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There is always a silent wish  
Whispering inside me.  
And this is “poverty” —  
Yeah, this is alright!  

It’s a name of contentment,  
Glancing at little things in a good way.  

I just wanna become a blandisher,  
To cherish every little happiness...  
With an open and honest heart,  
No sorrow for what I don’t have,  
Enjoying life with my class  
On a single tablecloth.  

No more asking from the Almighty.  
“Nothing” is a fountain of joy.  
Being empty is satisfaction...  
Yeah, it’s a little depressing,  
But having too much  
Will jostle everything.  

All value will be lost.
Poverty is important
Kairos Jul 4
Poverty, all around.
The poor squeezed dry
by every system,
every suit,
every layer of government.

I’ve decided to leave,
to live light,
to give away what I no longer carry.
Not to make a point,
just to move.

No one told me how.
No school wrote back.
No agency replied.
No office opened the door.
I asked. I waited. I knocked.
Silence.

So now,
I give away for free
what they would charge rent to store,
tax to sell,
or fine me for leaving behind.

Not out of wealth,
but because generosity
feels like defiance
in a world this rigid.

They won’t tell me where to go
just how to stay in place.
I only heard rules as a reply
No humanity in their solutions

But I’m not waiting anymore
The world is sick.
I'm leaving my country and donating most of my possessions to people in need and NOT ONE institution, including schools, accepted it, many have not even responded to the donation.

Praise for the lady at a local shop.
Who went out of her way to make sure the stuff goes to families in need.
My worries are weak
Yet pipe dreams for some
I sob over leaks
they sob in wet slums

My roof is above
I’m full when I feed
They don’t eat enough
I’m stuffed as they bleed

Their bullets bone break
They beg for their meals
Their hunger won’t sate
Their fates, soon sealed

Still, I dare complain
While warm, homed, and safe
While they wash blood stains
With drains that drip late

Our savour and scents
And lavish plate stacks  
Their sorrow and cents
Soon spent on scraps

My fears are content
I sleep still each night
I’m scared to present
They’re scared for their life  

But them I can’t free
For them I can’t fight
So I’ll sit with my peace
And keep shutting my eyes
I feel so guilty knowing how lucky I am. People are suffering so much right now while I’m living so comfortably.
kevin Jun 8
Post analysis of lies if medical licensure
Haunted oblique
Septic shock
Gutter clocks
Chained stains in framed abandon
If duty
Ended oath

Ambulatory excellence in homelessnessing with coordinated obstruction

Chalkboard gurls

Bury me
kevin Jun 8
All is interchangeable
As it awakened in the void
I or another has not created reason
The interchangeable karma word
Existed
World peace did not
I's words had free will
Lacked in comparison
To contemporary ink

Religion is oppression

marcus aurelius was anothers student

Are is one of your names before the void

None of this is a scientist's loss
kevin Jun 8
Obstructionists budget journalism and democracy must hear free speech

How is my paper jam going in your assembly?

I'm not homeless
I live above you in democracy

Percentage of 1
Obstructionists budget journalism and democracy must hear free speech

How is my paper jam going in your assembly?

I'm not homeless
I live above you in democracy
#elizabethwarren #aoc #barackobama #rbreich #mayorofla #cagovernor #mtaylor

I am finite math no = remains

Percentage of 1
Obstructionists budget journalism and democracy must hear free speech

How is my paper jam going in your assembly?

I'm not homeless
I live above you in democracy

Percentage of 1
Obstructionists budget journalism and democracy must hear free speech

How is my paper jam going in your assembly?

I'm not homeless
I live above you in democracy
#elizabethwarren #aoc #barackobama #rbreich #mayorofla #cagovernor #mtaylor

I am finite math no = remains
#latimes #asmirwin #cagovernor

Percentage of 1
Obstructionists budget journalism and democracy must hear free speech

How is my paper jam going in your assembly?

I'm not homeless
I live above you in democracy

Percentage of 1
Obstructionists budget journalism and democracy must hear free speech

How is my paper jam going in your assembly?

