors of a devastating war who started worshipping the architect of devastation as their god, in order to make sense of their crushed situation. And by uncle Don's decision to fill his wallet by building a pipeline in vulnerable territory with religious significance. And by Don's flock of eager believers, whose descendants may find themselves in an unexpected and rather demanding world.

We are just arguing over semantics,
when we both know that
what I said is true.

I could have said it another way,
but that will not change what is important -
the truth.

Accept this,
or choose to judge the way I speak...
but I am correct.

Do not let emotion
cloud your judgement,
or anger douse what is real.

I may be mean,
while ignorance is bliss...
but I choose to remain above all this.

#love   #truth   #drama   #politics   #high   #language   #semantics   #elevate  

Heat rises
and the waves of anger
can't find water
In the desert--
only stones, empty pails,
starvation settling
with the sunset--
and we think
what we have will never leave us--
our conflicts
are mental
we war
with our words
on street corners,
then return home to wash
the dust off--
the end of the world
isn't here yet,
though somewhere in the back of the head,
it's coming

Abigail Mott is a Manual Typewriter poet who frequently migrates through Denver and typed a poem for me this evening on Denver's 16th Street Mall
3 days ago

Life seldom grants us absolutes
Before the truth of reason
Comparison was treason
Ignoring the fact
That some have and some lack
Was common practice

Justice was lackluster
Politicians and business men

But now with all the information we have
Reason and comparison should be elevated
Inequalities should be seriously debated
Not with flowery words which inform so little
But conceal so much, but with science
Because facts find hidden truths revealed
And there is seldom to much truth

What is the magic
the aristocracy was entitled
to rule over us?
Binding us to society and
the rules of the unknown
and the unimportant,
the weak and the lost
only allowed to suffer.

What is the magic
where the thieves and fools
fight for bloodless gold?
Lulling my darkest
silence to slumber, lest
the compassion shatter
like glass slippers that
slay soft flesh.

What is the magic
of those forgotten words
of corrupt innocence?
Where birds were birds,
monsters were monsters,
the notion of humanity
slipping away from my
happy beginning.

What is the magic
that forces me to lust over
every failed perfection?
Prayers unspoken and
thoughts from promises
I’ve only begun to


But we can never go back to those times so
long before.
I can only hope that you’d come quietly in
through that chained door.

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