I'm not homeless
I live above you in democracy
#elizabethwarren #aoc #barackobama #rbreich #mayorofla #cagovernor #mtaylor

I am finite math no = remains

Percentage of 1
Obstructionists budget journalism and democracy must hear free speech

How is my paper jam going in your assembly?

I'm not homeless
I live above you in democracy

Percentage of 1
Obstructionists budget journalism and democracy must hear free speech

How is my paper jam going in your assembly?

I'm not homeless
I live above you in democracy
#elizabethwarren #aoc #barackobama #rbreich #mayorofla #cagovernor #mtaylor

I am finite math no = remains
#latimes #asmirwin #cagovernor
#washingtonpost
Zywa May 18
The Chinese is new,

but its name in characters --


is old: Dry Cleaner's.
Short stories "Gij nu" ("You now", 2016, Griet Op de Beeck), story 'terwijl hij zich probeerde voor te doen als mens onder de mensen' ('while trying to pose as a human being among humans'), chapter Four

Collection "Over"
Pip
Permanently imprisoned, Peter
The generation aren’t suffering anxiety
They are trapped as Peter Pan
With the ever increasing house prices, the lack of good jobs, the inability to form relationships.
We left our kids stuck, never able to grow up, so they rot, became more unfulfilled.
Imprisoned as a child.

Lack of hope, regression into computer games,
Fake achievement, never seeing a friend.
Trapped at mom and daddy's, enjoying a house price rise and a pension.
Knowing on an Asda salary their best hope of owning a house
Is to mortgage themselves to the point coffee is too much.
A holiday a dream, travel done after uni, not later.
And retirement at 75, ready for a care home.

Odd winner getting graduate jobs and escaping as Wendy birds.
If that was your life, wouldn’t you be depressed?
Score.
On PIP.

They finally get a house — mom and dad die, if they avoid a care home.
The American dream at 65 — homeowners, no hard work.
But not killing yourself before mom and dad
With ****, drink, or a rope.
Even a car, boy to see his friends — with insurance is too much to ask unless mom and dad help.
Three years at university — that being out on license.

Mom and dad need a care home, it will all be taken away.
Ironically being orphaned at 40 is winning.
Take another spliff, try to not look forward.
You will lose your PIP, have your last bit of freedom taken.

Oliver's son is still asleep on the sofa.

The only way to get a house
Is to get a baby when you’re not ready.
Hope the state gives you one.
Enjoy the poetry.
This generation doesn’t have Charles Dickens.
The beauty being made into delicate snowflakes,
To be crushed under Jackboots of a failed system.

Only the old work-from-home people don’t have to worry about the snow.
You don’t get a waterproof house as you walk to work.
Child unable to build even a snowman, let alone a life,
While mom can’t see beauty in a snowflake.
From their house, tax you to pay for their pension.
To envy mom's frozen tears, leaving no trail to tell of the suffering.

Of course PIP is gone.
Your low wage is the old greatness gift.
If you get a snow shovel, food, you might make your own path.
But I’ve Deliveroo food.
I don’t want to go out there in my boots.
I will catch a cold or COVID.
It’s number 9.
Close the gate behind you.

You step off the path — 3 stars.
Think about that.
I enjoy my meal.
Don’t ask for more.
Oliver sings and dances on West End now.
No dancing in my conscience for you asking for more, sir.

Bing bing — one delivery of gruel.
Get walking.
Time for sale.
Don’t eat my gruel.
Better be warm and delivered with a smile.
A second 3 star — you are on the sofa.
Hope mom got nice house.

Good news — it’s Oliver’s house.
Wasn’t he fortunate to inherit so much.
Now Charles wears a crown,
Doesn’t use a weapon of pen and ink.

No how dare u ask me for more
I lost my free tv license I will have u know
God snowflakes how much is the wagu today
Not frozen wagu I don’t like to defrost
How was job search son ? Find anything?
Well you’re only young me at 36
Bardo May 24
Like a lot of Irish people born back in the 1920's
My parents came from off small farms down the country
Usually their parents died when they were very young... just teenagers
When the parents died the house was usually left to the eldest son
And when he took a wife then the other siblings would have to leave the house
They'd usually have to go live with a cousin
There wasn't much work in those days, there was an economic war with England
And there was no social welfare either, no government support
People often had to emigrate to England or America, they had no alternative
My mother went to live with some relatives
And to learn dressmaking
One of her brothers though had gone off to America (the U.S.A)
He sent her a letter and told her to come over to America
That it was a great place, there was plenty of work and great prosperity to be had
She went on one of the old Liners/ ships that used cross the Atlantic in those days
She probably saw the Statue of Liberty in New York harbour
She loved America, she told me a funny story once about how she liked to eat bananas
There mustn't have been bananas in the shops back home
Or maybe they were too costly
She got a job in a biscuit factory Nabisco, on assembly lines
She couldn't get over the big medical test they gave her before she started
And then when she went to work she said she was working with people who were half blind
She loved going out with her girlfriends to the dances, there were lots of Irish over there from back home
They'd have parties, celebrations, go to the beach, go to the movies, eat out
It was the 1950's, a time of optimism and growing prosperity
She met my Dad over there and they started dating
She got this lovely grey fur coat, probably as a gift, a present
It was like something you would have seen Marilyn Monroe wearing
She loved going to the movies and reading about all the big movie stars
My Dad though wanted to return home to Ireland, he was getting homesick
So they returned home, Ireland was still a poor country then
Hadn't opened up to the world and allowing foreign companies in
There was still a lot of unemployment and finding work could be hard
At first my Mom used wear her lovely grey fur coat to Sunday Mass
But she probably received a lot of funny looks as if to say
"Who do you think you are, a movie star with your big fur coat, some rich *****"
Very soon my mother's fur coat was consigned to the wardrobe never to be worn again
When she passed away my two brothers came down to the house, they were telling me I should get rid of all her old clothes, they then seen the old fur coat in the wardrobe
"Oh, there's Mammy's old fur coat, you should throw that out as well"
I was looking at the coat and it reminded me of the old Red Indian movies
Where they'd be sleeping with a big bearskin over them
I'd taken to sleeping on the couch in the Wintertime in my TV room where I also worked as it was lovely and warm
I said to myself "No! I'm not going to throw that out, I'm going to use that as a blanket over me, it's like a big bearskin just like the Indians"
One day at work I was telling some of my work colleagues the story of my Mom's old fur coat
I was embellishing the story a bit
Instead of saying I was using it as a blanket over me
I said I'd put it on sometimes as it was lovely and warm
One of my colleagues was shocked by this, she said "What!! You wear your dead mother's fur coat !!!
I smiled a funny smile and said "It's a bit like that old Alfred Hitchcock film, isn't it ?
Yea!...  ******! LoL
My mum once told me that her own mother before her had been to America (the USA), that would have been around the turn of the century (1900's) which
would have been only a few generations removed from the time of the Famine (1845 -1852), makes you think.
Kyle Kulseth Apr 22
Sew my ******* eyes open
and never let me sleep.
Watch until my blues run red
               and you've
          shown me what's
                     to see.

Tell the story of your golden crown,
you platinum-plated ****.
Let me know how brazen trumpets sound
               when filling up
                     with spit.

It's not enough to hate you.
And it's not enough to cry.
Crying havoc through your perfect teeth:
      it's much worse than a lie.

                          So lay me down on
                        5th street train tracks
                     where the old bums go to
                                       die.
                  Then roll out on your cart of
                                golden coin
                         and break some toys.

Play the game of pampered princes
      painted like paupers and ******.
Zip that costume up and hit the alleys.
                Catch a fix.
     Or a "swift one off the wrist."

Tug my bruising eyeballs out
and lay me down to bed.
Awake until the red turns black
               and your
           mouth starts spit-
               -ting lead.

Tell the story of your paper crown,
you hollow-hearted ****.
Let you know how hunting hounds do howl
      when crawling in
             the muck.

                       "You ain't nothin' but an *******,"
                     and "I don't believe in nothin' you're
                                  trying to prove."
(The Falcon)
Excerpt(s) Citation:

The Falcon. "The Fighter, The Rube, The *******." Gather Up the Chaps. Red Scare Industries, 2016. Various Formats.
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